1

Romy stood and eyed the large cardboard box lying on the patio. It was a new garden table, the old one so rotten she could almost push her finger through the wood. Summer was only a few months away and – just possibly – she might feel like having someone over for a meal by then, if the weather was good enough. But she made no move to open the box, just closed her eyes for a moment, slowly breathing in the soft air of early spring, and felt a delicious peace wash over her.

This was new, the sensation of letting go, and she realized she’d been strung so tight in the little over a year since she’d left Michael – strung tight and closed down – her feelings swirling in a tepid soup beneath the surface. As if she had been hibernating.

It was only in the past couple of months that she’d sensed a lightening around her heart, the dreary plod through each day replaced by a small, burgeoning enjoyment in even the most mundane of tasks, as if she were coming to life, like the tight pink buds blossoming on the cherry tree in her neighbour’s garden.

As she stood there, contemplating the morning ahead, she heard a knock at the front door. She was still in her pyjamas and froze, then reminded herself she wasn’t in the London flat now – where she would no more have opened the door in her nightclothes than flown to the moon – but in the garden of her small fisherman’s cottage, overlooking the Sussex harbour.

‘Hi, Maureen.’ Romy greeted her new friend with pleasure. ‘Sorry, caught me on the hop.’

The old lady gave a throaty chuckle, her worn, weatherbeaten face lighting up with amusement. She was Romy’s height – and Romy was tall – ramrod-straight, with thick white hair cut like a man’s and fierce blue eyes that missed nothing. She waved away Romy’s apology as she entered the house, bending surprisingly nimbly for someone of her age to pick up the post from the mat. She handed it to Romy. ‘I forget the rest of the world doesn’t get up at five.’

Romy had met Maureen a few weeks ago, when they’d got chatting in the village deli. Keith, who owned the shop with his wife, had given them both some goat’s cheese from a nearby farm to taste. And when Romy professed an interest in local organic produce, Maureen had suggested Romy come with her to the farmers’ market the following Saturday.

Even a couple of months ago, Romy would not have got involved in chatting to anyone – in fact, she chose the anonymous supermarket by the big roundabout into town over the deli for that very reason. Nor would she have agreed so readily to Maureen’s plan. But the old lady was straightforward and funny – and didn’t ask prying questions. Romy found herself looking forward to seeing her again, after months of avoiding the world.

‘Coffee?’ Romy asked now.

‘If you’re making it. I won’t stay long. I just have a proposition to put to you.’

Intrigued, Romy went over to her new pod machine. Michael came unwillingly to mind as she waited for the cup to fill. He had refused to have one, saying they were a waste of space, that the coffee was lukewarm and there wasn’t enough of it. But she was thrilled with her purchase – as she was with so much else in her new life.

Now, taking the milk from the fridge, she caught sight of the letters Maureen had handed her, which she’d slung onto the counter. The top one was handwritten – unusual, these days. She knew it came from Uncle Geoff, an old friend of her parents, now in his nineties. But the cream envelope and black ink reminded her of another, much more significant one. Immediately she felt a spike of unease, unable to prevent the familiar words from flashing through her mind: This is a difficult letter to write …

Brushing away the thought, she carried the cups of coffee outside. Nothing was going to spoil her mood of optimism this morning.

‘So,’ said Maureen, when they were settled on the rickety wooden bench on the patio, toes brushing the unopened box, ‘I thought from what you said – and now that you’re here full time – you might be interested in doing some conservation work.’

Romy waited for her to go on.

‘It’s voluntary, of course. But there’s a group of us meet up at Ebernoe Common on Mondays – do you know it? North of Petworth, a wildlife reserve. We do coppicing and clearing bracken, monitoring wildlife, that sort of thing. But we also bring picnics and put the world to rights.’ She gave her an appraising look, amusement in her eyes. ‘It’s hard work, but you don’t look like a wimp.’

Romy grinned. ‘I would absolutely love to join you, Maureen. What a wonderful idea.’

When her guest had eventually gone, Romy hugged her arms round herself. This was exactly what she wanted to do. Conservation – the environment – was her passion. And there was no Michael to scoff at her now, mock her for wanting a cleaner planet.

Leaving the flat-pack on the patio – the thought of managing to slot the correct widget into the correct hole the correct way round made her sigh – Romy decided to go for a run, before the changeable March weather turned.

Out along the harbour road she went, trying to beat the clock on the incoming tide. The sailing boats would start to go back into the water soon, the huge crane on the quay churning away most days as, inch by inch, it lifted the vessels – smallish, mostly, the bigger yachts moored in the larger marina along the coast – then lowered them gently into the sea.

For a moment she stopped and looked out towards the Norman tower of the church on the far side of the bay. She was sweating in the spring sunshine so she ripped off her hooded running jacket and tied it round her waist, securing her curls in a thick ponytail with a band she kept around her wrist. She had a black vest underneath and the breeze felt delicious on her bare skin.

But as she started running again, her trainers dancing over the many potholes in the crumbly asphalt, the smooth rhythm of her stride could not prevent the sudden intrusion of another flash: I just thought you should know who you’re married to, Mrs Claire.