TRACY BUCHANAN
The Atlas Of Us

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2014

Copyright © Tracy Buchanan 2014

Cover photographs © Bill Brennan, Getty Images, Christophe Boisvieux

Cover design © Rose Cooper 2014

Tracy Buchanan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007579358

Ebook Edition © July 2014 ISBN: 9780007579365

Version: 2015-08-06

Dedication

To the two atlases of my heart: my husband Rob and Scarlett, the daughter I thought I’d never have.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

Read an exclusive extract from MY SISTER’S SECRET

Acknowledgements

Author Q&A

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Everyone runs except her. Their movements are panicked, eyes wide, arms flailing. But she can’t move, legs frozen as she takes in the ferocity of the wave eating up the beach ahead of her. She takes a deep breath and wraps her arms tight around the atlas, her heart beating a strange beat against its cover: slow then fast then slow again.

Just a few moments before, she’d been walking along the shoreline, toes sinking into the warm sand. The soft beach had stretched out vast and gold before her, the walk to the bungalows seeming to take longer than usual.

Now the sea is buffeting against the bungalow three rows in front. It blasts around the sides, its bamboo walls rattling then breaking apart before disappearing into the watery depths.

Someone to her right screams. She turns, sees a long-tail boat thrashing about on top of the oncoming wave. It smashes into a palm tree, its wood splintering as the tree bends back. A man she’d seen swimming in the sea moments before is clinging to it. His eyes catch hers just before he tumbles into the whirlpool of water below, spinning around among deckchairs, beach bags and God knows what else.

Her legs find traction and she stumbles back, breath stuttering as the water surges towards her.

She peers behind her. There’s nowhere to run, just more flat ground, more palm trees.

The wave engulfs a small palm tree in front of her, its roar filling her ears. A food stall topples over in its path and careens towards her, fruit churning in the relentless gush of water.

The sharp smell of brine and seaweed fills her nostrils.

It’s so close now.

She suddenly feels a strange kind of serenity. She refuses to live what might be her last moments in a state of hopeless panic. This is what she has learned lately, a calm acceptance of what must be. It wasn’t always like this. She once fought against her fate, twisted out of its grasp, stumbled on regardless.

Not now.

She tries to face the wave, stand tall and strong, the atlas held against her like it might somehow protect her. But it’s no use, fear prevails. She runs into the tiny bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her and sliding down the wall until she feels the cool of the tiles against her thighs.

Maybe she’ll survive? She can swim, kick her way to the surface, see the sun and think how lucky she was. She’ll go back home, hold tight to the people she let down and never let them go.

Tears flood her eyes as she thinks of all she is leaving behind; of mistakes that may never be remedied.

Thank God she sent the letter.

There’s a creaking sound followed by a loud thud. The bathroom door quakes and she realises something has fallen against it.

She’s trapped. No chance now.

She quickly scours the room, eyes settling on the plastic bag used to line the bin. She grabs it, wraps the atlas in it then shoves the atlas into the bag slung around her chest, yanking at the adjustments until they’re so tight they hurt. She won’t let the atlas get destroyed, not after what she went through to get it back. The walls around her vibrate as objects are flung against them. She thinks of the man on the palm tree. That might be her soon, another piece of flotsam on the tide.

Dread overwhelms her.

There’s a thunderous rushing noise and someone screams, someone close enough to be heard over the roar.

It’s here.

The wall in front of her begins to crack, water tracing a long line down it, finding its path towards her. She pulls her knees up to her chest, pressing the bag against her stomach, taking comfort from the feel of the atlas’s bumpy cover against her skin. She closes her eyes and sucks in an urgent breath.

This is it.

As she hears the walls start to tumble, feels specks of water on her cheeks, an unbearable sadness takes over her.

Did she do enough for those she loves?

She closes her eyes as the wall in front of her smashes apart, water ploughing over her. She’s lifted with the wave and flung against the sink. The porcelain cracks against her shoulder, pain slicing through her.

The bamboo walls around her crash apart and she’s propelled outside with the wave, her body spinning with the force of it as it gallops towards the line of palm trees nearby.

She manages to keep her head above water, gasping for air, and tries desperately to grasp at something, anything, her dark hair blurring her vision as it lashes around her face.

Her fingers graze what she thinks must be the branch of a palm tree and, for a moment, she thinks she might have a chance. But the strength of the wave whips it away from her, thrusting her underwater and spinning her so erratically, she can’t tell what is sky and what is ground.

Water gritty with sand and debris rushes into her mouth. She snaps her lips shut, desperately trying to hold her breath as she’s pulled deeper and deeper, her chest bursting with the effort.

But the need to breathe is overpowering, every part of her yearning to exhale. Her chest expands, her head ringing. And then she’s giving in, mouth opening as she takes one last blissful breath, the faces of all those she loves strong in her mind.

For a brief moment, she thinks she sees red hair, green eyes. She reaches her hand out, but then everything is gone.

Chapter One
Krabi, Thailand
2004

When I close my eyes, the water comes: the violent thud of waves, the tart smell of salty dampness seeping through the cracks of my dreams. But when I look out of the bus window, it’s nothing but mangled cars again; boats that have somehow found their way onto the roofs of two-storey buildings; suitcases flung open, their innards spilling out onto the dusty pavements below.

The bus takes a turn and I’m facing the sea again. It looks calm, ebbing and flowing like it’s forgotten the devastation it caused a few days ago.

My phone buzzes, a text from Will. I force myself to look at it.

Did you get my voicemail? You shouldn’t have gone. Call me.

‘British, love?’ There’s a woman watching me from across the aisle. Stark white lines dart up from the strapless top she’s wearing, disappearing over the fleshy mounds of her shoulders. I feel the urge to tell her about my friend Simone who nearly died of skin cancer.

Instead I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Thought so. I saw you at the airport earlier. We’re going to see about our son, he’s eighteen.’

My heart goes out to her. How would I feel if it were one of my girls missing? ‘I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay.’

‘We hope so too, don’t we, Roy?’ The woman peers at the man next to her, but he just continues staring bleakly out of the window. ‘His friends say he met a girl, spent the night with her. Now he’s missing.’

Missing.

That’s the word I’ve been using to describe Mum’s status too since getting a call from her friend Jane on Boxing Day. But now that I’m heading to the temple – the endgame – missing seems too optimistic.

‘What about you?’ the woman asks. I can see she’s desperate for the comfort blanket of talk her husband obviously can’t offer. He’s probably like Will, always telling me I talk too much. Even after I’d got the phone call about Mum, he was too engrossed in his new iPod to listen properly as I tried to tell him how desperately worried I felt.

‘My mum’s been travelling around the islands over Christmas,’ I say to the woman now. ‘She’s not tried to call anyone to let us know she’s okay. We’re really worried.’

‘Oh, poor luv. You’ve come out here all alone?’

‘Yes. I’m all my mum has. We’re very close.’ I don’t know why I lie.

‘That’s lovely. You’re very good to come out here for her.’

Or stupid. That’s what Will had called me when I’d woken him in the early hours to tell him I wanted to fly out here to find Mum.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I am bloody stupid to leave the girls with their dad and come alone to a country more alien than I’ve ever known. I can smell the foreignness in the scorched spicy air drifting in through the windows; see it in the wires that hang precariously from the pylons; hear it in the strange urgent accents of the Thai people outside.

I feel my chest start to fill with apprehension but quickly swallow it away.

‘Have you been putting photos of your mum up on the notice boards?’ the woman asks.

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Strange, isn’t it? All those smiling faces?’

She doesn’t say why. I know what she means though. Strange to think half of them might be dead now, bloated corpses laid out in a temple like the very one we’re heading to now.

What if Mum’s one of those corpses? Oh God.

‘Did you check the patient list at the hospital?’ the woman asks.

I clear my throat, trying not to show the fear building inside. ‘Yes, I did.’ I’d gone into the hospital too, waving my mum’s photo in the faces of harassed-looking staff whose accents made my head buzz with confusion, the phrase book I’d bought in a hurry at the airport useless.

‘You never know, someone might call,’ the woman says, looking down at her mobile clutched in her plump hand. ‘The embassy photocopied the picture we brought of our son. So nice of them. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’ Her hand flutters to the small cross around her neck. ‘I’m sure we’ll …’

Her voice trails off, her eyes losing focus as the bus slows down. A large spiky roof with gold spires comes into view, a mountain shrouded in trees behind it. As the bus draws closer, the whole temple appears before us, curved and ornate with tiered icing-sugar walls and arched windows fringed with gold. Two painted tiger statues adorn its entrance, looking ready to pounce on the frantic relatives and tired-looking officials hurrying around the busy area in front of it. This must be where the foreign embassies are: white canopies, rows and rows of photo boards, lines of desks weighed down with paperwork and flags. I try to find the Union Jack among all the other flags, as if it might blur the strangeness of this place a little. But all I can see is a tiny beige monkey that is weaving in and out of the table legs. I make a mental note to tell the girls about it. They’ll want to know things like that when I get back. They don’t need to know about the bodies I’ve seen floating in the sea, nor the turned-over cars. Just this little sprite of a monkey and the bright green lizards I noticed while waiting for the bus.

I think of their faces when I’d told them I’d be leaving them for a couple of days to find their nanna. My youngest, Olivia, had got that look, like she might cry any minute, and it had made my heart ache. They’ve not spent more than one night away from me and even then it felt like a small kind of torture for them – and me. To make them feel better, I’d told them Daddy was taking them to the show they’d been going on about; the same show he’s made every excuse under the sun not to go to.

I hope he takes them, I really do. He needs to spend more time with them. He can make their breakfast and ferry them from one friend to another like I do each day, wash their clothes, clean the house, pick up the dog muck in the garden … the list goes on. Maybe he’ll understand life isn’t such a breeze as a stay-at-home mum?

Oh God, what was I thinking? How on earth will he cope? I really was stupid coming here.

We pass under a square blue archway, the red globe lanterns hanging from its ceiling trembling in the breeze. The woman sitting across from me clutches at her husband’s arm. But he ignores her just like Will would ignore me. I want to shake him, tell him his wife needs him. Instead, I reach over and place my hand on the woman’s plump arm. The woman nods, her eyes swimming with thanks. But she doesn’t speak any more.

The bus comes to a stop beneath a lush green tree, and I try to recognise Jane’s son Sam among the crowds from the photo she sent. A man approaches the bus.

It’s him.

His tanned face speaks of exhaustion, of sadness and unknown horrors. People stand, blocking my view of him. I rise with them, smoothing my fringe down, checking the collar of my neat blossom-coloured blouse. Despite it being early evening, the heat’s a nightmare, sweat making the thin material of my blouse cling to all the wrong curves, curves I usually cover with tailored tops and trousers; strands of my fine hair already escaping from the ponytail I’d crafted so carefully a few hours before. I’m pleased I inherited Dad’s height and blond hair, but combine that with my mum’s curves and I’m in trouble.

I catch myself mid-moan. How can I worry about my weight when Mum’s missing?

The bus driver hauls open the door and I step out, blinking up at the sun and trying not to think about what it must be doing to all those bodies. The other passengers hesitate too, faces white with worry as they take in the temple in the distance. A woman leans her face into her husband’s chest and sobs while two young men next to me take frantic gulps of water, the nervous energy throbbing off them.

I feel even more alone now, watching all these people. They’re all terrified of what they might find, but at least they’re not alone. I look at Sam. Maybe I’m not so alone. I shrug my bag strap over my shoulder, heading towards him.

He turns as I approach, frowns a little like he’s trying to figure out if it’s the same person in the photo his mum sent. Then he smiles. ‘Louise?’ he asks, a Northern lilt to his voice.

He’s in his late twenties, a few years younger than me, and is wearing a white linen shirt and cut-off blue jeans. This close, I can see the light stubble on his cheeks and chin, the small jewel in his nose, the wheel pattern of the pendant hanging from his neck. He has tanned skin, fair hair, a mole on his cheek. Will would call him a hippy, like the man with long hair who was renting the house a few doors down with his Chinese wife and two children last year. I’d been desperate to invite them over for dinner; they’d seemed so interesting. But Will had always found some excuse or other not to. Six months later, they’d moved away. I wasn’t surprised. They didn’t look the type to be happy in an estate full of expensive new builds and gas-guzzling family cars.

‘Yes, I’m Louise,’ I say to Sam. I note a hint of surprise in his eyes. Maybe he was expecting someone like my mum, all bronzed and arty with floaty skirts and flowing scarves, instead of a pale, blouse-wearing, stay-at-home mum from Kent. ‘Thanks so much for offering to help,’ I say. ‘Your mum said you’d been helping out? I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

‘Take up as much time as you want. I promised Mum I’d do everything I can to help you.’ He examined my face. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘The paperwork’s a nightmare but—’

‘I mean about your mum missing. Must be tough?’

‘I – I’m not sure really. It’s been a bit of a blur since your mum called. I’m sure everything’ll be fine, I’m sure we’ll find her …’ My voice trails off. The truth is, I’m terrified. Terrified I’ve lost my mum before I’ve even had the chance to patch things up with her. ‘Jane says you live in Bangkok. Did you travel over here to help out?’ I ask, trying to change the subject. Small talk seems out of place here, but it’s a type of anchor for us Brits, isn’t it?

He shakes his head. ‘I came to Ao Nang to visit a friend for Christmas. Luckily, we were staying further inland. As soon as we heard what had happened, we started helping out and I ended up volunteering here,’ he says, gesturing around him.

‘It must be difficult.’

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Very. But at least I’m doing something to help. Have you done all the form-filling and DNA stuff?’

‘Yes, twice. No sign.’ I peer towards the temple. ‘So, do we go in there then?’

‘Not yet. The bodies are back there.’ He flinches slightly, like it physically hurts him to say that. ‘I’d recommend the boards first, there’s photos of each body on there. People find that easier.’

