‘I . . .’ Nell stood back, looking around the kitchen, which was empty, perfectly ordinary. Back in focus now. ‘Of course I am. I – I’m fine.’

‘Am I interrupting?’

‘No. Not really. I was just . . .’ She could feel her cheeks reddening. She was still clutching the stupid flip-flop, she bent down and picked up the phone. The screen was broken, of course, covered in a dense network of fine cracks.

‘Ouch,’ said Gina.

‘Yes,’ said Nell, tears pricking at her eyes. ‘That was – stupid of me.’

‘What happened?’

Nell rubbed her arm, she had scraped it from wrist to elbow, right along the bone; it took a moment or two for her to remember. ‘I slipped,’ she said, ‘smacked right into the dining table.’

‘Slipped?’

‘I was in a rush, not looking where I was going, it was just . . .’ She glanced behind her again at the empty kitchen. ‘My own stupid fault. And then I dropped my phone.’

Gina was looking more closely at her now.

‘It’s fine, honestly. Why don’t you come in?’

‘Oh.’ Gina stepped back. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to drop these off.’ She held out a small paper envelope, the kind used to hold photographs and negatives.

‘Oh, thank you.’ Nell tried to swallow, her mouth was dry. ‘Are you sure?’ Suddenly the idea of company was very appealing. It might have been her imagination, but the smell was back, stronger, despite the open door; damp and sour, sickening.

‘Tell you what,’ Gina said, ‘why don’t we go up to mine instead?’

*

Nell followed Gina up the path to the little house. A ceramic tile by the door bore an image of a leafy branch and a name, Rowan Cottage. The sandstone seemed blunted, by time and the weather, the sash windows were in need of sanding and repainting, but it was very still, self-contained, peaceful.

‘Come in, come in.’ Gina led the way into the kitchen, opening the back door into a tiny garden, the terraces clambering up the cliff, thick with greenery of every shade and dotted with patches of colour; pale pink valerian, buttery gold toadflax, foxgloves and geraniums. Closer to the house there were herbs in weathered terracotta planters, and a small but neatly organised vegetable patch.

‘This is lovely,’ said Nell.

‘Thank you,’ said Gina. ‘Now, something soothing perhaps, chamomile? Or ginger?’

‘Oh, whatever you’re having, thanks.’

They sat at the kitchen table. It was a pleasant room, slightly old fashioned, a little untidy, family snapshots, a small boy grinning up at an unseen photographer; more recent selfies of a teenage girl were dotted along the shelves and stuck with magnets to the fridge. With the garden occupying what space there was between the house and the cliff, the whole room was filled with a cool green light.