As she stood and watched a large oystercatcher pecking at the seaweed with its orange-red bill, a figure coming off the back lane onto the harbour road caught her eye, jogging steadily towards her. She blinked hard, narrowed her eyes. Could it be?

He was still a long way off, but she knew his outline so well – that long, easy stride, the set of his head. She heard her breath catch as she froze, unable to do anything but watch, anticipation flaring painfully in her chest.

If he recognized her, he did not show it, his lope remaining regular and consistent as he drew closer. The sun tipped the horizon, blinding rays suddenly throwing the man into bright focus, like a theatrical spotlight. She could see his brown hair floating in the breeze, the triangle of sweat darkening the front of his grey T-shirt, bare arms jackknifing up and down as he ran. She pulled her beanie from her head and immediately regretted it – her hair was a terrible mess, as usual.

She watched as he finally noticed her standing there. He started. He stared. He slowed. Then he was in front of her, breathing hard, his face a mixture of surprise and acute embarrassment.

‘Romy,’ he gasped.

‘I was told you’d left the village.’

Finch blinked, looked away. ‘I’m packing up right now.’

He spoke as if he were in a daze and not really talking to her. She didn’t know how to respond.

‘How’s Michael?’

‘OK, I think. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

Finch nodded. His face was flushed and covered with sweat, his hands hung loose by his side. He looked lost. Then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘Good to see you, then,’ he said, almost mechanically, but didn’t move off.

She nodded, about to reply. But before she had time, he gave her a fleeting smile, turned and was gone. She listened in stunned silence to the slap, slap, slap of his trainers on the tarmac behind her. But she didn’t turn.

After a long moment, she continued with her run, her pounding heart having little to do with the exercise. She was devastated. All these months she’d been worrying about seeing him, dreading it and longing for it in equal measures, and now it had finally happened and it was like … nothing at all.

The hurt lingered all day. Finch had treated her cruelly. She’d seen no sign on his face, as he pulled to a stop beside her, that he felt any more for her than he did for, say, Jenny or Maureen – just another middle-aged village woman with designs on his time. It was unbearable for Romy, as she tried to marry the strength of feeling she still had for the man with his astonishing indifference. He might as well have struck her.