‘You’re right,’ Anna said. ‘I do need a holiday, and I do need new friends. I can stay a bit longer. It’ll give me time to get the place properly sorted out. I’ll be spending all day today shopping for new things for the Fishergirl’s Luck.’

There was a pause. ‘Word of advice, then,’ Cathy said, carefully. ‘Avoid the magazine racks, especially the celeb rags.’

Anna’s heart did a curious backflip. ‘Oh?’

‘The new series starts next week. He’s been doing the rounds. Interviews everywhere, alongside that smug face of his. In case you want to avoid them.’

Anna sighed. ‘I will. Thanks.’

There was another pause.

‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’ Cathy asked. ‘Leaving was the best thing you ever did, Anna. Even if you did follow it up by disappearing off to the back of beyond.’

Anna hummed. ‘I know. Still—’

‘Yeah,’ Cathy said softly. ‘Still. But it’ll get better. I promise. You know you’ve always got a room here with us if you need it. But for now, make the most of where you are. This party sounds like a good start. Wear something swish and knock ’em all dead.’

Anna laughed again. ‘Not that kind of party, really. Not that kind of place. And I’m definitely not ready for that anyway.’

‘Let your food do the talking for you then,’ Cathy said breezily. ‘I mean, they’ll all love you, obviously, but especially if you do that thing with the peppers. Dammit, I miss your cooking. And you. Horribly.’

‘I miss you too,’ Anna said, around a smile. ‘I’ll call you, okay? Love you. Give Steve a hug from me. He’d love it up here, by the way. What isn’t farmland is a golf course. You can be the first people to stay in the Fishergirl’s Luck when I rent it out, if you like.’

They said goodbye but Anna remained where she was for long minutes, lost in thought, watching absently as a stray crisp packet danced across the wind-blown tarmac. She’d been an idiot to imagine that Geoff couldn’t follow her here. She wondered whether he’d had any moments like this, lost in a memory of her. It was doubtful. If she knew Geoff, one of those tabloid photographs would be a pap shot of him leaving some achingly hip nightclub with a baby-faced model on his arm. It would not, after all, be the first time, or even the second or third. The thought stabbed a pang through her chest and Anna took a breath, trying to dispel the sudden pain. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. That wasn’t her life anymore; it had nothing to do with her.