The Rinucci Brothers. Lucy Gordon

      ‘Not if I could help it.’

      ‘I can believe that.’

      ‘Sometimes you have to admit you were wrong,’ he admitted, ‘but only a fool rushes into it.’

      ‘Great! Now I’m a fool.’

      ‘I won’t answer that since everything I say seems to be wrong.’

      ‘Hah! You noticed.’

      She knew she was talking nonsense but her nerves were jangling.

      ‘Look,’ he said, with an air of exaggerated patience calculated to drive her to murder, ‘I only kissed you. I was trying to make you feel better—’

      ‘You conceited—’

      ‘I mean by making you see things in a new light.

      Maybe I did it clumsily—all right, yes, I was clumsy, but I—oh hell!’

      He turned away, tearing his hair, but almost immediately swung back to face her.

      ‘Fine, I did it the wrong way. But if you could just clear your head long enough to consider—’

      ‘There you go again. Even your apologies are insults in disguise—and not that deep a disguise—’

       ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll kiss you again.’

      ‘Now there’s a threat that’ll keep me silent for years.’

      He drew a sharp breath. His face was full of fury and for a moment she wondered if he would carry out his threat.

      But he didn’t. Instead, he snatched up a towel where he’d dropped it on a nearby chair and stormed out.

      Evie ran upstairs. From her window she could watch Justin run across the sand to the sea. He’d removed his shirt, which was a pity because it brought back the sensation of being pressed against his bare chest.

      She had never been so angry with him. Everything he had done was inexcusable: trying to dictate to her, daring to throw the light of common sense over her relationship with Andrew, kissing her, not kissing her.

      She threw herself on to her bed, trying to quell the turbulence within. He was right. Of course he was right. Hadn’t she always known that her relationship with Andrew was incomplete, because she’d always withheld part of herself? Hadn’t she driven Andrew into another woman’s arms, and secretly known what she was doing all the time?

      She heard Mark moving in the next room and forced herself to be calm. By the time the boy came downstairs she was there ahead of him, smiling and preparing breakfast.

      ‘Where’s Dad?’

      ‘He went for an early swim.’

      ‘Can we go too?’

      ‘Have some breakfast first.’

      Justin came in a few minutes later, greeted them both, and said, ‘I have to go away for a few hours today.’

      Mark said nothing, but regarded his father with a face that was suddenly tense.

      ‘Is that all right?’ Justin asked, speaking to them both and neither in particular. If he was looking at anyone, it was Mark. But it was hard to be sure.

      ‘That’s fine,’ Evie said. ‘Mark and I will have a great day together, won’t we, Mark?’

      When he didn’t answer she looked at him and found him staring fixedly at his father.

      ‘Will you be away long, Dad?’

      ‘Only until tomorrow.’

      ‘Promise?’

      ‘I promise,’ he said, speaking gently. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

      ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘That’s a secret. But when I come back I’ll have a surprise for you, and I think you’ll like it.’

      Mark nodded, seemingly satisfied. Justin ruffled his hair and went upstairs to change.

      For a moment Evie was tempted to go after him, but she thought better of it. After a while he came downstairs, formally dressed, carrying a briefcase. This was a man intent on business, just as she had first known him.

      Then she understood why Mark had asked if he were returning. He’d seen that, for his father, the holiday was over. In a few hours Justin would telephone, saying that he was staying in London and asking her to bring Mark home.

      Fine! Evie thought with a touch of contempt. She wouldn’t let his son down, even if he did.

      They waved him off together and spent the day at the beach. Neither of them mentioned Justin. In the evening they played chess. Evie began by resolving to let Mark win a game or two, and ended up struggling to beat him even once. His twinkling eyes told her that he’d followed her thoughts.

      She laughed with him, thinking how like Justin he looked. His mouth was different, gentler, with a touch of sweetness, but his nose was exactly the same, sharp and dominating his face, with a curiously flat bridge.

      The phone rang. Mark ran to be the first to answer it.

      ‘Hallo, Dad? When are you coming home? OK—I’ll put you on to Evie—all right. I’ll tell her.’

      He replaced the receiver.

      ‘Dad couldn’t talk to you because he was in a hurry, but he says he’ll be here first thing tomorrow.’

      She answered vaguely. She was disturbed by a small knot of anxiety that was easing inside her, almost as though she were glad of his return. Even pleased, although pleased was perhaps going a bit far. She would admit to relief, but only for Mark’s sake.

      They tidied up and went to bed. Evie lay in the dark and tried to focus her attention on Andrew, wondering just how broken-hearted it was suitable for her to be. After a while she gave up. How could you grieve for a man whose face you couldn’t remember?

      In the early hours she awoke, hearing sounds from below. In a moment she was out of bed, pulling a light dressing gown on over her pyjamas and slipping quietly out on to the landing. The light was growing fast and she could see the man who had just arrived.

      ‘Justin?’ she called softly.

      ‘Yes, come down. I have something to tell you.’

      ‘Goodness, what’s happened?’ she asked, wondering at his businesslike tone.

      She hurried down and saw him rummaging in his briefcase. He looked tired and unshaven.

      ‘Have you been driving all night? You look done in.’

      ‘Never mind that,’ he said, sounding almost impatient. ‘There’s something I want you to see.’

      ‘Is this the surprise you told Mark about? Shall I fetch him?’

      ‘Later. I want you to see it first.’

      ‘You’re getting me worried.’

      ‘No need. Here.’ He’d found a large envelope in his briefcase and held it out to her. ‘This is yours.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Look at it,’ he said curtly.

      At first the words were a jumble, dancing before her eyes. Then she recognised the address of the cottage.

      ‘It’s sold,’ she said at last. ‘You mean the Nicholsons moved that fast?’

      ‘Not them. Me. I bought this place yesterday.’

      ‘You what?’ Then her eyes fell on the price. ‘How much?’

      The final price was fifty grand higher than the original asking price.

      ‘You didn’t really