‘Yes, that makes sense.’ My voice sounds strong, considering.

‘Why don’t you show me a photo of your mum and I’ll go look at the boards for you?’

‘You don’t have to, really. I can do it.’

This time, my voice breaks as I imagine seeing a photo of Mum up there. Sam gently places his fingers on my bare arm. They feel cool, dry. ‘I’m here to help, Louise.’

The woman from the bus approaches from the direction of the photo boards, her face pressed against her husband’s chest as he stares ahead, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I look back at Sam. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Of course. You’ve probably been asked this already, but are there any distinguishing marks, jewellery, anything that will help me identify your mum?’

‘Just a bracelet she always wears. She’s wearing it in this photo.’ I start digging around in my bag. ‘Thing is, I haven’t seen her for over two years so I’m not sure if she still looks …’ My voice trails off. Why did I say that?

‘Two years?’

‘It’s a long story.’

Sam scrutinises my face then nods. ‘Understood. So, the photo?’

I pull the photo out and hand it over. Mum looks happy in it, tanned, smiling, her dark hair whipping about her face. Slung over her shoulder is a pink bag with the smiling face of a child embroidered into its front. I can just about make out her precious bracelet, a rusty old charm bracelet with bronze teapots and spoons attached to it. She’s wearing the yellow cardigan with red hearts I got her a few years ago too. That did something to me when Jane emailed the photo to me after they’d both gone to some Greek island together last year, made my heart clench to see her wearing the cardigan I got her – like maybe Mum did care for me.

Something changes in Sam’s face as he looks at the photo. ‘That’s an unusual bag. I think I saw it last night.’

I try to keep my voice steady. ‘With a body?’

He looks pained. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It was wrapped around the woman quite securely. It came in late so if there’s any ID with it, it won’t have filtered down to any lists yet.’

I sway slightly, vision blurring. Sam takes my elbow, helping me steady myself.

‘I’ll go out back and check for you,’ he says softly. ‘Is it okay if I take this photo?’

‘Yes.’ My voice is barely above a whisper.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ He steers me to a nearby seat, an oddly shaped bamboo chair that feels rough under my calves. He then runs towards the temple, his flip-flops slapping on the sandy concrete as he weaves between the tables and photo boards, apologising to people as he bumps into them.

I put my head in my shaking hands. Is this what it comes to in the end? I feel a rush of regret and anger. Regret at not working hard enough to rebuild my relationship with my mum again when she stopped talking to me, anger at the fact I’d had to even try to rebuild it. It had only been a stupid argument; I’d never dreamt it would have led to her not contacting me for such a long time.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I mumble into my palms.

I stay like that for a while, trying to grapple with the idea of Mum being gone forever. When Jane had called saying how concerned she was, I knew, quite suddenly, that I had to come out here to find Mum. It wasn’t just about finding her, it was about starting over with her, making amends. I’d brewed on it all of Boxing Day as I’d watched the news unfold on TV until I’d had to wake Will to tell him what I’d decided. I could tell he didn’t believe I’d go through with it, even when I started packing my suitcase.

I sit up straight when I notice Sam jogging towards me again. He’s holding a bag to his chest like it’s a newborn baby and there’s this look on his face that makes something inside me falter. He places the bag on the dusty ground and crouches down in front of me, placing his hands over mine. I pull my hands away, stifling the growing panic inside.

‘There was a passport in the bag,’ he says very softly.

He pulls it from the bag and hands it to me. I open it, see Mum’s face, her name. I put my hand to my mouth and blink, keep blinking. It feels like there’s a wave inside, flattening everything in its path.

‘You said the bag was found with a body,’ I say. ‘Have you seen it?’

Sam nods, face crunched with pain. ‘There’s a lot of …’ He sighs. ‘A lot of damage to the face. But she has dark hair like your mum’s.’

The edges of the world smudge.

I close my eyes and smell Mum’s scent: floral perfume, mints and paint oils. With it comes a memory of her smiling down at me, her paintbrush caught mid-sweep, a blot of black ink smudging the eye she’d been painting – her own eye. The ink crawls down the canvas, distorting her painted face. I was eight at the time and had just got back from a disastrous day at school.

‘What’s with you, grumpy face?’ she’d asked me.

I’d hesitated a moment before stepping into the spare room she was using as a studio. Our house was just a small three-bed semi but my father had insisted on turning the largest room into a studio for Mum. It had always felt off-limits to me. But she’d beckoned me in that day, gesturing towards her paint-splattered chair, a bright blue leather one she’d found in the local charity shop.

‘Tell me everything,’ she’d said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, getting green paint all over them.

‘I don’t want to go into school tomorrow,’ I’d said, resisting the urge to pull away from her and clean the paint off my hands. I’d never got on well at the private school Dad had been so keen to scrimp and save to get me into, the teachers always seemed to regard me as inferior to the other, richer kids. Mum had warned him it would happen. ‘There’s nothing worse for a snooty bourgeois than an aspiring bourgeois,’ she’d said. Is that what she’d thought of me when I married a company director – a snooty bourgeois?

‘Why not, darling?’ she’d asked.

‘My teacher told me off today.’

She’d raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. I remember thinking that mums aren’t supposed to smile about things like that and part of me was annoyed. Why couldn’t she be like other mums?

‘Why’d your teacher tell you off, Lou?’ she’d asked.

‘I told the truth.’ Her smile had widened. ‘She read out a poem she’d written to help us with our poems and I said it was rubbish.’

Mum had laughed then, those big white teeth of hers gleaming under the light. ‘You told the truth, that’s wonderful! “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know”,’ she’d added, quoting her favourite Keats poem.

‘But she hates me now.’ I’d crossed my arms, turning away. ‘I can’t go into school.’

‘Of course you can! You can’t let fear rule you, Lou. You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.’

‘You okay?’ Sam asks, pulling me from the memory.

I open my eyes, Mum’s words echoing in my mind like she’s right there with me.

You can’t let fear rule you, Lou.

‘Can I see the bag please?’ I ask Sam.

‘Of course.’

He hands it to me. It’s dirtier than in the photo, caked with dried mud, and there’s a grotesque tear across the child’s face. I imagine Mum shopping in one of Thailand’s markets with it, reaching into it for a purse to buy some odd Buddhist ornament, half a smile on her tanned face.

I take a deep breath then unzip it, peering in. There’s a hairbrush in there, a bright red lipstick and something wrapped in a plastic bag. I pull the brush out first, examining the hair on it. It looks dark, just like Mum’s.

But then lots of people have dark hair, right?

I place the brush gently to one side and look at the lipstick. Mum sometimes wears red lipstick. She’s not alone in that though, plenty of women do.

But what about her passport? That can only belong to one woman.

I clench my fists, driving the surge of grief away. It’s not over until it’s over.

I reach into the bag again for the item wrapped in plastic. It’s square-shaped and feels heavy, its surface rough beneath the material of the plastic. I pull it out and lay it on top of Mum’s bag. Its front cover is made from strips of thin wood interweaved with each other and an image of the earth is etched in bright turquoise into it with four words painted in gold over it.

The Atlas of Us.

There’s a bronzed key lock on the side but it looks broken. I open the heavy front cover, see two lines written on the inside page, the ink only a little blurred – amazing considering how much it must have been thrown about in the water:

To my darling, my life, my world. The atlas of my heart.

Your love, Milo

It feels impossibly romantic. Maybe Mum had met someone? And yet she still hadn’t got in touch with me to tell me about them. I can imagine what Will would say if he were here. ‘Accept it, move on. Your mother doesn’t want to involve you in her life any more.’

I flick through the atlas. On the first page is a hand-drawn illustration of the United Kingdom and Ireland. Opposite is a paper pocket. I run my fingers over it, surprised to feel something inside. I reach in and pull out a dried purple flower encased in cellophane. There are other items too: a yellowed tourist leaflet from a place called Nunney Castle, a ticket to an awards ceremony in London, a photo of a cobweb flooded with light and a business card belonging to a journalist called Nathan Styles. There’s a crumpled piece of notepaper too with a pencil sketch of a sheep teetering on a tightrope, its eyes wide with comical fear, a note scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognise above it:

Exmoor by Claire Shreve

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plummet downwards and destroy everything below.

I’ve never heard of a Claire Shreve. Is she one of Mum’s friends? I flick through the rest of the atlas and see more illustrated maps – including one of Thailand – and pockets too, some bulging with items.

‘Do you recognise any of it?’

I look up at Sam. ‘Just the bag. And the passport of course. I’m not sure about this atlas, I’d have remembered it if I’d seen it. It’s quite unusual.’

‘Okay. Shall I see if I can find a photo on the boards? Or …’ he hesitates, ‘… you might prefer to see her?’

My head swims at the thought. Then I remember Mum’s words again: You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.

‘I’d like to see her please,’ I say.

‘I’ll take you.’

I follow Sam towards a pair of bright blue gates to the side of the temple, criss-crossed with red stripes, the spikes on top gold. The smell instantly hits me: meaty, horrific. I tuck the note back into the atlas and place my sleeve over my nose as I follow Sam towards the temple. A Thai woman is standing in front of the gates, a clipboard in her hand, a bucket of surgical facemasks next to her. Beyond the gates is a temporary trailer, people milling around it. I’m thankful it’s blocking the view of whatever’s behind it.

Sam nods at the woman, who hands me a surgical mask. I put it on, gagging at the TCP smell.

‘Brace yourself,’ Sam says as he leads me through the gate.

I walk around the corner of the trailer towards a large area fringed by spindly green trees, the hill darting up behind them. At first, I think it’s dirty clothes spread over the plastic sheets in the middle. But as I draw closer, I see a bloated leg sticking out of one mound, a tangle of black hair fanning out from another and realise it’s bodies, scores of them, half covered by different coloured sheets of plastic. People are walking around in blue scrubs and wellies, and then there are the relatives and friends, hands over mouths as they crouch over the bodies, some crying, most looking frantic and exhausted.

I want to turn around and get the hell out of there. But instead, I force myself to follow Sam as he walks towards the bodies and try to control the whirlpool of terror inside.

‘She’s here,’ Sam says softly, coming to a stop in front of a blue sheet. He crouches down, taking the corner of the plastic between his fingers, then peers up at me. ‘Ready?’

‘Wait.’ I look up at the bright blue sky, tears welling in my eyes. Everything will be different after this; even the sky might look different.

I have to do this. I have to know.

‘Ready,’ I say. I hear the crunch of plastic and look down.

The colour of the face hits me first: dark red, bloated. Then the hair, long, curly and tangled around a swollen neck. There’s nothing there to recognise. It’s all distorted, grotesque. How can I find my mum in that?

I quickly look away again, stifling a sob. Could it really be her? It takes a while before I’m certain my voice will sound normal. ‘I can’t be sure,’ I say. ‘She has the same colour hair. But I – I can’t be sure. Is she wearing a bracelet? She always wore her bracelet.’

There’s a pause, more rustling then Sam’s voice. ‘No. There’s a necklace around her neck though, quite distinctive. It’s a gold typewriter with blue gems for keypads?’

Hope flutters inside. ‘I never saw her wear something like that. Do you think that means it’s not her?’

‘She could have bought the necklace at a stall here, plus her passport was inside so …’

His voice trails off but I understand what he’s trying to say. The chances are it is Mum. I feel the tears coming, the world tilting, and stumble away, leaning against a nearby tree as I try to control my emotions.

Sam follows me, placing his hand on my back. I don’t flinch away from him this time.

‘Mum left when I was twelve,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve barely seen her since. The last time was over two years ago at a party, it was awful.’ I don’t really understand why I’m saying all this now, to a virtual stranger. But the words continue to come out in a rush. ‘We had a terrible argument and I didn’t hear from her after, no matter how many times I called. Your mum keeps me posted with what she’s up to. But my mum won’t speak to me, her own daughter, and – and now I can’t even be sure if it’s her body back there.’

I start crying again in loud, shuddery hiccups and Sam wraps his arms around me. He smells faintly of sweat and TCP, the plastic of his outfit crinkling against my cheek. I ought to pull away. What would my husband say? But I need this right now, human touch, even if it’s a stranger’s touch. We stay like that for a few moments, surrounded by death and mourning relatives.

Then there’s a strangled sob from nearby. I pull away to see a man with curly blond hair crouching down next to the body we’ve just been looking at. An Indian man wearing scrubs is standing over him, brow creased.

‘This is Claire’s necklace,’ the blond man says. ‘It’s hand-crafted, one of a kind. She wears it all the time. Oh God.’

Relief rushes through me as I look down at the atlas in my mum’s bag, thinking of the note I found in it. Is it the same Claire?

‘What if it’s not Mum?’ I say to Sam, clutching onto this new possibility. ‘There was something in the atlas written by someone called Claire! And if that’s Claire’s necklace …’

‘But your mum’s passport and bag were with the body, Louise,’ Sam says softly.

I refuse to acknowledge what he just said, can’t possibly now there’s a glimmer of hope it might not be Mum. I look towards the blond man who’s now kneeling next to the woman, his head in his hands. Hope surges inside me. ‘He seems convinced he knows who she is,’ I say.

Sam follows my gaze. ‘He does, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s not your mum.’

I look up at the sky. Still the same. I promise myself that if – no, when – I find Mum alive, I’ll make her talk to me, really talk to me and we will repair what came apart since she left.

Then something occurs to me. ‘Maybe the reason that woman had Mum’s bag was because she knew her? If so, that man might know where Mum is.’

I go to walk towards him but Sam stops me. ‘Louise … give him a minute.’

I look into Sam’s eyes. I can tell he thinks I’m grasping at straws. Maybe I am, but what other leads do I have? ‘I have to find my mum, I have to bring her back to me, back to her grandchildren. I don’t care what it takes, where I have to go, but Mum’s going to be on that plane back to the UK with me.’

