Kate stops on the coast path and leans against the drystone wall. London feels so far away. At least Bex has got an excuse for why she’s up in town. Rob knows Kate was going to ask her down. And Bex is a good bluffer. She tries to guess what they’ll talk about. Rob will confide that he’s a bit worried about her but won’t go into details. He’s too decent to be indiscreet. And Bex will flirt with him, pick some fluff off his shoulder, which will make him blush and blink.

‘Shall we carry on?’ she asks Stretch, who is pulling at the lead again. ‘Keep ourselves busy?’

She turns to breathe in the pure sea air. No sign of the drone now. Two people are walking towards them on the coast path. Below, a sailing dinghy heads out into the bay, a tiny blade of brilliant white slicing across the haze of blue. And there, on the far side of the bay, is the field where she and Jake used to camp in the summer. Ironic that she’s ended up living within sight of it but not with Jake. It always rained for the week they were down. They argued a lot too – he liked to go sailing, she didn’t – but she still feels a pang of nostalgia. It’s the laughter she misses. His reassuring presence too. Was he a father figure to her, as Bex always used to say? She was brought up by her mother, a West End actress. Her father died before she was born.

She smiles weakly at the couple as she passes them, allowing their dog, a black Labrador, to sniff at Stretch. Ten minutes later, she’s about to enter the village when her phone rings.

She almost drops it as she whips the phone out of her back pocket.

‘He’s worried about you, pleased that I’m coming down,’ Bex says. ‘Told me to make sure the house is triple-locked and alarmed at night.’

Sounds like Rob. ‘Did anything strike you as odd about him?’ she asks breathlessly. ‘Different?’

‘There really wasn’t anything, Kate. Short of grabbing his balls and asking him to cough, I couldn’t have examined him any closer. He must have thought I was right weird, the way I was standing in his face.’

‘Did he offer to pay your fare?’ she asks.

‘Of course. And I declined. Let him buy me a coffee, though.’

Out of nowhere, a treacherous thought snakes into her head. ‘What did you have?’ she asks.

‘Cappuccino, why?’

‘How about him?’

‘What is this, twenty questions?’

‘Please, it’s important.’

Her brain is already getting ahead of itself.

‘Flat white, I think,’ Bex says.

‘He asked for a flat white?’ she repeats, feeling dizzy, trying to buy herself time.

‘Like a latte only with less foam. Can’t see the point of them myself.’