There’s a long pause. Anger and sadness and hurt and a million other emotions rush through me, and I see them all reflected in Ben’s eyes.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says finally, with practised nonchalance, though his voice is hoarse.

And that’s it. I want to punch him on the nose and I want to kiss him senseless. I’ve done both and, at the moment, I’m not sure which one would be more satisfying.

He puts a hand to my cheek. “I didn’t mean to break the rules,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t help it.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone.

Chapter Forty

CHAPTER FORTY

As I stand on the deck of the boat I watch the white cliffs of Dover come into view with mingled emotions. I’m not the same girl who left England, who turned her back on those same cliffs and experienced her first taste of freedom. My heart is battered, bruised, not quite as open as it was before. I managed to acquire all that experience I so badly wanted, I think, with a rueful grimace. It’s funny how much older I feel than just a couple of short months ago. How one summer can change a person so dramatically.

I wouldn’t take it back, though. Even the sharp pain in my heart that tells me I’m alive, more alive than I have ever been.

My uncle is somewhere below deck, fawning over Lady Bowling. I wonder what will happen now, if he will change again, become something else to please someone else. He’s inconstant, I realize, turning with the tide.

I clamber up on to the rail, and it’s easy, thanks to my trousers. I left my old clothes behind me at the villa, along with the girl who used to wear them. I’m stronger now. I know what I want and I know how to get it. I am going to squeeze every last drop of joy out of the life that I have. I’m not going to make myself less than I am.

These are the tangible outcomes of my experiment, outcomes that stretch beyond Ben and me. In my bag is a notebook that contains several lists – there are lists of birds I have seen, there are lists of kisses that Ben and I shared, and there’s the list of things I want to do when I get home.

“What’s that in your hand?” Hero asks, coming to stand beside me at the rail.

The flower had been sitting on top of my suitcase before we left. I hold it now, gently, between my fingers, while the wind tangles around me. Its delicate white petals, unfurled like a star, are velvety-soft to the touch. The scent of it is heady, intoxicating.

I don’t know where it came from, but I know who it came from.

“Gardenia jasminoides,” I reply.