I shrug off his arm and march towards the man. He looks up when I approach, his eyes red.

I hesitate a moment. Maybe Sam’s right. But then I think of Mum out there somewhere, possibly injured in some filthy hospital with doctors who don’t speak English.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say softly, kneeling down to his level and putting my hand on his arm. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit, more expensive-looking than any of Will’s.

He shakes his head in disbelief, tears falling down his tanned cheeks. ‘I knew she was in the worst possible place for the wave to hit. But I never dreamed I’d find her body. She’s been through so much, gone through so much, and always come out fighting. Oh God.’

His voice cracks and I feel like crying with him. It could have been me kneeling here grieving for my mother. It was for a few moments.

‘I think my mum knew your wife,’ I say gently.

The man flinches. ‘Friend, not wife.’

‘Friend. Sorry. She had my mum’s bag when she was found,’ I say, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘And there was an atlas with a note written by someone called Claire Shreve in it?’

He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s your mother’s bag?’

‘Her passport was in it. It’s quite a distinctive bag too.’

‘Did your mother know Nathan Styles?’

I think of the business card in the atlas. ‘No. Why?’

He ignores my question. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ he asks instead.

‘Nora McKenzie.’

His face flickers with recognition. ‘The name rings a bell.’

All my nerves stand on edge. ‘Really? Did Claire know my mother?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, especially now.’ He looks down at the body again, face crumpling. Then he takes in a deep breath, composing himself. ‘I need to make some calls then I really must sleep. But maybe it’ll come to me once I get some rest. Where are you staying?’ I tell him the name of my hotel in Ao Nang and he nods. ‘I’m not far from there. There’s a small café just a few minutes’ walk from it.’ He pulls out a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbles down the café’s address before handing it to me. ‘Shall we meet there tomorrow morning, at nine?’

I want to tell him he needs to remember right now but then I put myself in his shoes again.

‘Perfect.’ I look down at the business card: Jay Hemingford, Journalist. ‘Thank you, Jay.’

He smiles very slightly then looks back down at Claire Shreve. I leave him alone and follow Sam through the gates, the crowds and noise a contrast to the quiet solemnity and hushed sobs of the makeshift morgue behind us.

‘Mum mentioned you booked a hotel in Ao Nang,’ Sam says. ‘There’s a bus coming soon that’ll get you there. You should go check in and get some rest then start again with a fresh head tomorrow. I can come by the café tomorrow morning after you’ve met with that man to see if I can help with any information he gives you?’

‘That’ll be great, thanks.’

‘And my mum gave you my number right? So just call if you need me.’

‘I will. I really appreciate your help, Sam.’

‘No problem. I better get back to it.’ He shoots me one last pained look then jogs away.

When the bus arrives, I step onto it like I’m sleepwalking, slumping into a chair near the back and staring blankly out of the window as it starts rumbling down the road. There’s a young boy crying for his mum in front of me, his dad cuddling him to his chest as he tries to hold back his own tears. I wish I were a child again so I could cry for my mum. I’m relieved that wasn’t her body, but that’s not to say there won’t be other temples, other bodies to see … one of which might really be hers.

The bus bumps over a pothole, and something digs into my hip. I look down and realise I still have the atlas. I must remember to give it to Jay Hemingford when I meet him tomorrow so he can return it to Claire Shreve’s family.

I hesitate a few moments then lift the atlas to my nose. It smells of salt, of mangoes too, I think. I go to open it, unable to resist. It’s clear Claire Shreve wouldn’t want random people poking their nose in. Maybe if I just look in the pocket next to the Thailand map? If Mum met Claire Shreve out here and they visited the same places, there might be some breadcrumbs leading me to Mum’s whereabouts. And anyway, if they did know each other, surely Claire Shreve would want to help me find my mum?

I find the right page then reach into the pocket. The first item is a photo of three people I don’t recognise: a young girl with curly red hair, a petite brunette a few years older than me, then a young blond man. There’s a hint of a palm tree in the background and, behind them, a large elephant statue with blue jewels all over it. I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back.

I go to the next item, a creased napkin with a pencil drawing of a rock jutting from the sea, someone standing on it with their arms wide open, like they want to catch the scribbled moon above.

And then the final item, a piece of orange tissue paper patterned with flowery swirls. Attached to it with a safety pin is part of a torn note, three words scrawled across it:

The bad things …

I shiver slightly, despite the heat, then tuck it back into the pocket before leaning my forehead against the cool window, thinking of that first note I’d found.

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys …

I’d visited Devon for the weekend with the girls the year before. Will had meant to come with us but something big had gone down at work. He’d suggested cancelling it but I’d thought, what the hell, why can’t I do it alone? It wasn’t easy. The drive down there was a challenge with two grumpy, tired kids. But once we’d got into the stride of things, it had been a little adventure – just me and the girls enjoying long walks and scones crammed with jam and cream, no frowning husband and Daddy to tell us we’d get fat.

God, how I’d love to be back there right now on safe and familiar ground, away from the fierce heat and the strange smells and sounds. The past few years, I’ve dreamed of spreading my wings a little. But I’d meant trying a holiday to Greece instead of Portugal; meeting new friends whose lives revolved around more than the school run and bake-offs; romantic dinners somewhere other than the local Italian. I didn’t mean this – fumbling blind in a country with bamboo houses on stilts. I’d rather see thatched cottage roofs and feel Exmoor’s sharp westerly wind fierce against my skin …

Chapter Two
Exmoor, UK
1997

In Exmoor, there’s a feeling that, at any moment, something might suddenly plummet. Like the sky that September day when Claire drove towards the inn for the first time, a watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plunge down and destroy everything below. Or the sheep that stood nonchalantly on steep verges dipped in purple heather, unaffected by the tightrope they walked between the drop below and passing cars.

When Claire arrived at the inn, a white three-storey building that seemed more suited to the plains of America than this windy British valley, she too felt as though she might plummet at any minute. She’d been holding it together so long, but the conversation she’d had with her husband the night before had sent her into freefall, the fragile walls she’d built up around herself the past few years starting to crumble.

She didn’t check in as soon as she got there as she normally did on trips for the magazine. Instead, she’d headed straight for the signposted path leading towards the cliffs, praying the fresh air would bring her some peace as it always seemed to on her travels. As she entered the cocoon of trees behind the inn and followed the rippling river towards the sea with her Jack Russell, Archie, she didn’t think much, brain muted from the drive there and all that had happened the night before. Instead, she watched as the scenery changed from the lush foliage of the surrounding forest into a valley of grey rocks.

It had rained overnight and now the air was fresh, the sky overhead a light grey mist. Archie clambered over the small rocks, nudging his wet nose under the stones, nibbling at the weeds that lay drying beneath them. She was pleased the inn’s owner Henry Johnson had insisted she bring her dog to try out the pet-friendly rooms. She wasn’t sure how she’d have coped here completely alone. Sure, she was used to travelling solo with her job, but that was before the floor fell out from beneath her marriage.

Soon the path rose up and away from the river, a steep bank of grey rock either side. In the distance, the river’s mouth opened, bubbling over pebbles and out into a frothing sea. As she drew closer, metal barriers appeared with notices warning of sheer drops. She stopped at one of the barriers, looking out over the cliff, tummy wrinkling as she imagined tumbling into the furious waves below. Her publishing director wouldn’t be too pleased considering press day was just around the corner.

She allowed herself a small smile before pulling her camera out of her bag and lifting it to her face, taking the usual obligatory photos for the magazine … and some for herself too. She had a scrapbook of photos from trips such as these just for herself. They weren’t amazing photos; the magazine couldn’t afford to send her on a course. But she’d learned on the job how to take a half-decent picture and now she enjoyed it, capturing moments she might have otherwise struggled to remember later as she wrote articles to crazy deadlines.

When she’d taken enough photos of the roaring sea and craggy cliffs, she led Archie down the slope towards the lime kiln she’d read about, a hut-shaped structure that merged into its surroundings. Its entranceway gaped open and Archie ran towards it but she yanked him back, noticing the sign at the front warning people not to enter for their own safety. When she was a teenager, she would’ve marched right in, regardless of any signs, just like her dad used to. One of her earliest memories was of when she was five and they were visiting the Wailua Falls in Kauai, Hawaii, a stunning double-tiered waterfall that dropped over a hundred feet, surrounded by tropical green flora. Her dad had heard you could get the best photos by scrambling down the steep cliffs towards the base of the waterfall. So, as Claire watched from the safety of the viewing area with her mum and sister, he’d managed to do just that, taking the iconic photo Claire still saw in travel magazines showing two streams of water silver-white as they gushed into the green lagoon below. Looking at that photo, you could almost feel the splash of water on your face, hear the roar of the waterfall.

Ten years later, Claire had visited the Big Falls waterfall in California with her friend Jodie. Inspired by her dad, she’d crossed the river and scaled the jagged hillsides around it to reach the waterfall’s base, getting an amazing photo looking directly up the waterfall, the blue sky and bright yellow sun reflected in its sheen.

Put her in the same situation now and she wouldn’t dare do that. Life had taught her taking the risky path simply wasn’t worth it.

‘This way, boy,’ Claire said, pulling Archie away from the cliff edge and towards the cluster of boulders leading down to the ocean. They picked their way over the rocks towards the sea, fizz from the waves speckling Claire’s jeans. It was strange how still things felt at that moment, so calm and beautiful, despite the frenzied nature of the waves nearby. She was completely alone here, just Archie, the roar of the sea and the squawk of birds for company. Is this the way it would be from now on, just her and Archie? It was unlikely anyone else would take her barren, broken body, after all. Even at thirty-one, it seemed a daunting prospect. What about in twenty, thirty, forty years? Would she end up like her dad, ill and alone in some grotty flat, despite all she’d done to try to avoid a destiny like his? At least she’d been with him at the end. There would be no child holding her hand and mopping her brow now.

She sank down onto a large rock, putting her head on her hands. This was really happening, wasn’t it? Ben was leaving her, taking all the dreams they’d shared with him too. What was she going to do now? She felt a scrabbling at her feet and looked down to see Archie peering up at her with his one good brown eye – the other had been removed after a bout of glaucoma. He put his front paws on her knees and nuzzled his wet snout into her jeans. She leaned down, pressing her cheek against the warm fur of his neck.

‘At least I’ve got you, haven’t I, boy?’

He wagged his tail in response and she sighed, reaching into her bag and pulling out the book her friend Jodie had managed to get an advance copy of – Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden. That was the advantage of having a friend who was an arts and culture events organiser; she could sate her craving for good books before other people got their hands on them. Claire had met Jodie during her travels with her family when they were both thirteen – Jodie with her bohemian mum and crazy sisters, Claire with her ramshackle family. Jodie had been her one true friend, still was in a way, other friends just ships in the night due to the intense hours Claire worked. Both of them still somehow managed to meet whenever they could, despite their hectic schedules. She wondered what Jodie would say about her and Ben splitting up. Maybe she’d be secretly happy. Jodie had never really warmed to him.

She looked down at the book and let herself get lost in the words. That was all it took sometimes, the feel of flimsy paper between her fingers, the sight of black ink dancing before her eyes and delivering her into another world. Books were often her only companions on lonely nights during press trips. They’d been there for her when she was a kid craving consistency too, curling up in a little nook somewhere, the characters she’d read about becoming her friends when she only had her family for company as they travelled from one place to the next.

She reached into her pocket for her other companion – chocolate – and luxuriated in this chance to leave all her troubles behind, occasionally stopping to marvel at the scenery around her, her new fortress of solitude.

But it wasn’t long before her fortress of Solitude became a fortress of German tourists as a whole centipede of people appeared on the horizon, trailing one after another on the path above. Among them was a family, a little boy strapped to the mother’s chest in a baby holdall. She’d once dreamed of holidays like that with Ben.

She put her book away, reluctantly acknowledging it was time to head back and get on with the job. Her favourite kind of press trip were the ones organised by the tourist offices where she was met at the airport by a media rep then left to get on with it for the rest of the time, with the odd attraction visit and hotel inspection. But on the majority of her trips, most of her time was taken up by her host – usually someone who paid big bucks to advertise in the magazine – escorting Claire here, there and everywhere on a tight schedule, even just a one-nighter turning into a small kind of torture. She had a feeling this might be one of those trips; she’d met the inn’s owner before and he was a handful.

‘Ready to head back?’ she asked Archie.

He wagged his tail as she jumped up. A few minutes later, she was squeezing past the queue of Germans, apologising to them as Archie jumped up at their legs. Once they were behind her, she paused a moment to watch as they marched towards the sea. It already looked different, the blur of their forms blotting the scenery in front of her.

As she walked back along the path the tourists had come down, she thought of the conversation she’d had with Ben the night before. They’d been driving back from a friend’s wedding reception and she’d been looking out of the car window as the cat’s eyes on the road had blurred into one, creating a jet stream of light down the middle of the windy road. She’d had a bit to drink and had made Ben play Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now’ over and over as she’d stared at that light, feeling miserable, thinking of how it was always these nights – these long drives in the dark – that got her thinking about everything they didn’t have. After a while, he’d turned to her, the misery on his face mirroring hers.

‘Maybe you should use this trip to Exmoor as a chance to think about things,’ he’d said.

‘What do you mean?’

He’d looked surprised. ‘You’re not telling me you haven’t noticed how strained things are between us, Claire? How miserable you are in particular?’

She’d felt the panic start to rise. Yes, she had noticed, but then they’d only just finished their last round of IVF two months before, then work had been hectic, her boss seeming to punish her for taking two weeks off for her treatment by making her work longer hours, go on even more trips. She’d barely seen Ben, and had kept telling herself they’d go away once things calmed down and get things back on track.

