A couple of hikers walk past the lodge, soon followed by someone on horseback along the nearby bridleway. It is comforting, especially when I notice that kids have tried to build a den a few meters away, which means that I’m not a million miles away from civilization. I inhale the coolness of the approaching evening, feeling the best I have in a long time, in fact. Almost myself again. It gives me hope.

It’s time to leave, to admit defeat. I feel strangely at peace with the decision until I hear the sound of a car approaching, growing louder. I stay put, out of sight.

A smallish black truck drives past, flattening the wild grass in the center of the track as it does so and parks by the gate. It’s not Greg’s, which is bloody disappointing. Yet a part of me feels relieved. This was clearly a crap idea of mine. I’ve tried my best. My conscience is clear.

Yet it is him. Either he’s bought a new vehicle or he’s borrowed one. I watch as he unloads bags and equipment, losing my nerve. I manage to convince myself that it’s not my problem after all. Yet really, it is, because Nina isn’t here and I am. My hands start to feel numb. The sun is disappearing and the rainbow has dissipated. I pull on my gloves and a woolly hat, before walking alongside the grounds to warm up.

Greg is setting up by the river to the far right of the grounds where there is a gap in the lush foliage. He looks as if he’s settling in for the evening or night. He is erecting a proper, sturdy-looking tent, not like some of the more flimsy ones I’ve noticed fishermen use by the local rivers and lakes over the years. He sets up a camping stove, a canvas stool, various kinds of fishing equipment, a box and rods.

Barely dormant anger returns at the sight of him getting on with his life so calmly, not a care in the world, while he has the power to upend mine.

I open my mouth to call out to him, a cheery Hi, Greg, I was just out walking and fancy seeing you here...type of thing, but I remain mute.

I walk back in the direction of the woods. Go or stay? Stay or go?

Camilla’s fear of violence comes to mind. It’s one thing encountering someone in a civilized environment, like our book group, quite another out here in the comparative wilderness. I tease out a branch from the random kids’ makeshift den, taking time to make my selection, like playing Jenga.

A mistake. The whole structure tumbles down, echoing loudly. Afterward, silence. No one but me was disturbed by the noise. I come to a decision. Taking the branch with me as a protection (if need be), I’ll make one final attempt to talk to him. If that fails, well, so be it.

The wind picks up slightly again; I hope Greg packed his winter woollies. He has been fast, efficient and has wasted no time in my brief absence. He’s comfortably sitting down as if he’s drinking in the view, exuding an air of calm and contentment. He hasn’t set up a rod yet; he must be taking a breather.