A white Transit, sporting the windscreen-repair-company logo, appeared at the edge of the car park and she waved him over.

‘How long will it take?’ she asked.

Darren, in overalls, examined the damage closely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Forty-five for the screen. Can’t drive it for another twenty or so, not till the sealant’s gone off.’ He pinged one of the wipers. ‘These look a bit knackered. You want to replace them?’

Romy handed him her keys. ‘OK, yes. Text me when you’ve finished.’

It was a warm, beautiful evening. Reluctant to go home, Romy decided to sit on the wall outside the waterside café and watch the world go by. As she rounded the bend from the car park, turning left down the slope that led to the harbour, she noticed a woman standing alone, to the left of the yellow ice-cream van – still plying its trade, although it was gone six thirty.

She had her back to Romy and was gazing out towards the sea, dressed in a white T-shirt and denim shorts, her blonde waves clamped under a navy cap, bare legs strong and tanned. But even from the back, even with the cap on, Romy recognized her instantly.

She stopped, almost not daring to breathe. She could turn and flee, hurry down the lane opposite and hide in her house until Darren texted her. Or she could finally speak to Grace, meet the woman who had, with that fateful letter, turned Romy’s world inside out.

She hesitated, watching as Grace glanced around, then began to walk slowly along the shore, scuffing her flip-flops through the puddles left in the pitted tarmac by the outgoing tide, like a kid.

The sea was far out, the estuary a landscape of sandy-brown mud and vivid green seaweed, rivulets and pools catching the light of the descending sun, the boats – moored further out – stationary in the glassy channel of seawater. But as Grace disappeared behind the stone wall of the corner house, Romy found herself galvanized. She couldn’t let this opportunity slip away – although she had no idea what she would actually say when she came face to face with the woman.

Quickening her pace, she caught up with the retreating figure, drew level, drew ahead and turned. Grace raised her head as she approached, but her glance was casual: she didn’t know Romy.

‘Grace?’ Romy said, hearing the quiver in her voice. Her heart was thumping so hard she wanted to clamp her hands over her chest to prevent it bursting free.

Grace frowned, nodded.

Romy held her hand out. ‘Romy. Romy Claire.’

The woman’s face went still, then visibly paled, her beautiful grey eyes filling with apprehension. She ignored Romy’s hand, crossing her arms firmly across her body and glancing around the harbour, as if in need of rescue. She seemed lost for words.