Maureen was as good as her word and regularly took Romy under her wing on the Mondays that followed. There were around twelve volunteers, mostly middle-aged, more men than women, all of them in weathered anoraks and beanies, boots that had seen considerable action. Romy was self-conscious with her brand-new gardening gloves and squeaky boots. But they welcomed her enthusiastically, happy for an extra hand to tackle the bracken and bramble, or coppice the hazels straying onto the path. It was sweaty and exhausting, but Romy loved every minute – she lost herself in the work.

Later, when they were all perched on a damp log with lukewarm Thermos tea and squares of Maureen’s deliciously sticky gingerbread, the chat was all about the rewilding of Knepp – the estate down the road. For a glorious few hours, Romy felt as if she’d been untethered from her past. It was like a soft spring breeze blowing through her body.

She had left her phone in the car while she worked, not wanting any interruptions. When she checked it again, before driving home, she saw a text. About that walk, it said. Saturday is supposed to be fine, if you’re still up for it? Finch

‘Do you fancy a drink, maybe a bite to eat?’ Finch’s question was tentative as he and Romy rounded the corner and saw the car park up ahead. It was a beautiful day, hot for April, and Romy had struggled to keep up as they strode the two-hour route round the Roman villa, although she was sure he was modifying his pace to suit her own.

She had been nervous the day might be awkward – she barely knew the man and they hadn’t seen each other since that night in the pub, nearly a month ago now. But her fears melted away as they walked. Conversation was so easy with Finch, as if they were tuned to the same wavelength. She couldn’t say exactly what they talked about, except neither ventured into very personal territory. But he made her laugh and she forgot, for a while, the thoughts that regularly tormented her. At times Romy sensed the weight of their pasts in the unsaid, but it was so enjoyable to walk with a companion for a change – especially someone as personable as Robert Fincham.

She hesitated before replying to his suggestion. Part of her would have loved to sit with him and a glass of cold white wine, somewhere outdoors on this stunning spring evening, but another part clung to her default position. Before she had given herself time to think, the wariness won out. ‘That would have been lovely, but I’ve got someone coming over later,’ she blurted, before she could change her mind. She was sure her words rang false and she quickly regretted her lie.

But Finch did not look discomposed in the slightest. He merely smiled. ‘Shame. Another time, perhaps.’