‘Sure,’ Bex says, more subdued than usual. Presumably from their afternoon gin session. Kate’s hungover too. And still in shock.

They’ve talked long and hard about the sound of the military jets. As soon as she looked at his face and heard them on the speakers, she cut off the FaceTime call, snapping shut the laptop. She also turned off her phone again and persuaded Bex to do the same. The landline was still disconnected after Rob’s earlier call.

Neither of them can be certain of what it means. Either Rob is back down here without telling her. Or it wasn’t Rob on the screen, it was his double, who is now in Cornwall. It didn’t look like Rob, but Bex is certain that it was him. Perhaps Kate was imagining the jets, the guilty look in his eyes?

She hopes so. She will ring him later from the beach. No facetiming, just a normal call. She can’t keep contacting him and hanging up. He’s used to the poor communications down here, but he’ll still be worrying what happened, trying to contact her.

*

There’s a good crowd on Pendower beach tonight, about twenty of them, thanks to Rob. Kate’s always urging him to do more for the environment. He’s keen, just needs reminding, like buying an electric car rather than a diesel-guzzling 4x4. For the past few months, his tech company has sponsored the local beach cleans, which means it pays for their T-shirts and for fuel for the community van that brought them over here. She’s trying to persuade Rob to cough up for an electric minibus. Most importantly, the sponsorship includes putting money behind the pub bar afterwards for all the volunteers.

‘They’ve got jets in London too,’ Bex says as they start to work their way down the high-tide mark. She doesn’t sound convinced and Kate doesn’t reply.

Stretch is sniffing about in front of them. It’s a falling tide, the best time for a clean. Behind them, a few families are still enjoying the last of the sun as it sets over St Mawes in the distance. It’s been one of those cloudless Cornish days that no one wants to end, the summer heat still lingering in the sand and on glowing, sunburnt cheeks.

‘You saw the look on his face though,’ Kate says. ‘He’d been found out.’ She has to believe that Rob would never come down to Cornwall without telling her, which means she must confront this man, ask him who he really is, why he’s here. ‘And the time delay,’ she says, picking up a clump of orange fishing line that’s become tangled with seaweed. ‘Two seconds, at most. He wasn’t that far away.’