But things had never really calmed down.

‘Sorry, I’ve been so busy,’ Claire had said to Ben. ‘I’ll take some time off, we can go away like we said we would.’

Ben had sighed. ‘It’s not enough, Claire. Watching Robyn and Richard get married today made me realise just how much we’ve changed since we got married.’ His knuckles had turned white as he’d clung onto the steering wheel. ‘We’re broken, Claire. We’ve tried to fix it but it’s time we admitted it’s over.’

She’d attempted to grab his hand, pleading with him it wasn’t over, they just needed to fight for their marriage. But he’d just stared ahead, jaw set. That night, he’d slept in the spare room. The last she’d seen of him was the next morning as he’d watched her drive away, a look of relief on his face.

Relief. Had it really got that bad between them?

As she’d driven away, she’d wondered if he’d realised it was three years exactly from the day of their first embryo transfer. She tried to imagine carrying a toddler in her arms with him strolling beside her. Things would be different then, wouldn’t they? She’d have the secure family life she’d yearned for ever since she’d discovered her dad dying and realised a life lived on the edge just left you all alone. But that life was gone and now, instead of that toddler, all Claire saw were six embryos bobbing up and down in the sea, the same six that had failed to implant, leading to a bunch of negative pregnancy tests she still kept in a box in her wardrobe.

Ghosts of lost hope.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered. She stopped walking and leaned her hand against the hard grey rock of the cliff next to her to steady herself, gulping in huge breaths as she saw the life she’d dreamed of ebbing away.

Then a bark echoed out in the distance. Archie looked up from the patch of grass he’d been sniffing, back straight as a rod as he tried to detect the source of the sound. Claire followed his gaze to see a feral-looking dog running along a dash of path on the other side of the river. She hadn’t even noticed there was another path. Then the dog’s owner came into view: tall, dark hair, long stride. He was walking with purpose, eyes scouring all around him, his dark fringe lifting with every step to reveal a hint of long lashes, straight nose, tanned forehead.

Archie let out a woof that echoed around the valley.

The man paused mid-stride and looked up at them. His dog paused too, ears pricking. Then it let out a thin whine that stretched across the river and steep bank between them. The man stepped forward, whole body alert as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of binoculars. He pressed them to his eyes and Claire froze, feeling like he’d actually run across the river and scrambled up the bank towards her. Even Archie stilled, pressing his small black and white body against Claire’s shins.

The man lowered his binoculars and pulled his walking stick out from under his arm. That’s when Claire realised it wasn’t a walking stick he was holding … it was a gun.

He cocked it up towards her, pressing his cheek against the flat edge of its top, and all the misery she’d just been battling drained away, replaced by fear.

‘Oh Jesus,’ she whispered, finally finding her feet and stumbling backwards.

Suddenly, the air was punctured with a sound like a firework going off. She ducked and there was a terrible keening sound from above. She looked up to see a large deer with spindly antlers and fur the colour of conkers staggering around, blood trickling from a small hole in its head. Archie whined and the stag’s eyes snagged on Claire’s, making her almost choke on the fleeting look of terror and hopelessness in them.

Then it tumbled down the bank, landing with a thump in front of her, one of its antlers cracking in half on impact.

She put her hand to her mouth, unable to drag her gaze away from the deer’s eyes, which were now staring into nothingness. Blood was pooling around its head and Archie tried to get to it, yanking Claire out of her shock. She pulled him back and turned towards the man, ready to scream at him – but he was gone.

She jogged back, whole body buzzing with anger. When she reached the inn, a white marquee was being set up on the expanse of green that fanned up from the river. A woman in her fifties watched from the path with a pretty blonde girl, her face lit up with pride. A wedding?

Wonderful.

Claire darted past them then paused as she noticed glimpses of a large farmhouse in between the leaves, dark and imposing, ivy strangling its gutters. Spread out beyond it was a huge hill that sloped into a valley, cows and sheep dotted all over.

She walked into the inn, the soles of her wellies squelching on the pine floorboards. She found Henry, the inn’s owner, in the plush-looking bar talking to a girl of about thirteen or fourteen with spirals of vivid red hair. She peered up at Claire, green eyes sparkling with curiosity as Archie’s tail wagged against Claire’s chest.

‘You got here!’ Henry said when he saw Claire approach. He bounded up to her, leaving the girl behind and giving Claire a kiss on both cheeks. He was huge, at least six foot three, with thick blond hair.

They’d met once before during a press trip to the boutique hotel he’d once owned in Oxford. She’d always found him a bit overwhelming and had been dreading spending more time than she needed to with him this weekend. That dread had grown after everything that had happened with Ben; how could she keep up the fake smiles today of all days? That was the thing with editing a travel trade magazine aimed at tour operators: you were forced into situations with people you wouldn’t usually want to spend much time with.

‘The new hairdo suits you,’ Henry said, smiling.

She put her hand to her head. That weekend, she’d impulsively asked her hairdresser to cover the usual brown with bright red and chop it to her shoulders. She hadn’t changed her hair in such a long time, her boss preferring her to keep the same style so she didn’t confuse the magazine advertisers. But she’d felt like she needed a change. When she’d stared at herself in the mirror afterwards, it seemed to have changed her face somehow, making her brown eyes look even bigger, skin even paler.

‘Did you arrive okay?’ Henry asked. ‘All checked in?’

‘Not checked in yet,’ Claire said as she tried to catch her breath, hands still trembling half with anger, half with shock at having a gun pointed at her. ‘We’ve just been for a walk. Look, I just saw—’

The girl approached, eyes on Archie, huge smile on her pretty face as she crouched down in front of him. She was wearing muddy jeans and wellies, and a green faded hoodie that matched the colour of her eyes. Archie backed away slightly, wary after the rough treatment of other children.

‘Your dog’s a bit nervous, isn’t he?’ the girl asked Claire.

Claire smiled. ‘He can be. He only has one eye so it makes him quite anxious with strangers.’

‘Oh yes, I can see now. You hardly notice with the black patch of hair. Thought it’d be something like that. Dad gets Jack Russells in to kill the rats on the farms sometimes and they’re always so confident. Uncle Milo says I’m to get myself to a dog’s level if they’re scared.’

‘That’s enough now, Holly, Claire doesn’t need to hear your uncle’s theories on canine behaviour, thank you very much.’ Henry leaned in close to Claire. ‘I’m afraid my niece hasn’t been taught manners,’ he whispered rather too loudly.

Rude git, Claire thought.

Holly frowned slightly at Henry’s comment as she slowly reached her hand out to Archie. He hesitated a moment, considering his options, then slunk towards her, head low, tail wagging. She softly stroked his ears and he drew even closer, leaning against her shoulder as she smiled.

‘She’s a wild one,’ Henry continued. ‘No surprise considering she’s part of my wife’s crazy family. I’ll tell you all about that after a few glasses of wine,’ he added, tapping his nose. ‘Plus she’s not had a proper mother figure all these years and has been brought up surrounded by pigs and tractors in the farm up the road.’

Claire thought of the farmhouse she’d seen just a moment ago. ‘Maybe all kids should be brought up on farms then?’ she said. ‘She’s wonderful with Archie.’

Holly looked up at Claire, a hesitant smile on her face. ‘Uncle Milo says I should be a vet. But I’d prefer to be a journalist, like you.’

‘She’s seen the magazine,’ Henry said, noticing the confused look on Claire’s face. ‘Been excited about your visit for days.’

‘Oh, it’s only a small magazine,’ Claire said to Holly. ‘How old are you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘You have a while to decide what you want to be yet. Why don’t you look after Archie while I talk to your uncle?’ She handed Archie’s lead to Holly. ‘Make sure you hold the lead tight though, he likes to chase birds and cars.’

‘Just like your uncle Milo,’ Henry said, guffawing as he steered Claire away. His face grew serious when they got out of earshot. ‘Everything okay, Claire?’

‘Not really. I just saw a deer shot right in front of my eyes.’

His jaw twitched but he didn’t look surprised. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘On the path on the way to the cliffs, about twenty minutes from here. It was a man with dark hair, in his thirties I think. He had an old dog with him, it looked like a wolf with grey fur, and—’

‘Milo,’ Henry said, sighing.

Claire thought of what Holly had said. ‘Holly’s uncle?’

‘Yes, my wife’s bloody idiot of a brother. I told you that family is cuckoo.’

She peered towards Holly. ‘I don’t want to cause a family argument. I just think he needs to be a bit more aware of how terrifying it can be, having a gun pointed at you.’

‘Oh, he’ll be made aware, all right.’ He peered at the clock. ‘Do you want to freshen up? Then I have one hell of an afternoon planned for you.’

Claire forced herself to smile. She really didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back home, saving her marriage. ‘Great, see you in twenty minutes.’

She turned away but not before she caught sight of her brown eyes reflected back at her in a nearby mirror. She thought of the hopelessness she’d seen in the deer’s eyes before it tumbled down the bank.

Claire picked up the pint of sweet cider she’d just ordered and settled back into the plump sofa, staring out of the window beside her towards the darkening valley and blanket of trees below. Her room overlooked the same scene a floor above. It was all cream carpets, mahogany furniture and plush red chairs, just like the bar she was sitting in. It felt too plush and romantic for just her. She yearned for Ben to be here. She’d told him she wouldn’t go when they’d got home from that dreadful drive, but he’d insisted. She’d even suggested to him that he join her. Her company forbade partners from attending trips but this was a special circumstance. But again, he refused. He’d clearly made his mind up and it should have shocked Claire to the core. But the truth was, she wasn’t surprised. She’d been in denial and now it was all unravelling.

So instead of Ben being her dinner partner, she’d had to endure Henry all afternoon and over dinner too. Only he could draw what would usually be an hour’s tour into four hours. And now she was sat here alone, belly full of Exmoor’s finest lamb, head already woozy from the few sips she’d had of her cider. She checked her phone, not that it was much use considering there was no reception here. When Henry had said the place was remote, he’d meant it.

She caught sight of the notepad she’d brought. She needed a distraction. Maybe she could start work on that travel memoir she’d always wanted to write? Except when she opened it, the blank page mocked her. She swirled a pattern in the margins, flowers tangled around the punctured holes like ivy, then wrote the word ‘Exmoor’ and her name, then a line – A watercolour of grey …

A gust of cold air wrapped itself around her, lifting the corners of her notepad. She looked up to see the man who’d shot the deer walk in, dark hair whipping about his head, the ash from the cigarette he was holding dancing towards her. Under the light of the bar, his brown eyes looked almost gold, his lips very red. He appeared younger close up, taller too. He was wearing what he’d had on earlier: black jeans tucked into green wellies, a typical farmer’s wax jacket. She had to admit he was very attractive – what her friend Jodie would describe as a ‘dasher’, all legs, rugged features and windswept hair. That didn’t detract from the fact he’d nearly killed her.

A man prowled in behind him. He looked a little like Milo but older, thinner, with hair a shade lighter than his. His brother? He hunched his shoulders and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the pub. Behind him, the feral-looking dog she had seen earlier slinked in. Now she could see it close up, she recognised some Irish wolfhound in it, maybe a touch of German shepherd too. He looked quite a few years older than Archie, his back legs a bit rickety.

Milo stubbed his cigarette out on the wall as he passed her, bringing with him the smell of grass and bonfires. He stared at Claire then looked down at her notepad. She slammed it shut, trying to look suitably indignant. He frowned slightly then strolled to the bar as Claire peeked at him under her eyelashes, taking in how short his hair was at the back, a contrast to his long fringe.

As his dog passed, Archie let out a low threatening growl. The dog paused, surveying Archie with startling blue eyes. Milo tapped two fingers on his thigh and his dog bounced to his side, pressing his face close to his owner’s leg.

Henry walked in from the restaurant with a thin, dark-haired woman – his wife, Claire presumed, and Milo and this other guy’s sister. She strolled up to her brothers as Henry disappeared behind the bar. Claire could see the similarities between the three of them. Same long, sinewy limbs; same brown feline eyes; same distinctive bone structure. She thought of what Henry had said earlier about them being ‘cuckoo’. She wondered what he meant by that. They certainly gave off a certain energy, the atmosphere in the bar charged in their presence.

The door opened again and Holly bounded in. She was wearing a blue taffeta dress that seemed a little childish for her age, the sleeves too short, the edges frayed. She whirled around the pub before Milo’s brother grabbed her arm and reprimanded her, making her pretty eyes fill with tears. Milo frowned and placed his hand on his brother’s arm, whispering something to him. His brother relaxed slightly and pinched Holly’s cheek playfully as she looked down at her feet, biting her lip. Claire’s heart went out to her and she shot her a quick smile. Holly’s face lit up and she smiled back at her. But then Milo’s brother glanced towards Claire and glared at her. She quickly looked away.

Yes, there was something a bit off about that family.

Henry handed a pint over to Milo who held his gaze with a long, cold stare before strolling towards a table in the corner, his brother and niece joining him. Milo sunk into a chair, taking a sip of his beer, his eyes drilling into Claire’s over the top of his glass as his brother knocked half his pint back, slamming it on the table and wiping his mouth. Claire turned away again, taking several gulps of cider in quick succession, panicking as she felt the bubbles working their way back up her throat and towards her nose. She coughed into her hand. Milo smiled to himself and she felt a stab of annoyance.

Henry caught her eye and strode towards her, crouching down beside her table. ‘Sorry I can’t join you, we’re short on staff tonight.’

‘Oh, it’s fine, I’m quite happy sitting here, taking it all in.’ Claire peered towards Milo and his brother. ‘Is that your wife’s two brothers?’

Henry followed her gaze and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, the infamous James brothers, Milo the Mystery Man and Dale the Deranged.’

‘Deranged?’

‘Screw loose,’ Henry said, making circles with his finger over his temple. ‘Came back from fighting in the Falklands one sandwich short of a picnic.’

