‘But I led him on and he followed me.’ Seagulls darted out from their nests along the cliff.

‘Because I was a dick.’ He stared at a dinghy coming in to the beach.

‘No you weren’t.’ She bit the ice cream and regretted it. Her teeth ached.

‘I was. I was so afraid of losing you.’ He shook his head. ‘So I pushed you away.’

‘No, it was me. I was so insecure.’ Her ice cream dripped, and she licked her hand attempting to clean up. ‘I was trying . . .’

He placed a hand on hers. ‘Lottie, I know you. You were, and I think still are, trying to do the right thing, to please everyone.’ He looked at her. ‘I was jealous as hell.’

She frowned.

‘Yes, they had it all – especially John.’ He finished his ice cream. ‘I hate what happened, but by the time that dinner had ended I had heard enough of his success at rugby, the cars, the holidays and the way he was looking at you.’ He picked up her hand. ‘I was so envious . . . so jealous and I’m not proud of the role I played in what happened.’

‘It wasn’t your fault and for the record you had no reason to be jealous.’ She took a deep breath. ‘There was only ever you.’ She dropped her eyes, rushing on, ‘I’m responsible from start to finish. I said they could come and stay before the festival. I wanted to be liked by the in-crowd.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘Yeah, they do, but not so big nor so deadly. If I hadn’t flirted, John wouldn’t have followed me and . . .’

‘Stop. You didn’t push him over the cliff. He was drunk, and he stumbled.’

A cormorant landed on a rock at the end of the point. He spread out his wings to dry them. ‘I pushed him off me and left him. He didn’t know the headland.’

Her hand shook, and her ice cream dripped on to her wrist. She tried to lick it off but ended up with ice cream on her nose.

‘Lottie, look at me.’

She stared at the sea. It was all her fault. He placed a finger under her chin and turned her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to carry this.’

She blinked. He wiped the ice cream off the tip of her nose with his thumb. ‘Sorry I don’t have a napkin.’

She smiled, and a tear fell down her face.

He dropped his hand. ‘It was a terrible tragedy but not your fault.’

‘You really think that?’

He nodded. ‘And I think that might be what your grandmother meant.’

‘But . . .’

‘You’ve blamed yourself for the past ten years. I can tell you, hand on heart, John’s death wasn’t your fault.’

‘But . . .’