Finch wandered about, getting reacquainted with his home. He went over to the photograph of Nell on the kitchen wall and stood for a while staring at her face. But somehow the time away from his habit had broken the link. His wife’s image was still powerful – he knew it always would be – but it was just an image now, a memory. He no longer sensed she was there with him, or felt the urge to talk to her in the way he had. And since his talks with Marty, he was all right with that.

It was late and pouring with rain when Grace arrived. She looked exhausted and bedraggled, her eyes round as saucers in the overhead kitchen light. Finch hugged her for a long time, then sat her down to a supper of watercress soup, bread and cheese. But he could see that she was struggling to eat, struggling to be cheerful as she went through the motions of questioning him about his time in Argentina.

‘Finch,’ she said, after a long silence, turning her mother’s eyes up to him as he stood to clear the table, ‘I need to tell you something.’

He sat down again.

For a moment she did not speak, just took another sip of wine. She’s drinking way too much, Finch thought, watching the kitchen light cast shadows on her lovely face.

Another silence.

‘I met Romy.’

Finch jolted. He hadn’t expected that. Since being back in the same village, he’d thought of little else but her.

‘Where?’ he managed to ask, although he realized, stupidly, it was the least important detail of all.

‘The harbour. She came up to me, introduced herself.’

Finch nodded, not daring to interrupt, not trusting his voice to do so.

‘I didn’t want to talk, but she insisted.’ Grace was clearly wrestling with her thoughts. ‘She told me Michael had a different version of what happened,’ she gave a cynical roll of her eyes, ‘but she said she believed me.’

‘OK …’

‘We didn’t talk for long – I didn’t want Sam to see us together so I asked her to leave.’

Finch tried to imagine the scene. It must have taken a lot of guts for her to approach Grace, he thought. He knew Romy would be sensitive – he could almost see those eyes of hers, full of determination, and his heart went out to her. It made him feel almost weak, the wave of longing that swept over him.

‘I’m glad she told you she believed you,’ he said.

Grace stared at him. ‘Yeah,’ she conceded eventually.

After another pause, during which Grace fiddled with the bread left on her plate, taking crumbs and rolling them into small balls between her fingers, which she then placed carefully in a pile, Finch said, ‘Looks like things are pretty difficult for you at the moment?’ He couldn’t find a tactful way to say how distracted she seemed.