‘He’s a soldier?’

‘Was a soldier, until he spent a few months in a mental institute. I told you that family is nuts, something runs through those veins of theirs, a connection gone wrong in their set up. My wife Jen’s the only one who’s normal. You know their grandfather shot himself?’

Claire followed his gaze towards Dale who was clenching and unclenching his jaw as he stared into the distance. ‘That must have been very hard for Dale, being in the Falklands.’

‘We all go through tough times. Don’t turn us half-mad, do they?’ Henry leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘I talked to Milo about how upset you were. I also told him he won’t be paid for that deer he shot.’

Claire thought of the red notices she’d seen on the drive down, the smoke on the horizon, the rotting stench as dozens of herds were culled. She’d even written about BSE, or Mad Cow Disease as it was known, for her magazine after many of the UK’s farm attractions had closed to tourists, the disease not only killing cattle but also being linked to vCJD, a brain condition in humans. But tourism was the least of the farm world’s problems. The worldwide ban on all British beef exports the year before was crippling them.

‘No, Henry, please,’ Claire said. ‘Farmers need all the money they can get with this BSE crisis.’

‘The farm’s problems started way before all this BSE nonsense! Thank God I came along and bought this inn off the family, otherwise there’d be no money left.’ He raised his voice as he spoke. Milo’s brother turned to look at Henry before sliding his gaze to Claire, the anger visible on his face.

She stood up. ‘I’m going to call it a night, Henry, it’s been a long day.’

‘But it’s only eight!’

‘I’m very tired.’ She manoeuvred out from behind the table. ‘Don’t say anything else to your brother-in-law, all right? And please, don’t dock his pay.’

‘But—’

Claire looked him in the eye. ‘Really, Henry. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow as planned. I want to explore the area a bit in the morning then we can discuss what you have planned for the rest of my stay.’

She found herself taking one last look at Milo, who was now laughing at something Holly had said, then walked out of the bar, Archie trotting after her. As she reached the staircase, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned, thinking it was Henry then froze when she realised it was Milo.

Archie jumped up at his legs, tail wagging erratically.

Traitor, Claire thought.

‘I’m sorry about what happened earlier,’ he said. His voice was deep with a slight West Country twang. ‘Henry said you were upset.’

‘I think the deer was more upset,’ Claire said.

‘It was a red stag actually.’

Claire rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, that makes it better then.’

‘It does when it’s been trampling all over our crops and killing endangered wildlife,’ he said with a raised eyebrow.

She felt her face flush. She wasn’t qualified to have an argument about this. ‘Just be more careful in the future. I didn’t expect to have a gun pointed at me on my first day here.’

Archie whined, scrabbling his paws at Milo’s jeans. Milo leaned down, running his hand over Archie’s back. Then he peered up at Claire from under his fringe, his eyes sinking into hers. ‘Sorry, I’m being an idiot. I actually hate hunting.’

‘Then maybe you should consider a career change.’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

She sighed. She shouldn’t have said that. ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. Goodnight.’ She went to walk up the stairs.

‘You took the wrong path today, by the way,’ he called out after her.

She paused, turning around. ‘Sorry?’

‘The path you took to Hope’s Mouth.’

‘I took the official path.’

‘The official path isn’t always the best path.’

‘How so?’

‘Secret passages.’

Claire laughed. ‘I didn’t realise we were in Narnia.’

‘Narnia’s got nothing on Exmoor.’ His face grew serious. ‘I’ll take you tomorrow morning if you want.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Via the better path. Unless you have other plans, of course?’

Claire stared at him, not quite sure how to take him. Was he being serious?

His sister came out with a pint of bitter in her hands. ‘What are you doing, Milo?’ she asked, looking Claire up and down. ‘It’s Holly’s birthday, remember?’

‘Thanks, Jen.’ He put his arm around his sister’s shoulders and led her to the bar, peering over his shoulder at Claire. ‘So see you outside at eight tomorrow morning then?’

‘I have plans.’

‘I won’t bring my gun, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

They disappeared into the bar, laughter ringing out from inside. Claire stood where she was for a few moments, face flushed, heart thumping. Then she whistled for Archie and headed to her room, desperate to disappear into the pages of her novel again and forget all about gun-toting farmers with unbearably handsome faces.

The clouds hovered above like bin bags ready to burst as Claire walked outside the next morning. It was nine; she’d made sure not to show her face before then. If she went for a walk with Milo, how would that look? This was a work trip after all and she wanted to hurry up and get home. Then there was everything that had passed between her and Ben the past two days. It wouldn’t be right.

But as she rounded the corner, the first person she saw was Milo, his hands in the pockets of his wax coat as he leaned against a wall, a small smile on his face. Her traitorous lips tried to form a smile in response. She forced them into a grim line instead.

‘You’re a bit late,’ Milo said, looking at his watch.

‘I never said I’d meet you.’

‘But you’re here now.’

‘No, I’m heading out for a walk alone, with my dog. I need to take more photos for the magazine.’

‘Oh, come on. Doesn’t the part of you that bought those earrings want to see Narnia?’ he said, referring to the striped tribal earrings Claire’s dad had got her when they were in Zanzibar.

‘Narnia’s a million miles away from where I got these earrings,’ she said, thinking of the red dusty roads and cracked pavements, tiny children dressed in torn jeans and filthy T-shirts reaching their hands out to her as she passed in the four-by-four her dad had hired. Then there was the other side: the soft golden sands of the affluent coastal resort of Mangapwani; the scent of expensive suntan lotion mixing with exotic spices; couples walking hand in hand as the sky turned orange on the horizon, the same sun that was setting on those children just a few miles away. It was something Claire saw in every place she visited, excruciating poverty in sharp contrast to nauseating wealth. She always tried to touch on it in her writing, her little way of helping in some way, but the lines she wrote were inevitably cut out at subbing stage, her publishing director scolding her as he told her she didn’t work for ‘bloody Oxfam’.

‘Narnia might be far from Zanzibar,’ Milo said, snapping her out of her reverie. ‘But it’s just a thirty-minute walk from here.’

He shot Claire a smile, teeth white and crooked, brown eyes sparking, and her stomach rippled. She wrapped her arms around herself, pressing the handle of Archie’s lead into her middle. She wasn’t supposed to react like this to another man.

Milo raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘Look, I feel bad about what happened yesterday. I’m doing this to make it up to you. No tourists know about this place, you’ll love it. Really. You can write about it in your magazine.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, peering towards the path she’d taken the day before.

‘Fine,’ he said, putting his hands up as he backed away. ‘I get the message. I’m going up there anyway so feel free to join me. If not, I guess I’ll see you across the river on your official path in a couple of hours.’

He strode away and Claire stood where she was a few moments. It would be good to write about something a little different. She’d got a letter from a reader the other day moaning that all the magazine ever wrote about was information they could get in guide books anyway.

She decided to follow him after all. Maybe that reader would rue their words this time?

Milo slowed down when he heard her footsteps and let her fall into step beside him, shooting her a smile.

‘How long have you had him?’ he asked as they watched Archie stop at each place Milo’s dog did, resolutely covering his scent with his own.

‘Five years. No one else would have him at the rescue place – too snappy apparently.’

Milo raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re a fan of the underdogs, then?’

Claire thought of the other children she’d try to play with during her travels as a kid: strays and waifs with hidden troubles. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Holly told me how you stuck up for her in front of Henry.’

‘Is Holly an underdog?’

His face clouded over. ‘In some ways.’ Archie jumped up at his legs and his face softened. ‘So how old is he?’

‘Seven.’

‘He still looks like a pup.’

‘Everyone says that. But he sees himself as a man dog.’

Milo laughed. ‘Man dog. I like that.’

Claire felt a stab of guilt. Ben had come up with that phrase. She wondered how he’d feel about her walking their dog with a man who looked like Milo. Maybe he wouldn’t care.

‘So how do we get onto this better path?’ Claire asked, shrugging the thought away.

‘Over that.’ He pointed towards the river.

‘We have to cross the river?’

He put on a mock scared face. ‘I know, rivers can be terrifying, all that water trickling over little scary pebbles.’

She smiled. ‘Enough of the sarcasm! I just meant there’s no bridge and the sign said the river’s deep.’

The sign said.

She felt her face flush with embarrassment. Milo probably thought she was a right wuss.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. He looked down at her wellies, just shin-high and covered with fat pink flowers. ‘They’re waterproof, right? And the part of river I’m thinking about isn’t as deep as here. I’ll show you.’

She followed him down towards the bank, watching as the river gushed over clusters of rocks.

‘See, doesn’t look so bad up close,’ he said, smiling to himself. She noticed he got a small dimple in his right cheek when he smiled. ‘Still scared, city girl?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘City girl, as if! I’ve seen plenty of countryside, and not just in the UK either. I’m more worried for you actually. If you fall in, I’d have to jump in and save you, wouldn’t I? My hair goes all curly when it gets wet, it’ll be a pain to re-style it.’

Milo blew his fringe out of his eyes. ‘You think this fringe isn’t a nightmare after a dunk in the river?’

Claire laughed.

‘And as for the city girl thing,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘I was only joking. It’s obvious you’re not.’

Claire looked down at what she was wearing: the purple leggings she’d discovered in a Californian flea market, the holey jumper Ben had bought her in Belgium and, of course, her flowery wellies, all the way from Scotland.

She smiled. ‘I guess not.’

‘So you going to put those flower power wellies to use then?’

She felt a funny little thrill in the pit of her stomach, like she was at that waterfall again. But that was ridiculous, it was just a bloody river! ‘Why not?’ she said.

‘Blue!’ Milo shouted, pointing to the other side of the river. His dog peered up then bounded across the river, paws splashing into the water, tail wagging. Archie went to chase after him but Claire pulled him back, leaning over to pick him up. He’d be belly-deep in water if she let him walk across.

‘Interesting name for a dog,’ she said as she looked at Milo’s dog.

‘Colour of his eyes.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s a narrow ridge,’ Milo said, stepping into the water. ‘One step left or right and you’re both under.’

She stepped in after him. It wasn’t so deep after all.

He peered at her. ‘Told you it wouldn’t be so scary.’

‘I’m disappointed. Nothing like another life or death situation to make a girl’s holiday go with a zing.’

Milo stepped onto the river. ‘Try milking a herd of pre-menstrual cows at five am.’

‘You were doing that this morning?’ Claire asked as she carefully followed him, feeling the squelch of her soles against the water.

‘I do it every morning before the sun rises. We have over a hundred cows so it can take a couple of hours. Then I have to feed and clean them. By that time, it’s nearly ten. But no stopping there, then it’s time to feed the young stock.’

‘Lambs and calves?’

Milo smiled. ‘Yep. Wriggly little buggers but once they’re calm and feeding, it’s quite peaceful. The rest of the day I’m mucking stables out, repairing fences, retrieving livestock that have decided to go wandering … knackering work really, but worth it.’

Claire breathed in the air, taking in the smell of grass and brine. ‘Have you been farming all your life?’

‘Yep, the farm’s been in our family for generations. My older brother Dale joined the Forces when I was thirteen, so our parents relied on me and my sister Jen to help out. When they passed away, they left the farm to Dale – it always gets passed down to the oldest son.’

Claire thought about what Henry had told her about Milo’s grandfather committing suicide. ‘When did your parents pass away?’ she asked softly.

‘When I was seventeen. Dad had a heart attack and Mum died not long after from a stroke. Jen reckons she died of a broken heart.’

‘That must have been a tough time.’

‘Yep. They had us pretty late so they weren’t exactly spring chickens but to lose them within a few months of each other …’ He sighed. ‘To make matters worse, Dale had just recovered from his injuries after getting back from the Falklands.’ By injuries, Claire wondered if he meant psychological injuries too, considering what Henry had so indiscreetly told her. ‘He was desperate to get back to army life but he had to stay and look after the farm. He did really well at first actually,’ Milo continued. ‘The farm’s turnover nearly doubled, the animals were happier than they’d ever been – fewer visits to the vets, more births. Then this whole BSE thing happened.’

‘Were there any cases on the farm?’ Claire asked as they reached the middle of the river. It was very dark there, the trees bending right over both sides of the river.

‘No, but once a link between BSE and vCJD was made, that was it, milk production and beef sales nosedived. Dale’s really struggled to hold things together.’

‘But the farm’s still here, your brother did well to ride the worst of it. And the profits from the inn must help too?’

His shoulders tensed. ‘Hardly. We barely get anything from that.’

‘But Henry implied—’

‘That he was our saviour?’

‘Not in so many words …’

‘Don’t worry, he tells us himself whenever he gets the chance. Yes, the share we get of the profits helps. But if we’d kept the land we sold to him a few years back, we’d have got a much better price for it now. Bloody Henry!’

He quickened his step, striding across the rest of the river so fast Claire had to jog to keep up with him. As they neared the other bank, her foot scooted out from under her and she nearly stumbled. He turned, grabbing the tops of her arms, steadying her. ‘Careful now.’

She peered up at him, taking in the fine stubble on his chin, the slight bump in his nose she hadn’t noticed before. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling, and she imagined placing her lips on it.

She turned away in surprise, face flushing. Where on earth had that image come from?

‘Come on, we’re on the other path now,’ he said. ‘The better path.’

She followed his gaze towards a small path weaving its way from the bank up into the hills. Blue was already some way up the path, front paws on a tree stump as he looked down at them. Maybe she should turn back? She should have followed her instincts and not come with Milo. She was vulnerable after what had happened between her and Ben, her mind all a fizz. But how would it look if she turned back now?

One walk, she thought, then that’s it, I’ll avoid him for the rest of my stay.

Claire let Archie down and followed Milo up the bank. Viewed from the path Claire had walked along yesterday, this area had looked like a mass of wild trees and bushes.

