I flinch from him, feeling a sudden stab of déjà vu, and he frowns in surprise. What must he think of me? He was reaching for something in the back, not leaning in to kiss me. His face pales and I bite my lip, annoyed at myself for making things awkward. Neither of us speaks and each second that passes feels more painful than the last.

Worried I’ve offended him, I find myself saying, ‘I know there’s nothing like that between us. I mean, you’re great and everything, but …’

‘We’re just mates, Ivy,’ he says quickly. ‘I wasn’t –’

‘I know. Sorry, ignore me. I’m just …’

‘Having a bad day?’

I rub my head, relieved when he gives me a cautious smile. If I’m honest, I don’t know why I reacted like that. When he leaned towards me, I had the strongest feeling that he’d tried to kiss me before – and yet Tom’s never once made a move on me, and I wouldn’t want him to. Just because we have a laugh doesn’t mean I have feelings for him. He’s only giving me a lift because he feels bad about losing my wallet, and he isn’t like that anyway; he wouldn’t expect something in return for helping me.

He reaches behind him and grabs a bin bag, then rummages inside and throws me a grey sweatshirt and shorts, before pulling out a towel and more clothes.

‘Eyes, please.’

I don’t respond and he clamps his hands over his chest with a mock-shocked face.

‘Oh, right. Sorry.’ I close my eyes, grateful he’s doing his best to lighten the mood. A long minute passes, punctuated by much fidgeting and huffing. Eventually he announces, ‘All done. Your turn.’

I check out of the window – a couple of old ladies are battling a dysfunctional umbrella with a will of its own, but otherwise there’s no one. While Tom covers his eyes, I undo my seatbelt and struggle out of my wet coat and shirt. I put on the top then remove my damp shoes and socks and change into the shorts. Both are ridiculously big but I don’t care how I look; it feels good to be comfortable and dry.

Tom starts the engine and drives in silence, his eyes fixed on the road. Every now and then, though, I catch him glancing over at me.

‘You OK?’ He fiddles with the heater. ‘Warm enough?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Do you want to talk about what happened before? That guy attacking you, you must be feeling a bit …’

He doesn’t finish the sentence and I don’t help him. After a moment, he switches on the radio and Taylor Swift blasts out, informing us of her intention to shake it off.

‘Actually, I’m a bit tired.’

‘Of course, sorry.’

He shuts off the music and I reposition my head against the window and try to get comfortable. I was up late last night reading about Bardsey again; maybe a nap will help.