A baby, for one.

He went quiet for a while, then turned his head and looked at her searchingly.

‘So how come you aren’t working at the moment?’

She gave him a fleeting smile and looked away again. ‘I wondered if you’d ask that. I could blame it on Saffy, say she’d taken a lot of time, a lot of training, and in a way it’s true, but really she’s just an excuse. I guess I was—I don’t know … Taking time out to regroup, maybe? I worked solidly for the first year after he died, and I didn’t give myself time to think, and then I went off to Afghanistan and put even more pressure on myself. That was a mistake, and by the time I got back after Christmas I was wiped. I needed time just to breathe a bit and work out where I go from here. A bit of a gap year, in a way. So I took it—or a few months, anyway. Just to try and make some sense of it.’

She made herself meet his eyes again, and found a gentle understanding in them.’ Yeah. I did that after Cathy died. Took a gap year and grabbed the world by the throat, trying to make sense of it.’

‘Did it help?’

He thought back to the aching emptiness, the people he’d met who’d scarcely registered in the haze of grief that had surrounded him. ‘No. I don’t know. Maybe.

Maybe not. It took me away from it, but when I came back it was still there, lurking in wait. The grief, the loneliness.’

It was the closest he’d ever got to talking about Cathy, so she pushed a little more, to see if he’d open up further.

‘She had cancer, didn’t she?’

The shadows in his eyes darkened. ‘Yes. One minute she was fine, the next she was dying.’

Connie felt her heart ache for him. ‘Oh, James. It must have been dreadful watching that.’

He could see her now, the image crystal clear, pale as a ghost against the crisp white sheets, trying to smile at him, the small, neat curve of her doomed pregnancy so prominent in that thin frame.

‘It was,’ he said simply.

They reached the lane then, and he led the way, walking in single file for a while, facing the oncoming traffic.

Convenient, she thought, since it meant they couldn’t talk. Far from opening up, he’d shut down again, so she left him alone, just following on behind until they reached the sea wall again and turned left towards the harbour and the little community clustered around the river mouth.

As they drew nearer they passed a house, a sprawling, ultra-modern house clad in cedar that had faded to silver. It was set in a wonderful garden on the end of the little string of properties, and there were children playing outside on the lawn, running in and out of a sprinkler and shrieking happily, and a woman with a baby on her hip waved to him.

He waved back, and turned to Connie as they walked on. ‘That’s Molly. She and her husband used to own my house. They outgrew it.’

‘I should think they did. There were a lot of children there.’

‘Oh, they’re not all hers,’ he said with a fleeting smile. ‘The baby’s theirs and she’s got a son of about twelve, I think, and they’ve got another little one. The others will be her sister-in-law’s. They didn’t want to move away from here, but with two children and room for her painting they were struggling for space, as you can imagine, and then that house came on the market and David pounced on it.’

‘It’s an amazing house. They must have had a stash of cash somewhere or a lottery win.’

He chuckled, the sombre mood seeming to slip away. ‘Oh, it didn’t look like that when they bought it, but I don’t think they’re exactly strapped. David’s a property developer and he part-owns a chain of boutique hotels in Australia. His father’s a local building contractor, and they extended the house massively. She’s got a great studio space and gallery there, and they’ve done a lovely job of it. They’re nice people. Good neighbours.’

She wondered what it must be like to live in one place long enough to get to know your neighbours. She’d moved so much with Joe, shifting from one base to another, never putting down roots, and it hadn’t been much better in her childhood. She envied James the stability of his life, even if he was alone. Not that she knew that for sure, she reminded herself.

He cut down off the sea wall to his garden gate and held it for her. ‘Right, I need a shower, and then shall we go over to the pub? I haven’t had anything but those cookies since breakfast and I’m starving.’

‘Me, too, but I need to feed the dog. You take the bathroom first.’

‘No need. I’ve got my own upstairs.’

She felt the tension she’d been unaware of leave her. So, no sharing a bathroom, no awkward moments of him tapping on the door or her being caught in the hall with dripping hair.

Heavens, what was wrong with her? This was James!

‘Half an hour?’ he suggested.

‘That’s fine. I’ll feed Saffy first.’

He disappeared up the stairs, and she fed the dog and put her in the crate, not taking any chances while she was getting ready to go out. This would not be the diplomatic time to find out that Saffy could, indeed, open the door of the fridge.

She put her hair up in a knot and showered quickly, then contemplated her clothes. She hadn’t really brought anything for going out, it hadn’t occurred to her, but it was only the pub and she’d got a pretty top that would do. She put it on over her cropped jeans, let her hair down and then put on some makeup. Not much, just a touch of neutral eyeshadow, a swipe of mascara and a clear, shimmery lipgloss. Just enough to hide behind.

‘Stupid woman,’ she muttered. They were going to the local pub for a quick meal to make up for the fact that Saffy had stolen the steak. It wasn’t an interview, and it sure as hell wasn’t a date.

Not even remotely!

So why did she feel so nervous?

She looked gorgeous.

She wasn’t dressed up, but she’d put on a little bit of makeup and a fine, soft jersey top that draped enticingly over her subtle curves.

She wasn’t over-endowed, but she was in proportion, and when she leant forward to pick up her drink the low neckline fell away slightly, just enough to give him a tantalising glimpse of the firm swell of her breasts cradled in lace.

Fine, delicate lace, the colour of ripe raspberries.

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