‘So where’d you grow up?’ Milo asked Claire.

‘Everywhere. My dad was a travel writer too, freelance though,’ she explained. ‘We tagged along with him all over the world as he was paid by different newspapers and magazines to write about the places we visited.’

‘What about school?’

‘Mum’s a teacher, she home-schooled me and my sister.’

A memory struck Claire then, from when her family had visited the Japanese city of Osaka when she was ten. They were staying in a hotel overlooking the river so they could watch the famous Tenjin Matsuri boat festival the next day. After coming back from lunch one day, Claire had seen a group of school kids chasing each other down the path below her hotel room. She remembered thinking she’d give up all her travels to be one of those kids, secure at school and surrounded by friends. But the next evening, as she’d watched the beautifully lit boats glide down the river below, she’d thought what a fool she’d been to think that. This was the battle that had always raged inside, her yearning for normality versus her wanderlust.

‘Do you have any siblings other than your sister?’ Milo asked.

Claire snapped out of her memory. ‘No, just Sofia. She has a kid about the same age as Holly actually, Alex. He’s great. Holly’s your niece, right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about her mum?’

His eyes slipped away from Claire’s. ‘She left a few years back. Dale got sole custody of Holly.’ He leaned down to pick up a pebble, cleaning it on his sleeve. ‘So did your dad get you into writing?’

‘Yeah,’ she said eventually, noting the change of subject. ‘He even got one of my articles published when I was just thirteen.’

‘Impressive. What was it about?’

Claire smiled to herself. ‘It was just a short article about the Sichuan giant panda sanctuaries in the south-west of China. But I loved seeing my name in print.’

‘Wow, you really have been to some amazing places. What was it like?’

‘Wonderful. My dad knows one of the managers so we got a private tour. The sanctuaries are spread across the edge of the Qionglai and Jiajin mountains. I remember being in complete awe of the lush green landscapes and imposing mountains. And that’s before we even got to the pandas.’ She laughed. ‘They’re so fluffy, just like they’ve been plucked from a giant toy box. My dad noticed me scribbling away in my notepad so suggested I write an article. He sent it to the editor of a children’s section in one of the national newspapers and he published it.’ Claire looked down at the silver globe pendant hanging from her bag. ‘My dad got me this to mark the occasion, my first ever published article.’

Milo’s eyes widened.

‘What’s up?’ Claire asked.

He smiled, pulling the collar of his jumper down to reveal a bronze globe pendant hanging from a length of black leather twine wrapped around his neck.

‘I didn’t know you were into travelling,’ Claire said, surprised.

‘Oh, I haven’t travelled much. I’d like to though.’ He peered down at the globe. ‘This belonged to my grandfather. He was the only James man not to stay and work the farm all his life. He travelled instead after the war, working bars and restaurants, using the experience he got from the inn to hop from one country to the next. Quite a thing to do back then.’

‘Would you like to travel like he did?’

He nodded. ‘There’s a box of letters and photos from his travels that I used to rummage through when I was a kid. It gave me the travel bug.’ His face darkened. ‘But then my parents died and I had no choice but to stay and help on the farm.’

‘You have a choice now, surely? I’m sure Dale could cope on his own.’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, trust me, he couldn’t. It’s too much for one person. He needs me.’

‘I’m sure he’d rather see you happy than wishing you were on the other side of the world.’

‘Nah, I owe him.’

‘Owe him? Why?’

His face grew stiff. ‘Long story.’

Claire didn’t push him on the subject. It wasn’t her place. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry.’ They were quiet for a few moments then she turned back to him. ‘Okay, let’s pretend you did have the freedom to just travel. Where would you go?’

His face lit up again. ‘I’d start in Australia and I’d set up a mango farm.’

Claire laughed. ‘A mango farm?’

‘Hey, it’s no joke. My friend Joe has one in Oz.’ He looked wistfully into the distance. ‘It’s perfect. He told me he wakes in the morning as the sun rises and walks out barefoot among the trees, feeling the red sand beneath his feet. He treats those mangoes like his kids, nurtures them until they’re ripe for picking. He reckons the satisfaction of picking each mango, then placing them one by one in wooden carts to be taken away for others to taste is the best feeling in the world.’

Claire watched him as he talked, saw the passion in his face, felt the incredible desire he had for a life so completely out of reach for him right now. It made her heart ache.

‘So whereabouts in Australia is this mango farm?’ she asked, wanting to keep that smile on his face.

‘In the Outback, near Ayers Rock.’

She smiled. ‘I’ve been there.’

‘You have?’

She nodded. ‘I remember the first time I went, it felt like I was on Mars. There’s red sand everywhere you look and this feeling in the air like you’re the only person on the planet. And Ayers Rock itself – or Uluru, as my dad used to call it – is astounding, rising up tall and proud above you, almost beckoning you to go right up and touch it. It has this power to it that I can’t explain.’

His brown eyes lit up with excitement. ‘I knew it was as good as Joe said! If I ever go, you’ll have to come with me, you clearly love the place.’

She felt her cheeks flush. She could tell he was just joking but still, it made her feel self-conscious. ‘I’d make a good business partner,’ she said, trying to show she was going along with it. ‘I can do all the marketing and stuff.’

‘You’ll get paid in mangoes, that okay?’

‘As long as I get an office,’ she teased back.

‘Yes, of course. I might even throw in health insurance.’

‘We have a deal!’

They did an impromptu high five then burst out laughing. For a moment, she forgot about her marriage troubles and her infertility. It was just her and a stranger laughing in the middle of a West Country valley.

It occurred to Claire then how strange that was: her laughing in the middle of nowhere with a virtual stranger; a stranger who’d pointed a gun at her the day before. But then hadn’t she spent the past few years going on guided tours with complete strangers?

She dropped her gaze from his and looked around her. The wild tangle of bushes had petered out into banks of steep grey rock, small green shrubs dotted here and there. It felt like they were in a cave, the sky above grey to match the banks. The pebble path stretched out before them then turned a corner, glimpses of the violent sea flashing between a bank of trees.

‘So, we nearly at Narnia then?’ Claire asked.

‘Nearly. Come on.’

He quickened his step and Claire followed with a smile on her face. Blue ran ahead as Archie trotted after him. ‘So what about you?’ he said. ‘Any plans to live in the Himalayas or something?’

Claire’s smile died away. What were her plans now without Ben? Would they sell the house? It had taken them so long to find the Victorian terrace and do it up just as they liked over the years. She felt a wave of nausea as she realised what she was contemplating. Was this really happening?

‘Are you okay?’ Milo asked, his brow furrowing.

‘Yes, sorry, my mind just drifted.’ She forced the smile back onto her face. ‘Not sure my boss would appreciate me working from my home office in the Himalayas.’

‘So is this a job for life then?’

‘That was the plan.’

‘Was?’

She hadn’t realised she’d used the past tense. ‘I meant is. It’s the right path for me.’

‘Maybe the right path isn’t always the best path?’

Claire thought of her dad. What had not following the right path done for him? ‘The right path pays my mortgage,’ she said.

Except there’d be no mortgage if her and Ben split up. There was no way she could afford it on her own with her wage. She lifted her fingers to her mouth, nibbling at a loose nail. Milo’s eyes flickered over her wedding ring. She pulled her sleeve down to cover it.

‘Right, we’re seconds away from Narnia,’ Milo said, diverting his eyes. ‘Sure you’re ready? It’s just around this bend.’ He gestured for her to walk ahead of him so she quickened her step. As she turned the corner, the soft scent of honey drifted towards her and then a truly beautiful sight came into sight: both banks either side of her were completely shrouded in violet flowers, bruised so deep purple it was like she was standing in twilight. Claire stopped, mouth dropping open as Milo appeared next to her.

‘You probably saw the flowers on the way here,’ he said, reaching for one of them and handing it to her. ‘Bell heather. They thrive in full sun,’ he said, peering up at the sky. The clouds were gliding away now, rays of yellow sun streaming into the valley. ‘They smell lovely too, Holly has them in her room for their scent.’

She lifted the bloom to her nose and breathed in its sweet tones. She then tucked it into her bag for her own room and glided her hands over the others as she closed her eyes. All thoughts of Ben and their future – her future – disappeared.

There was just now.

She opened her eyes to find Milo watching her, the look on his face making her very aware of the space between them, the thump of her heart, the background sound of violent waves.

She broke his gaze and looked down at her bag, taking her camera out. ‘It’s beautiful. Really beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘I must take some photos.’ She put her camera to her face, pleased it was covering her flushed cheeks. ‘Is that the sound of waves I can hear?’ she asked after a while.

‘Yep, you can get to Hope’s Mouth just through there,’ he said, pointing to a small archway in the distance.

‘Great, I wanted to take more photos of the sea yesterday but a whole bunch of tourists turned up. Shall we go?’

He tensed. ‘You go. I’ll stay here with the dogs.’

‘I don’t have to.’

‘No, please do.’

So she did, walking through the archway in the cliff, surprised to find herself at the barrier where she’d been the day before, the waves crashing against the rocks below. It was even more beautiful than it had been yesterday, hints of hazy blue in the sky now, the sun sparkling off the waves. She took out her camera and started taking photos, doing what she always did when a situation unnerved her: slipping into travel journalist mode, hiding behind a camera and notepad.

After a while, she heard footsteps and turned to see Milo approaching with Archie and Blue. He looked nervous, eyes flickering towards the sea then back to Claire.

‘Decided to come up?’ she asked him.

‘Your dog was whining for you.’

She laughed, leaning down to cuddle Archie. When she looked up, Milo’s gaze was focused on the sea, face very sombre, eyes glassy. She looked at him in surprise.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Just the wind.’

Was it really just the wind?

They were quiet for a few moments then he nodded towards the cliff edge. ‘Shall we walk to the edge? You’ll get much better photos from there.’

‘Past the barriers?’

He nodded.

‘Is it safe?’

He smiled. ‘Are we going to have another river episode? Aren’t you the girl who travelled off the beaten track when she was a kid?’

‘That was then.’

‘And now?’

She avoided his gaze. ‘I have tour guides telling me where to go.’

‘Then consider me your tour guide. You won’t fall, I’ll make sure you won’t.’

He put his hand out to Claire. She glanced at it, heart thumping, then reached her hand out too, raising her gaze to meet his.

Then she heard a cry for help.

‘Did you hear that?’ she asked, letting her hand drop back to her side.

Milo nodded and shielded his eyes with his hand as he looked in the direction of the sound. Then he whispered a ‘Jesus’ under his breath. Claire followed his gaze to see two blue ropes tied to a solitary tree nearby, one of them broken off.

‘Looks like someone’s tried to abseil down the cliff face,’ Milo said. ‘Both those ropes should be securely tied around the tree.’

He ran beyond the barriers and stared over the right side of the cliff edge. Claire hesitated a moment then followed him, looking down to see the cliff plunge dramatically into the violent sea below, jagged rocks jutting up from the waves like teeth. And there, pressed against the cliff face about a metre above the rocks, was a man, his face twisted up to stare at them.

‘The rope got stuck,’ he shouted up to them, his voice carried along by the wind. ‘I can’t get up. I’m getting bloody married on Friday, Sarah will kill me if I don’t get killed by the rocks first!’

‘Don’t tell me he’s the one getting married at the inn,’ Claire said.

Milo shook his head. ‘What an idiot. He has no idea of the danger he’s in. It’s not the kind of cliff you want to climb at the best of times, but a few days before your wedding?’

She reached into her bag. ‘I’ll call—’

‘No reception, remember?’

‘Then we should go back, call from the inn.’

‘The tide’s rising, see?’ Milo said, pointing to the waves that were lapping at the man’s feet now. It was coming fast. ‘I’ll need your help. Tie Archie’s lead around the tree.’

Claire did just that as Milo shrugged his coat and jumper off to reveal a black T-shirt, tanned arms. He slipped his coat carefully under the rope.

‘Have you got something on under your jumper?’ he asked, his eyes running over her.

She felt her cheeks flush. ‘Yes, a T-shirt.’

‘Take your jumper off then.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect your hands. We’re going to have to pull him up via the remainder of the rope.’

‘Isn’t that risky? What if it breaks too?’

‘It shouldn’t, not with my coat protecting it from the friction caused by the cliff edge. The risk of us doing nothing is greater.’

‘Right,’ she said, pulling her jumper off to reveal a Bob Dylan 1984 tour T-shirt. She looked down at Milo’s hands. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t be silly. We can use some of my jumper too.’

‘Are you sure? I’ll have to tear it.’

She tried not to think about the fact Ben had bought it for her. ‘It’s fine, really.’

Milo helped her tear off an arm of the jumper and wrapped it around his large hands before running back to the cliff edge.

‘What’s your name?’ he shouted down to the man.

‘Matt,’ the man shouted back up.

‘Right, Matt. You’ve got yourself into a dangerous situation here. We’re going to pull you up via the intact rope. Can you give me some slack please so I can take some of the rope?’

‘What if it breaks?’ Matt asked, his voice shrill now.

‘It won’t. My coat’s beneath it so it won’t get damaged.’

‘Hundred per cent sure?’

‘No. But I’m a hundred per cent sure the tide’s rising enough to drown you soon if we don’t try to get you up.’

Matt didn’t answer but Claire could imagine his face. She heard movement and saw the rope had slackened. Milo crouched down, taking hold of it.

‘Right,’ he shouted down to Matt. ‘You need to help us by pulling yourself up via any bits of rock you find on the way. But be careful not to swing. I’ll shout when we’re ready to start.’

He ran back over to Claire, feeding the rope through with his hands.

‘What if he’s too heavy and one of us stumbles?’ she asked him. ‘We could go over the edge.’

‘I won’t let that happen.’

‘But—’

‘I need you to trust me.’

