‘No,’ she acceded, thinking of her gentle aunt and uncle who had brought her up. Hannah often wondered what sort of childhood she’d have had if she and her sister had grown up with their real parents.

As soon as Fergus left, Hannah went down and wandered around her little domain, like a dog or a cat laying claim to new territory, feeling a little frisson of proprietorship as she opened drawers and cupboards in the kitchen. On a painted dresser there was a ceramic egg holder with half a dozen fresh eggs in varying shades of brown and pale cream, a domed glass cake stand with a couple of scones and slices of brownies, and a selection of rustic earthenware, pottery plates in the plate rack, and mugs hanging from hooks underneath. It really was quite perfect. She opened the compact under-the-counter fridge, finding to her delight a pat of greaseproof-wrapped butter – was it home-made? – as well as a bottle of white wine, some raspberries, small wedges of cheese and an earthenware dish of stuffed olives. In the bread bin beside the kettle was a large country loaf. Hannah’s stomach rumbled. Unable to resist, she carved herself a slice of bread, slathered on a generous helping of the pale-gold butter and added a few slices of the creamy cheese.

Munching happily, she took herself outside and sat at the little table and chairs, tipping her face up to the sunshine and listening to the birdsong and the distant shush of the sea. This was her idea of Heaven. For the first time since she’d set foot in Ireland, the nerves that had been fretting at the back of her mind eased. She’d done the right thing. This place was beautiful. She was going to make the most of her time and enjoy herself. How could she not? Izzy, Merry, and Alan all seemed very nice. Jason was just young and maybe Fliss was just as nervous and hiding it in a different way.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, smiling to herself. This was absolutely perfect.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ The voice came from nowhere and she sat up with a start, opening her eyes and squinting in the sunshine. She blinked and sat up, her head shooting up with sudden sharpness. It couldn’t be. Those blue eyes. The pirate’s stubble. Conor? Was she hallucinating? She had to be. But no, it was him, standing in front of her, his arms folded and glaring at her.

‘I might have known.’