‘Did Geoff tell you that, too?’ her dad had asked. ‘Because you beat him in that competition. I remember that, even if he’d rather everyone else forgot. And “Young Chef of the Year” doesn’t sound too little to me, Anna.’

‘You don’t know anything, Dad,’ Anna said. ‘This is in London. Anyway, I love Geoff, and Geoff’s there.’

I should have listened to you, Anna thought, wiping her eyes. Her dad had tried to present another perspective right up until she’d point-blank told him she was going, and that was it. After that, he’d supported her all the way. He might not have agreed with her choice, but once she’d made it he’d been her rock, the same as always. He’d always tried to help her see her way through, to make the best of all her decisions.

You’re here now, he might have said, had he been standing there with her in the Fishergirl’s Luck. Might as well see the rest of it, eh?

Anna climbed the stairs gingerly and with a distinct sense of apprehension, but it seemed they were far sturdier than she had thought. The top two steps turned towards a small open space, partially taken up by a wardrobe that had been built against the gable wall over the stove below. There was a little window that overlooked the path outside, allowing in a bit of light. To the left of the last step, a wall divided what Anna assumed would have once been an open loft. Beyond the door in its centre, a single bed took up the right-hand side of the space. She was surprised – and puzzled – to note that on top of the bed was a new mattress, still wrapped in its plastic covering.

On the left was a low set of drawers that had been built to run the short length of the tiny room, providing shelf space on top. At the end, in the gable wall, was the biggest window the Fishergirl’s Luck possessed, arched to fit the space and barely an inch above the floor. This, too, had shutters. It also had an old muslin curtain that softened the gleaming light of the dipping sun. Other than that, the room was empty of anything but dust.