But when Frank tracked down a name and number for the owner, the conversation wasn’t encouraging. They wanted to sell, not to rent, and the figure quoted to Anna, though modest by most standards, was far beyond what she could afford.

When she wasn’t working, Anna slept like the dead. She’d clean down and all but crawl up the stairs to her bedroom, asleep before her head even touched the pillow. The nausea of her earliest weeks of pregnancy had eased off, much to her relief, but the exhaustion seemed permanent. She couldn’t imagine pulling a full shift in a busy kitchen in this state.

The TripAdvisor reviews, meanwhile, racked up and up, never less than four stars and more usually five. They often mentioned more than the Fishergirl’s Luck too, talking favourably about the places nearby that there were to stay, and other eateries along the coast.

‘You should be so proud of yourself,’ Cathy said, over the phone. ‘I’m almost tempted to print all of these out and post them to Geoff. Imagine the look on his smug face!’

‘Oh God, please don’t even joke about that,’ Anna shuddered. She could imagine the look all too well, and the fury that would replace it soon enough. ‘He’d do something to sabotage me, I know he would.’

‘You’re a tiny place at the other end of the country,’ Cathy said. ‘Surely he can’t be so insecure that he’d begrudge you your small measure of success?’ There was a pause, and then her friend answered her own question. ‘Actually, don’t bother to answer that. God, that man is a dick. Still, at least we have the consolation that ratings are down for this new show of his.’

‘Really?’ Anna was genuinely surprised.

‘Yup. Maybe the public is finally getting wise to Geoff Rowcliffe’s brand of smug arrogance and seeing that it’s neither an act, nor warranted.’

Anna sucked air over her bottom lip. ‘Well then, I really do hope he never finds out about this place,’ she said. ‘He’d be sure to take it out on me if he did.’

Twenty-Four

July rolled on, and so did the storms. It seemed to Anna that not a week went by without at least one night where she was woken by the wind raging like an old drunk outside her window. It was after another rocky night of wind and rain that Douglas McKean resurfaced in Anna’s life. Opening her door on Saturday morning to see how the flower tubs had fared overnight, she saw Frank leaving the Weaver’s Nook with a plate sealed over with tinfoil.

‘Frank?’ she said. ‘Where are you going?’