Romy breathed deeply as she walked, swinging her arms wide to embrace the delightful familiarity. But all the while her gaze panned from side to side as each group of people approached her on the rutted road – Was this tall outline against the horizon him? – knowing that at any second she might catch sight of him, running towards her, his mucky trainers splashing in the edges of the incoming tide, cheeks glowing, arms pumping, then his warm brown eyes suddenly meeting hers. It had to happen sooner or later. The cottage, the harbour, the village were chock full of memories of Finch, which kept coming at her like missiles, relentless and hard to bat away.

When Romy found herself back at home, she felt desolate that she hadn’t seen him. She wanted so badly to talk. Listening to Michael’s protestations of innocence, she had had her doubts. But James’s decided shiftiness at Michael’s birthday tea had been fuel to the flames. Nothing might change in regard to her and Finch’s relationship if she talked to him – although there still existed that tiny pinprick of hope – but at least she could voice her current suspicions, convince him that she wasn’t the monster he no doubt thought she was … and tell him she was leaving the flat for good.

The following morning was drizzly but still warm as Romy walked determinedly across the village towards Finch’s house. She had spent most of the night prevaricating. But she knew she had to try to make it right with him, or leave their memories of each other for ever stuck in that terrible altercation.

She wore her red anorak and cap – which she ripped off as soon as she turned the corner into his road, stopping on the narrow strip of grass opposite the solid seventies build that was Finch’s house.

Romy spotted his Toyota, parked on the narrow concrete apron beside a small front lawn. He’s home. Her stomach flipped. She was still wondering, in trepidation, how he would react to her impromptu visit when the front door opened and a young woman with bouncy blonde hair stepped out, calling over her shoulder to someone inside, ‘Don’t forget the book.’

Retreating behind a voluminous late-flowering ceanothus, like a spy in a fifties novel, Romy saw a man follow a minute later, also in his thirties or early forties, she gauged, clutching a glossy hardback. They got into a burnt-orange Kia, the woman driving, and pulled away from the kerb, passing close by Romy as she skulked in the bushes. She watched the man – nice-looking with a chubby, open face and beard – laughing at something as they followed the lane out of the village.