They reached the far end of the bay where the rock pools started and carpets of lime-green seaweed clung to craggy outcrops, making walking over them slippery and dangerous. Alfie wasn’t put off, however, and dived in to one of the deeper pools, then came out to shake himself off vigorously beside them – an arc of spray showering them with salty droplets.

‘Thanks, Alfie.’ Max shook his head.

‘Oops, sorry,’ Emma added. They both laughed. ‘Think we’ll turn around here,’ Emma continued. ‘It’s probably time to be heading back, anyhow.’

The light was fading fast. A hint of dusky peach framed smudgy-grey clouds above a lilting sea. The evening colours were soft and fluid, like a watercolour painting, and already an autumn inkiness was creeping into the horizon. A solitary tern swooped gently above them in the sky. It was calm, peaceful.

Emma felt comfortable walking along beside Max, chatting. She found out he was an only child and his family now lived in the Morpeth area, but he’d been brought up in Newcastle. She mentioned her brother and his family. As they talked, she took a sneaky glance at Max’s tall frame, his dark, cropped hair, lightly stubbled chin. He had a presence about him, and a calm inner strength as well as that muscular build that she had to admit was very attractive.

Nearing the car park now, and she felt a little nervous flutter in her stomach. Might he try and kiss her? Would it be as lovely as last time, or feel awkward?

‘So, are you still up for coming out for a drink later?’

Should she? It had been really nice chatting and walking. He was easy company, and that way she’d get the chance to get to know him a bit more. But this was such unknown territory. Her very sporadic other dates had fallen flat on their faces since Luke. This felt strangely different, her emotions confused to say the least.

‘Okay, yes,’ she found herself saying. ‘That’d be nice. The Fisherman’s Arms in the village is good.’

‘Great, I’m staying at a B&B down the road in Beadnell, so I can easily pop back. I’ll go and shower and freshen up. Just say a time that suits.’

She had a sudden image of what he might look like all wet and naked in that shower, and felt her cheeks flame. ‘Oh …’ She checked her watch. ‘Let’s say eight o’clock at the The Fisherman's Arms. It’s just along from the harbour.’

‘Yes, I know it,’ he replied.

And they were there, back at the dune car park, virtually at the same spot as Boxing Day, and a knot of hopeful anxiety clutched inside her.