She stood up and looked around. No, this wasn’t the right place.

Taking the box, she left the kitchen and headed across the hallway into her open-plan living and dining room. She walked to the bay window that overlooked the street, then turned her back to it. From here, there was a good long stretch of space all the way to the French windows that led out onto the garden. Perfect.

She peeled back the lid of the box, reached inside and lifted out one of the dozen vol au vents inside. It started to crumble immediately. Even though the cold burned her fingertips, she held it for a few moments, focusing intently on a spot at the other end of the room, before lifting her arm and hurling it with all her might.

For a few heart-stopping seconds it flew through the air and then – Bam! – it hit the window, and the frozen flaky pastry exploded, shattering into what seemed like a million tiny pieces. Anna almost let out a gurgle of joyous laughter, then she picked up another vol au vent and threw it after the first.

This one didn’t disintegrate quite so dramatically, but it felt just as satisfying, especially the dull thud as the frozen filling hit the floor. That was it. She couldn’t stop after that. She had to keep going and going until the box was empty and the far end of the living room looked as if there’d been a massacre at a 1970s dinner party.

Anna dropped the empty plastic box and let it fall to the floor. She didn’t even think about getting the Hoover or a dustpan and brush as she smiled and turned to head outside. She got in her car, backed carefully out of her driveway, then pointed her car in the direction of Camber Sands and put her foot on the gas.

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE ONLY SOUND was the night air whispering in the dune grass and the dull thump of a bass beat from the pub further along the bay. The water was so flat, the night air so still, that it might be a mile away. Possibly more. Anna only caught snatches of the music as the faint breeze shifted and circled around the dunes beyond her little yellow bungalow.

Only a feeble glow from a table lamp illuminated the living room as she sat at a little metal bistro set in the garden, her fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. It was past midnight and there was a chill in the air, so she’d wrapped a chunky cardigan over the top of her pyjamas and had pulled a pair of socks onto her feet.

Up above, the stars glittered. Away from the light pollution of the London suburbs, they seemed to have multiplied tenfold. It was breathtaking. For the first time in years, and definitely in three years, three months and four days, Anna felt still inside. She felt quiet. It was pure bliss.