She wanted to say How can I, I barely know you! But instead, one word popped out of her mouth. ‘Okay.’

‘Good.’ He lifted her hands up, tangling what remained of her jumper around them until they were protected by three inches of wool. ‘I need you to take hold of the rope there a few metres away and pull when I say – like a tug of war, right?’

He headed to the cliff edge, stopping about half a metre away from it. He then crouched down, taking hold of the rope as he dug his heels into the ground. Claire did the same, heart thumping.

‘Ready?’ Milo shouted down to Matt.

‘Yes,’ he shouted back up, voice hoarse with fear.

Milo started pulling, the muscles in the backs of his shoulders flexing as he slowly heaved backwards, feeding the rope back behind him as he pulled the slack. There was the sound of rocks falling in the distance, scrabbling feet, a cry of alarm.

The rope jolted and Claire let out a scream. Milo turned to look at her then started slipping forwards, feet trying to find traction in the ground as he drew closer and closer to the edge. Claire tried to pull him back with the rope but didn’t have the strength.

So she made a decision, doing something the old Claire would’ve done: she took a risk.

She let go of the rope and ran to Milo, crouching down and wrapping her hands around the rope closest to him, her knees against his back.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked her.

‘You need me here. Come on.’

He shot her an exasperated look then turned back to the front, pulling at the rope. Claire did the same, putting all her strength into it and dragging herself back. They staggered backwards and backwards until, finally, a hand slapped onto the cliff’s surface and Matt dragged himself up before collapsing onto the ground.

‘You okay?’ Milo asked him, flinching as he let go of the rope. Claire’s jumper was worn completely away and the skin on his palm red raw.

Matt nodded, unable to speak as he tried to catch his breath.

Milo turned to Claire. ‘You did great.’

She felt a strange sense of pride. She’d never done something like that, helped save a man’s life. It felt good. ‘Is this what happens when you take the better path?’ she asked Milo.

Milo put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Looks like it. Feels good, doesn’t it?’

Claire wasn’t sure what to make of the thunder of her heartbeat as he touched her.

Then she thought of Ben and moved away from him.

Matt stumbled over to them. ‘Thank you so much, both of you.’

‘You’re very lucky, mate,’ Milo said. ‘Just a few more moments and you’d have been fish food.’

A few minutes later, as they walked back to the inn, Matt stopped them, pointing into the distance. From there, they could just about make out the cliff face that had been hidden from them before – the part Matt had been climbing away from. On its side was a huge heart messily painted on the stone with pink paint.

‘I did it for my fiancée,’ he said.

It was the same heart that was shown over and over again on the news in the following weeks.

Chapter Three
Exmoor, UK

When Claire and Milo got back to the inn, they were separated among the back-patting and gasps of horror as Matt regaled a hero’s story that made the two of them sound like Greek gods. He even insisted they join the family for dinner that night, and extended an invite to his wedding reception.

As Claire was talking to Matt, Henry came out, face incredulous as he took in all the attention his brother-in-law was getting.

‘Ready for our lunch, Claire?’ he asked her, frowning slightly. He’d clearly heard she’d gone on a walk with Milo and disapproved.

‘I have a bit of a headache actually,’ she said. Last thing she needed was to sit across from his judgmental eyes. ‘I might just go back to my room. Sorry to be a bore. I got some great pictures though, and I still have two days here. Maybe we can meet for a drink or dinner later?’

He looked over at Milo then turned back to Claire, smiling. ‘Yes, of course. You can try our taster menu. Just come down when you feel like it.’

Claire headed back to her room, sinking into a deep sleep with Archie curled at her side. When she woke, the first thing she smelled was the bell heather she’d placed on the table. It instantly brought back memories of Milo’s big calloused hands clutched tight around the rope; the smell of him so close, bonfires and musk; the way his eyes had lifted to meet hers.

No, it wasn’t right. She needed to drive those thoughts away.

She pulled out her dad’s old postcards and flicked through them. Kangaroos and Niagara Falls; golden temples and bone-dry deserts, scenes from all the countries they’d visited as a family: Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Namibia, Iceland, Paraguay, India … the list went on, all jigsaw pieces of her childhood that she carried with her wherever she went. Her dad had scrawled on the back of some, messages like ‘Littlest Hobo, do you remember the sun rising over that rock? Daddy Bo, xx’, every word still scorched into her memory.

But still, she saw Milo.

So she strode across the room and grabbed her phone, flicking through loving texts she’d received in the past from Ben, trying to find an anchor in him too. When that didn’t work either, she reached for her book. It took a while but, eventually, her shoulders relaxed, Milo’s face disappearing as she sunk into pre-war Japan.

When darkness fell, she put her book aside and walked to the window, peering out across the valley. The skies were clear, stars scattered all over, their bright white orbs lighting the night sky and turning it violet. Claire thought of Ben. What would he be doing right now? Probably watching the news or looking over some documents from work. Would he be wondering what she was doing? When she’d told him there’d be no reception, he’d said that was a good thing; that it would give them proper space from one another. But she yearned to pick up the phone now, hear his voice, have him tell her he’d made a mistake. Her stomach plummeted as she remembered their conversation again and the look on his face that spoke volumes. He was exhausted with the charade, she could see it in the bags under his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks.

She put her fist to her mouth, stifling a sob. Once again, she felt as though she were falling, her body twisting and turning in the westerly wind as she tumbled down that valley into nothingness. What was there for her without Ben and the security he offered?

Thirty minutes later, she was standing in the shadows of one of the cream-painted alcoves in the restaurant, pulling Archie back as he strained to find the source of the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. There was a large table at the back and she could already see Matt sitting at it with the pretty blonde girl she’d seen the day before, presumably his fiancée Sarah.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Henry looking down at her, face red and sweaty. ‘So sorry, Claire,’ he said. ‘Two of our staff have called in sick. Hangovers no doubt. They certainly won’t be invited back. Means it’s all hands on deck. Can we do lunch tomorrow? I’ve set a table aside for you and have instructed our chef to prepare our famous taster meal. And a sausage for Archie, of course,’ he added, leaning down to ruffle Archie’s head then snapping his hand back as Archie let out a low growl.

She followed his gaze towards the solitary table overlooking the valley. She was used to dining alone during media trips. But tonight it scared her, made her see more nights like this mapped out before her without Ben by her side.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Henry, sounds lovely.’

When he rushed off, Claire took a deep breath and looked down at Archie. ‘Looks like you’re my dinner date tonight, boy.’ She headed towards the table then noticed Matt look up.

‘Don’t tell me you’re dining alone?’ he called out to her. ‘I said you can join us tonight.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to impose.’

‘I insist,’ he said.

She looked at her lonely table then took in the large table buzzing with chatter and laughter. She yearned to sit with them all, have her head filled with other people’s lives and stories so she didn’t have to think of her own. Milo wasn’t there, maybe that meant he had to help out in the inn – Henry had said it was all hands on deck?

‘Okay, if you’re sure?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ When she walked over to the table, Matt pulled out a seat next to a blond man. ‘This is Jay Hemingford, my best man,’ he said as Claire sat down. Archie darted under the table as Sarah threw a piece of bread for him. ‘And this is my animal-loving fiancée, Sarah,’ he said, gesturing towards her.

‘Very grateful fiancée too,’ Sarah said. ‘Thank you for saving my foolish husband-to-be.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard all about your heroics, Clara,’ the man sitting next to her said. He was wearing a dark Victorian-style suit, an expensive gold watch around his freckled wrist.

‘Jesus, Jay, her name’s Claire!’ Matt said, shaking his head.

Jay pulled a face. ‘Christ, sorry, I’m terrible with names. Claire, Clara, whatever, you’re still a hero.’

‘Ha, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing,’ Claire replied as Archie tried to jump up at Jay’s trousers. She pulled him away. ‘Sorry, he has a thing for ruining expensive-looking trousers.’

‘And expensive-looking dresses,’ Jay said as Archie turned his attention to scrabbling at Claire’s long print dress. ‘Is that an Alexander McQueen?’

‘Alexander who?’

Jay laughed. ‘Maybe not then.’

‘I got it from Singapore.’

‘Very nice. So, Matt tells me you’re a journalist?’

‘Yes, I write for a travel magazine.’

‘Splendid. Which one?’ he asked.

‘Travel Companion? You won’t have heard of it. It’s a trade magazine.’

‘Ah, no.’ He took a sip of the champagne he’d been nursing. ‘I’m a journalist myself.’

‘Who do you write for?’

‘Daily Telegraph. I cover the European markets.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘Honestly, my dear, if you caught sight of my pay cheque, you wouldn’t think it impressive at all.’

Claire looked at his expensive suit. She knew exactly how much national newspapers paid. If the Daily Telegraph hadn’t paid for that, she wondered who had. A gust of cold air drifted in as someone opened the entrance door. She peered towards it – still no sign of Milo. She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.

But once the starters arrived, he appeared, no wax jacket and wellies this time. Instead, he was wearing a dark grey shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms, his hand wrapped in a bandage. His hair looked newly washed, and he’d shaved.

He paused at the entranceway to the restaurant and fixed his eyes on Claire, making her stumble over her sentence.

‘Finally,’ Matt said, jumping up and placing his hand to his heart. ‘My hero.’

Everyone laughed and Milo’s gaze broke from Claire’s.

‘He even looks like one, doesn’t he? Tall, dark, handsome,’ Matt said, striding over to him and shaking his hand. Milo flinched. ‘Jesus, of course, sorry. How’s your hand?’

‘I’ll survive. How’s the ego?’

Everyone laughed as Sarah clapped her hands.

‘Bruised,’ Matt said, leading Milo to the chair across from Claire’s.

Claire didn’t remember much about the start of that dinner, just the way Milo looked, his lips red from the wine, his dark fringe in his eyes. And how, each time he caught her eye, she felt her skin turn warm. So she avoided his gaze by watching the happy couple instead. Had things been like that with Ben before they married? She thought so, despite how stressful it had been balancing her job with organising caterers and florists and God knows what else. Was it natural, this gradual abrasion of feeling? Or was the infertility just the death knell for a marriage that had been weak from the start? She took a quick sip of wine. Why was she being so bloody negative? She should be fighting for her marriage, riding the good waves and the bad, as her sister Sofia would say.

Milo caught her eye again and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Did fighting for her marriage mean blushing every time a handsome farmer looked her way?

Sarah shot Claire a knowing smile as she looked between them. Claire wanted to shake her by the shoulders, tell her she’d got the wrong end of the stick, it was just the emotion of the day, the drama.

When pudding arrived, so did Milo’s brother Dale. He pulled a chair up next to Claire. ‘I hear my brother nearly shot you yesterday,’ he said, pouring himself a glass of red wine, some of it sloshing over the sides. His eyes were like Milo’s: penetrating, intense. But there was something else there too, a detachment that unsettled her.

‘Not quite,’ Claire said. ‘It’s all a bit embarrassing now really.’

‘It’s just the way it is. If an animal needs to die – for food, to put it out of pain, to save a younger animal – you kill it. That’s what our father used to say.’

Claire laughed nervously. ‘You make it sound like Milo was trying to put me down.’

Dale didn’t return her laugh, just stared at her with that dispassionate look in his eyes. Then he turned his gaze to his brother. ‘Milo’s too soft, you know. When he was sixteen, one of our bitches had a mongrel litter and Dad was about to shoot them all and who turns up but my little brother, the sap. Just goes and stands right in between that gun and those pups, kicks up a stink, saves their lives. Dad told me he beat him black and blue after,’ he added, laughing. Claire moved away slightly, feeling uncomfortable. She could see what Henry meant now about Dale. Maybe seeing all he’d seen in the Falklands had made him like this? ‘Five of the pups died anyway,’ he continued in a bored voice. ‘Only Blue survived. Milo reckons it was worth a broken rib to save that mongrel.’

‘He does adore Blue,’ Claire said, not sure what else to say. Dale gave her a cold smile in response, his gaze holding hers for a beat more than was comfortable.

Claire looked over at Milo. He was talking to Sarah, his face animated as he tried to explain something to her. How different your first impressions can be of someone. When he’d killed that stag, she’d thought him heartless, violent. But it appeared he was very far from that, just a man who cared deeply for his family and the animals in his care. His brother, it appeared, was a different story.

Dale followed Claire’s gaze. ‘He’ll be gone soon enough. He’s got the travel bug like our grandfather, always going on about running a farm in another country.’ He laughed. ‘Wonder if he’ll end up putting a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out like our grandfather did?’

Chills ran down Claire’s spine. How could he say things like that so flippantly?

He slugged back more wine, some of it spilling from the side of his mouth, leaving a trail of red down his chin. ‘He’s definitely got the bug all right. Just needs to save enough money. Then I’ll be left alone to deal with all the crap.’

Claire looked towards Jay as a way to escape but he was deep in conversation with the man to his right. She could make her excuses and go to the toilet but what about Archie?

‘Ah, the blushing bride,’ Dale said, leaning back in his chair and watching Sarah over the rim of his glass. ‘They’re never as innocent as they look, you know, especially the pretty ones. I told Henry to stop doing the weddings, makes us look like a bloody chain hotel. Makes me sick, every one of them.’ He slugged back another mouthful of wine, his face stony, shoulders tense. Milo peered over at his brother, his face clouding over as though he could sense the tension.

‘All right there?’ he asked, looking between Dale and Claire.

‘Just saying how tedious it is,’ Dale said in a loud voice, ‘seeing one wedding after another here. They all blur into one after a while, one boring sentimental mess.’

The table went quiet and Sarah’s blue eyes widened. Milo’s face flushed. ‘Dale, why don’t we—’

Their sister Jen appeared then, exchanging a look with Milo. ‘Dale, can you help me get a keg from the cellar? I can’t find Henry anywhere.’

