I peered anxiously through the windows on either side, trying to get my bearings, but nothing looked familiar. There was an old church with a square tower, but I didn’t think it was the one where the wedding had been held. We drove beside a harbour, where boats floated on silky water, and I had a brief glimpse of trees on the other side. I blew my fringe out of my eyes, which made the baby laugh unexpectedly, and the bus swerved onto the seafront.

The windows of the bus were dusty, which lent the view a mystical quality, even though it was the middle of the day. The sea and sky seemed to form a flat, painted backdrop, and the people who walked in front of it—the joggers and dog walkers and holidaymakers—were like shadow puppets. Someone had drawn a sad face in the dirt, and that was the only bit of glass I could see through clearly.

As we slowed, I glimpsed a man trudging toward us along the prom with supermarket bags dangling from either hand. The bus braked at a pedestrian crossing and I craned my neck sideways so that I could see him through the cleared parts of the window. It was him, wasn’t it? The man at the wedding? He had shoes on this time, his hair was dry, and he looked ordinary—not the sea god I’d constructed in my swimming pool fantasies, but a bloke weighed down by grocery shopping and thought. From time to time he glanced vaguely at the sky, which was blackening rapidly over the sea, and I wondered whether he had far to walk. The plastic bags were bulging with bottles and tins, and the handles must have been digging into his skin. I elbowed my way toward the window to get a better view, but the bus bumped forward and left him behind.

The baby was sucking her fists and staring at me, so I jutted out my lower lip and puffed at my fringe, but it didn’t amuse her anymore. The bus braked to avoid a speeding cyclist, and the baby belched a mouthful of stringy liquid, which slid between her fingers and trailed down her mother’s back. I got off at the next stop. Despite the stillness and the heat, there was a sting coming from the sea—an electricity—that you never felt in London. On impulse I crossed the road and walked back the way I’d come. I could see the man ahead of me, walking slowly along the promenade with his shoulders bowed and the bags dragging on his arms.

A girl sat busking with her back against the railings. She was playing a folky tune on her guitar—“Scarborough Fair,” I think—and the notes sounded strange and small in the thundery air.

I drew close to the man without having fathomed my own intentions. Would it seem odd if I tapped him on the shoulder and said hello? It would, wouldn’t it? But he was clearly a local, and I could ask for directions to Byrne Hall . . .