Hesitating, not comfortable with what he was saying, he added, ‘Her name’s Romy. You might have seen her around the village, but we didn’t know her to speak to. Tall, sort of wiry and energetic, wild dark curls … She used to be married to a barrister, but I can’t put a face to him now. They were weekenders back then.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping to see her again … I really like her.’

It was four years since Nell, fading in front of his eyes to a frightening echo of herself, had clasped his hand weakly as he sat beside her hospice bed. She had reached that point where she’d become almost ethereal, already not of this world, and was no longer fearful of what lay ahead.

She’d smiled at him. ‘Don’t be miserable for too long, Robert,’ she’d said, through struggling breaths, her eyes shining with tears. ‘Find happiness. Help Gracie, too …’

The thought of another woman – unimaginable at the time, of course – had never even crossed his mind until Romy.

But on that draughty, damp corner of the 10K course, with Terry in pieces between them, he had sensed a connection with her, which excited and confused him in equal measure. It was why he had held off calling her. But he had amazed himself tonight. He’d truly wanted to kiss her.

The following morning Finch had a meeting in the garden-centre café with Jenny Tully – the woman in charge of fundraising for the hospice where Nell had died – to discuss his next marathon. He had worked for them tirelessly since his wife’s death, helping to raise hundreds of thousands, either from his own marathons or from coaxing companies and wealthy individuals to donate. His thirty-two-year military career, including postings to most of the world’s hot spots, such as Iraq and Afghanistan, was a major asset, both of them agreed.

‘I’ll get these,’ Finch said now, as he and Jenny queued for their coffee.

‘You’re our number-one fundraiser, Finch. I can at least buy you the odd coffee.’ Jenny nudged his hand from his wallet. She had a lively, pretty face set off by a feathery grey pixie cut and the most beautiful grey-blue eyes – marred by a wary sadness lurking in their depths.

They talked for a while about his next run, which Finch had decided to do along the west coast of Ireland in the early autumn. But he was finding it hard to concentrate. He hadn’t slept last night, his whole being churned up about Romy. He yawned.

Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘Late night?’

To his horror, Finch felt heat flooding across his cheeks.