Finally with him holding the side of their boat, there is enough water to manoeuvre off the rocks. He takes their painter and walks the boat towards Diana and me. He points up at Boskenna and my heart sinks. I don’t have time or energy for waifs and strays this weekend. Allan should know that, sense that, but he hasn’t been himself since we have come here on leave. He can’t be still but this isn’t unusual when we are away from the fishbowl of Moscow life. But his restlessness is different this week and my concern is that I can’t pinpoint why. Automatically my hand caresses my stomach. He has taken the last miscarriage harder than I have. For a man who had never wanted children he has become the ideal father, which surprised both of us.

The man from the boat leaps out. His swimming shorts display rather too much of his thighs. On top he wears a flimsy flower-covered shirt. He is almost pretty but along with having no sense about sailing he clearly doesn’t know how to dress for a Cornish summer’s day either. The east wind is touched with a cold underside. The forecast promises bright sunshine and warmth for tomorrow, but I will believe it when it happens. Right now, the sun is ducking behind the clouds and I wouldn’t be surprised if we have rain.

Diana grabs my hand and I look down at her in her navy guernsey. She is sensibly dressed for a day on the water. Her cotton trousers are rolled up to her knees. She is the image of a Cornish maid with her dark hair and brown eyes. Whereas the woman climbing off the boat with her high cheekbones and full mouth, is as underdressed as her husband. I pull my shoulders back and push my hair off my face. I am clothed like my daughter, but this woman is attired for the Côte d’Azur, in snug white shorts and a sleeveless shirt tied at her tanned midriff.

Together with Allan they pull the boat onto the sand. With my public smile in place, I try to make eye contact with my husband, but he is watching the strangers, his expression animated.

‘Darling.’ He turns to me. ‘I’d like you to meet Ralf and Beth Venn. The people I mentioned from America.’ He grins at them both, boyish and engaging, looking far younger than his thirty-six years. ‘They have rented Penweathers.’

‘Hello.’ I hold out my hand and Beth Venn extends her toned arm. Her hand limply grabs mine while she towers over me. I am not short, but I have to look up to meet her glance which falls away immediately.

‘Welcome to Cornwall,’ I say, then turn to Ralf Venn and offer him my hand. His grip is firm, but he quickly releases my hand too.

‘Thank you. It’s wonderful but the sailing is a bit different here.’ He grins and doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I don’t like him, despite his physical beauty, and I can’t explain this reaction to myself because it feels like jealousy.