When her guest had eventually gone, Romy hugged her arms round herself. This was exactly what she wanted to do. Conservation – the environment – was her passion. And there was no Michael to scoff at her now, mock her for wanting a cleaner planet.

Leaving the flat-pack on the patio – the thought of managing to slot the correct widget into the correct hole the correct way round made her sigh – Romy decided to go for a run, before the changeable March weather turned.

Out along the harbour road she went, trying to beat the clock on the incoming tide. The sailing boats would start to go back into the water soon, the huge crane on the quay churning away most days as, inch by inch, it lifted the vessels – smallish, mostly, the bigger yachts moored in the larger marina along the coast – then lowered them gently into the sea.

For a moment she stopped and looked out towards the Norman tower of the church on the far side of the bay. She was sweating in the spring sunshine so she ripped off her hooded running jacket and tied it round her waist, securing her curls in a thick ponytail with a band she kept around her wrist. She had a black vest underneath and the breeze felt delicious on her bare skin.

But as she started running again, her trainers dancing over the many potholes in the crumbly asphalt, the smooth rhythm of her stride could not prevent the sudden intrusion of another flash: I just thought you should know who you’re married to, Mrs Claire.

2

The good weather had been short-lived and rain dripped off the hood of Romy’s anorak, darkening her jeans. She was grateful for the race marshal’s hi-vis jacket, which added extra warmth on such a miserable day. But despite the vile conditions – and the hours she had agreed to spend handing out water bottles and directing the runners left, not right, along the lane – she found herself enjoying being involved, being part of something again.

It was an hour and a whole slew of runners later that a slight, older man with a grey buzz-cut – arms flailing, race number flapping loose on his singlet, his rasping breath leaving vapour trails in the cold air – came struggling up the hill on his third lap. But as he swerved left, ignoring the outstretched water, he suddenly pulled up, letting out a roar of pain as he hopped on his left leg and clutched his right thigh with both hands.

Romy hurried to his side. Groaning and swearing under his breath, he leant heavily on her shoulder.

‘Not again,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, to himself rather than Romy.

‘Sit down while I get help,’ she said, opening the battered wooden camping stool that had belonged to her father but was still perfectly functional.