‘Yeah, it’s like it hurts just as much, but you’ve lived with it for so long you don’t notice it quite as much, and you still miss him like crazy, but you learn to talk to him in your head and hear his answers too, if you’re smart about it.’

‘I do that already.’

‘Then you are way ahead of the game.’ He nodded in her direction, his expression kind.

She looked over at the Sally-Mae, moored against the harbour wall. ‘My dad was my guy, my person. I knew that, no matter what, he would be there – not always sober, not always with the best advice. Some of his ideas were hare-brained!’ She smiled. ‘But he was my guy.’

‘Well, I think you were very lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘Yes, I think so. Some people have terrible fathers and they would give their left nut to be sat here today feeling an overwhelming love and gratitude for a dad who’s gone.’

‘I guess you’re right.’ She looked down and noticed he was barefoot on the cold, wet sand. ‘Where are your shoes?’ She sat up straight, a little aghast.

‘Behind you.’ He pointed. ‘That’s why I was coming over here, to retrieve them.’

‘Oh, I thought . . .’

‘You thought?’

Merrin sounded it out and thought it ridiculous to say, ‘I thought you were coming over to me . . .’ ‘I thought you had shoes on!’

‘Oh, no. It’s my thing. It’s odd, I know, but since I was little I like being barefoot. There’s something about walking on the sand or the grass or dirt and feeling it beneath your feet, it sort of connects you to the planet. I know that sounds a bit—’ He pulled a face.

‘No.’ She smiled. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘You should try it.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her pashmina; a chill was starting to bite.

‘So are you from Port Charles? I think I may have seen you once or twice before.’ He reached behind her and gathered his trainers and socks, which she hadn’t spotted, into his hands, leaning close enough for her to inhale the scent of him: a clean, lemony scent, fresh with a hint of sea salt.

‘Maybe. And yes, I’m from Port Charles.’

‘Oh, right, and you like it?’ he asked as he balanced, popping on his socks and shoes.

‘I love it. It’s my home. I have a memory lurking behind every pebble and every grain of sand.’

‘I get that. But for me, swap grains of sand for blades of grass. My family is in Herefordshire – farmers. My brother runs the business now, and I like knowing everything is as I left it. And I love going home to see my mum, but when you’re more than a phone call away . . .’ He exhaled. ‘It can be tough.’

‘So where do you live now, if not Herefordshire?’