Finch woke to find Romy beside him. He had to shake himself to remember how this had come about. He’d been furious with himself the previous morning. Walking away from her on the harbour road seemed, at the time, the only thing he was capable of doing. But as soon as he was out of sight, he realized he must be completely insane. What the hell was I thinking? he asked himself. She’d looked so beautiful in the dawn light, almost fragile in her confusion. Yet someone courageous enough to face up to Grace and admit she’d been wrong, say she was sorry – it was not an easy thing to do. He’d been appallingly, bafflingly rude. He’d run off as if she were toxic.

For the remainder of the day, as Finch cleared out the cupboard in his bedroom and packed his clothes into boxes to take up to Hawk Cottage – the pretty house with russet ivy clinging to the grey stone he’d eventually chosen, on the edge of the Peak District National Park – he thought of nothing else, cursing his stupidity, his boorishness.

Romy implied she wasn’t caring for Michael any more, he thought. But what did it matter now? He had committed to tenants – a young couple and their small daughter – and Grace was expecting him. Nothing had changed for his poor stepdaughter.

But by the evening, his body was telling him otherwise, sweeping all obstacles aside and propelling him, unthinkingly, through the front door to walk – almost run – across the village to her house. If she threw him out, it was only what he deserved. He knew he would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to see her and thank her for what she had said to Grace. But, in the end, neither had needed words.

Now he looked over at her sleeping face and his heart contracted. What had he done, coming here like this and making love to her as if they could instantly resurrect what they’d once had?

He slid out from under the duvet and began stealthily gathering his clothes from where they had fallen last night. The memory of their lovemaking almost stopped him in his tracks, but he knew he should leave before it became impossible.

It was already too late: Romy had opened her lovely gold-brown eyes and he was lost. Half dressed, he sat on the bed and picked up her hand, bringing it to his lips, where he kissed it softly and held it for a moment against his cheek.

She smiled. But he sighed and turned away. ‘You know why I’m leaving the village?’ he said quietly.

‘To be with Grace, so I’m told.’

Now he twisted to face her. He didn’t bother to ask who had told her. It was never one person, but a gossip-vine running effortlessly through a society desperate for anything new.