She walked eight paces, stopped and turned back. ‘Excuse me.’

He took a moment to respond, turning around with a quizzical look. ‘Yes?’

‘That trike.’

He looked down at it, as though needing to confirm first. ‘. . . Yes?’

‘Do you really need it?’ He frowned, perhaps because he had picked up on the indignation in her voice. ‘Because I would happily pay twice what you’ve just paid to hire it.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry, but I do need it.’

‘As much as me?’ she panted, her arms already beginning to ache.

‘Yes, I—’

‘Three times, then.’

‘Miss, it’s not a question of money.’

‘No, you’re quite right, it’s a question of need and forgive me if I’m sounding rude, but right now, honestly? My need is greater than yours.’ She changed her stance and improved her grip. ‘So tell me, how much will it take for you to let me put this lot down?’

He stared at her for a moment. She wasn’t a tall woman anyway, but she was truly dwarfed by the pile of shopping in her arms. ‘Let me.’ And he reached for the beers and set them down on the wooden tray; immediately, the load on her reduced by half. She gave a groan of relief.

‘Thank you,’ she said as he took the box and basket from her too, and she stretched her arms out. They were already stiff. But any hopes that he might be a knight in shining armour were short-lived.

‘Why did you buy so much if you knew you couldn’t carry it?’ he asked.

‘Well . . . because I saw the trike out here.’

‘Didn’t you know it was first come, first served?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t you see me ahead of you at the till?’

‘I did, but it didn’t look like you were going to need the trike,’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in the words as she scanned the scant, utterly middle-class provisions.

‘I’ve bought some gas,’ he said, kicking his foot lightly towards three large canisters set beside the bags of compost outside.

‘Oh.’ Dammit. She looked back at him, embarrassed. ‘I see.’ An awkward silence bloomed. ‘Well then, I’m sorry about that. Clearly you do need the trike. I’ll just . . .’ She sighed and bent down to pick up the box again, immediately feeling the strain in her arms. ‘If you wouldn’t mind reloading me up again?’

She waited as he stared at her with an air of bafflement. She could scarcely see his face behind his glasses and cap. ‘Where do you need to get to?’ he asked finally.

Oh thank God! ‘Just past the Yacht Hotel, that first right up the hill.’

His mouth pursed a little. ‘That’s gangplank access.’

‘Yes – but I usually go up and across the back when I’ve got the wheelbarrow.’

‘Why didn’t you bring the wheelbarrow today, then?’

She gave a gasp of despair. ‘Ugh, because it’s got a puncture. Oh my God, forget it, I’ll walk back. Don’t put yourself to any trouble! Just load me up.’