‘Maybe that’s because he’s hiding in the waitress’s knickers,’ Dale said under his breath, his lip curling. Jay raised an eyebrow and Claire looked at Jen to see if she’d heard but her expression remained unchanged. Dale stood up, nearly knocking over Claire’s drink. Milo leaned forward and grabbed the glass before its contents spilled all over Claire’s dress, mouthing a ‘sorry’ to her as Dale stumbled off after his sister.

‘What a romantic soul your brother is,’ Jay said to Milo.

Milo swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. ‘He gets a bit cynical after having a few.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘Sorry, he didn’t mean any of it, not really. He’s had a lot of stress recently.’

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘I completely understand, must be very difficult for farmers.’

‘What about you, Milo?’ Matt asked. ‘Are you cynical about love? Or have you managed to find yourself a farmer’s wife in between all that muck-clearing and cow-milking?’

Milo dug his spoon into his apple crumble, his expression unreadable. ‘No time to look for anyone really.’

‘Surely they come searching for you?’ Sarah said.

Milo’s cheeks flushed.

‘You better get a move on,’ Matt said. ‘Every man needs a good woman to look after him.’

Sarah flicked her napkin at her fiancé. ‘Since when did you turn into a chauvinist pig?’

‘Damn, I was hoping to keep that bit hidden from you until after the wedding.’ He glanced back at Milo. ‘So?’

‘You don’t need a wedding ring on your finger to look after someone. A couple can be just as secure without a piece of paper binding them.’

Claire stared at her wedding ring. She’d actually been the one who wanted to get married quickly after Ben proposed. He’d wanted to wait, save more money. But she’d needed that piece of paper, that ring on her finger, to prove she wasn’t like her dad and to start on her road to security.

Jay turned to Claire. ‘Do you agree?’

She glanced up, noticing everyone’s eyes on her. ‘I don’t know what I think really. But my dad’s old friend gave his wife a ring made from goat’s hair,’ she added, hoping to lighten the conversation. ‘That sounds fun.’

Everyone around the table laughed but Jay frowned. ‘How strange, my friend’s father was a bit of a hippy and did the same with his wife too. His name was Josh Pyatt, he worked for the Independent. Maybe it’s the same guy?’

‘I don’t recognise the name. But my dad wrote a travel column for the Indie so chances are it’s the same man.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Jay said, his blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘Don’t tell me you’re Bo Shreve’s daughter?’

Claire looked down at her food, wondering why she’d been stupid enough to bring up her dad. Now she was going to have to keep her emotions in check. Milo’s brow puckered as he watched her.

‘Yep,’ she said.

‘He was a wonderful writer, my mother adored his stuff,’ Jay said. ‘I was sorry to hear he passed away.’

Claire blinked, trying to stop the tears. ‘He was a good writer,’ was all she could manage. ‘It’s getting pretty late, thank you so much for inviting me to join you all,’ she said, suddenly feeling exhausted with it all. She peered at Archie who was curled up at her feet under the table. ‘I better get this little one to bed.’ Jay raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘Yes, he’s my little fur baby, what of it?’

He looked at Archie in mock shock. ‘That is one hairy baby.’ His face grew serious. ‘It’s very dark out there, I can join you, if you wish?’

Milo stood up too. ‘I’ll go out with you, Claire. I ought to head back anyway. Yet another early start tomorrow thanks to those pre-menstrual cows.’

She smiled. ‘You won’t want to keep them waiting.’

When they stepped outside a few minutes later, Claire breathed in the tart air, hoping it would clear her head of the wine and the memories of her father.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad,’ Milo said. ‘Did he pass away recently?’

‘Nearly thirteen years ago. Cancer.’ She saw her dad’s thin face again as he stared up at her all those years ago. She peered back towards the hotel. ‘Will your brother be okay?’

Milo frowned. ‘Yeah, he gets like that when he’s had a few drinks. Add that to how tough things are at the farm nowadays, it’s not a good mix. Sorry you had to see him like that.’ He peered towards the path. ‘So, what are your plans for tomorrow?’ he asked, quickly changing the subject.

‘Just lunch with Henry. Otherwise, I was thinking about driving somewhere, maybe further west towards Cornwall. I’d like to write about some of the places people can visit while here. Saying that, my car struggled enough on the journey down.’

Milo followed Claire’s gaze towards her aqua Fiat Uno. ‘It’s quite a specimen.’

‘I swapped Bob Dylan tickets for that old thing years ago with a friend.’

‘You missed a Bob Dylan gig for that?’

She shrugged. ‘She brought me back a T-shirt.’

‘Well, if it’s just your car stopping you doing a tour, I can drive you tomorrow morning if you want? Can’t guarantee you’ll get back in time for lunch. But then maybe that’s not such a bad thing,’ he added, raising a dark eyebrow. ‘Lunch with Henry isn’t exactly thrilling; he’ll just bark on about why he had the restaurant walls painted cream instead of teal.’

‘How do you know I don’t find the interior decoration of West Country hotels fascinating?’

Milo smiled, a swift breeze whipping its way around him and picking up strands of his dark fringe. Claire wanted to reach out, sweep it away from his eyes. She felt guilt burn in her stomach. What was wrong with her?

She turned her attention to Archie so Milo didn’t notice her blush. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for them to spend the morning together? ‘I’ll manage on my own, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.’

‘Like terrify tourists with my stag-shooting abilities?’

‘I bloody hope not!’

‘Never again,’ he said, his face very serious. ‘Look, I’m due some time off. Dale keeps hassling me to take a break. What do you think?’

Claire held her breath. This press trip wasn’t meant to be about this. A quickening of the heart, the inability to breathe as some virtual stranger looked her square in the eye. She needed space to figure out a future without Ben – ‘see the wood for the trees’ as he had said. But she felt like she’d stepped even further into the forest, the wood and the trees blurring even more than ever.

But as the seconds ticked by without her answering, and a frown puckered Milo’s forehead, she found herself unable to say no.

So she said yes instead.

Claire was nervous as she approached Milo’s Land Rover the next morning. She’d promised herself the night before she wouldn’t read anything into every flutter of her heart, every catch in her breath. It was like looking at a beautiful painting when she was around him. Aesthetics and desire, that’s all, she reasoned. She needed the company, a distraction from dwelling on her problems with Ben all the time. But that didn’t detract from the fact she was anxious.

As she reached the car, she paused. Milo was reading her magazine, his eyes heavy with emotion. She recognised the article, an obituary for the magazine’s financial director Victoria who’d passed away a few months ago. She’d always got on with the gentle, kind woman, who was a contrast to the magazine’s obnoxious founder. In the article, she’d drawn on a conversation she’d once had with her about how important it was to follow your own path, something Victoria had done by moving from the tiny Italian village where she’d been born to live in the UK, despite her family’s protests. Claire had used a quote by Bob Black, the anarchist her dad loved reading: The reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps.

Milo noticed her watching him and smiled, placing the magazine in the back seat and jumping out of the car so he could hold the passenger door open for her. She paused a moment, taking the chance to still her heart as she took in the misty valleys ahead of her, feel the cold on her cheeks. Then she clambered in, placing Archie on her lap as Blue regarded them from the back seat.

‘You were reading my magazine?’ Claire asked, gesturing to it.

Milo nodded. ‘Holly got a copy off Henry after hearing you’d be staying here so I nabbed it off her. You’re a great writer, Claire.’

Claire looked down, feeling her cheeks flush. ‘Thanks. It took a lot to write that article, I really liked Victoria.’

He was quiet for a few moments. ‘It made sense what you said about how losing someone burns a hole in you. But how the love of the people left behind can make new skin grow back.’

‘You talk like you’ve lost someone too.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ He started the engine, the smell of petrol filling the car. ‘We better get a move on if we want you back for Henry’s thrilling lunch.’

He winked at her and she laughed. ‘Your engine sounds a bit dodgy, we may well break down on the way back.’

‘Good thinking,’ Milo said.

Claire looked around at the car’s immaculate interior as it rumbled down the road. ‘Nice and tidy. You’re a farmer. Shouldn’t there be some dead pheasants in the back or something?’

Milo raised an eyebrow. ‘Or an African drum like the one in your back seat? Holly noticed it when we walked past your car yesterday. And all the books too.’

Claire thought of the back seat of her car, taken over by items she’d picked up from her travels and books taking her back to the distant lands she’d visited as a child: travel memoirs and novels crammed with dusty roads and stunning vistas.

She sighed. ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it? I haven’t properly tidied my car since I got it years ago. I like to hoard stuff. My dad used to call me his Littlest Hobo.’

‘Like the dog?’

She laughed. ‘No! He said I was like a homeless person, collecting all these items during my travels. He even got me a shopping trolley once in Spain which I hauled around a campsite with all my stuff. Plus his name was Bo and everyone said I was a miniature version of him, so it kind of stuck.’

Claire wondered if those people would say the same now. She had a job writing about travel, there was that at least. And a failed marriage on the horizon, just like him too. Claire swallowed, turning to look out of the window at the forest-fringed road to distract herself.

‘No wonder your car’s playing up if you’re treating it like a trolley,’ Milo said. ‘There are such things as glove compartments, you know. Speaking of which,’ he said, leaning across her and opening the glove compartment as she tried to control her heartbeat, ‘I can’t promise any Bob Dylan but I have some U2 tapes somewhere.’

He pulled a tape out and stuck it on as Claire forced herself to relax. Over the next three hours, Milo drove them around beautiful fishing villages where he seemed to know half the people, waving at them out of his window. When they stopped at a couple of places, Milo led Claire on a wild goose chase to find a ‘little tea room with outdoor seating I’m sure’s just around the corner’ or an ‘old open-air book market I swear is just here’. He only seemed comfortable outdoors, hovering outside with Archie and Blue when Claire wanted to pop into a shop or museum.

They drove even further along the coast, stopping to take a twisting coastal walk up a hill thick with grass, sheep grazing in the distance, the growl of waves nearby, the mouth-watering smell of fish and chips from one of the restaurants dancing up the hill towards them. They talked a lot, Milo telling Claire about his childhood on the farm, she telling him about her job and the people she’d met along the way – about everyone but Ben, the person who pulsed between them wherever they went. When lunchtime drew closer and closer, Claire found herself not wanting to leave. As though sensing her thoughts, Milo looked down towards the restaurant where the delicious smells were coming from. ‘Hungry?’ he asked with a smile.

She thought of Henry who’d be looking at his watch while tapping his fingers on the table. Maybe he’d even called her from the restaurant phone? She didn’t dare check. She didn’t want to check. She wanted to stay here, her troubles a distant memory, just the sea, Exmoor’s sloping hills, two dogs and Milo for company.

She matched his smile. ‘Very.’

Half an hour later, they were eating fish and chips in a café overlooking sandy, windy beaches.

‘You eat very slowly,’ Milo said, watching as Claire chewed on a chip.

‘It’s become a habit, I guess. My dad once said travel writing’s about all five senses, so I savour every mouthful to write about it later.’ She laughed as she watched Milo wolf down a chunk of cod. ‘Maybe you should try the savouring thing too?’

‘Have you seen the way my brother devours food and drink? I’ve had to learn to eat quick around him so he doesn’t get a chance to steal my stuff.’ He took a quick sip of cider. ‘So your dad taught you everything you know about writing, right?’

‘Yep. Jay was right: he was a really special writer. I have this one article of his I like to read over and over. Funnily enough, it’s about a country that’s really close to us, Belgium. He visited Ypres with my mum and sister while Mum was pregnant with me and he wrote about how the air was so heavy with loss and torment, he was scared it would infect me as I grew in Mum’s belly. But then he saw a solitary poppy, and it reminded him that birth and death are part and parcel of life, with blood spilled both times. It is what it is.’

‘I’d like to read that.’

‘I’ll dig it out and send it to you. It won an award, the Flora Matthews Foundation Prize for Travel Writing. It’s pretty prestigious.’

‘Sounds it.’

Claire looked down at what remained of her food. ‘That’s the night Dad left us actually.’

Milo frowned. ‘Left you?’

‘We woke to find him gone the morning after the ceremony, just a note scribbled on the back of the awards menu I’d kept. Time to march off the map, my darlings. All my love, Daddy Bo.’

‘I’m sorry. How old were you?’

‘Sixteen. Looking back, it shouldn’t have been a huge surprise. He’d started taking all that marching off the edge of the map stuff too literally, banging on about needing to leave behind societal pressures – which, in the end, meant his family too.’

‘Where did he go?’

Claire shrugged. ‘No idea. We didn’t hear anything from him over the next few months, not even on my seventeenth birthday or at Christmas. It felt like he’d thrown us away like a piece of rubbish. Mum said we needed to accept we might never see him again. My sister Sofia grew bitter. She’d never been as close to Dad as I was, but that really changed things for her. She pretended like he was dead.’ Claire looked down at the tiny globe hanging from her bag. ‘But I refused to give up on him. Six months after he left, I used the money he’d left in my savings to go find him.’

‘Brave,’ Milo said softly.

‘I was brave back then.’

‘Not now?’

Claire shrugged again.

‘So did you find him?’ Milo asked.

‘Not then. I carried on travelling for a year or so, making money from articles. My mum met a new guy, moved to Hong Kong with him – she’s still there now. Sofia started training to be a solicitor, the very job my dad despised. It was only me who followed his path, travelling, writing. Then my uncle passed away. Mum couldn’t track Dad down to tell him, so I did some investigating and …’

She paused, hearing the smash of rain against glass from the day she’d found him. She quickly swallowed down more cider.

‘You okay?’ Milo asked.

She nodded. ‘I – I found him dying in a flat in New York. Turned out he’d been living there the past year, dying of liver cancer, refusing to bend to societal pressures and get medical help. He died in my arms a few days later.’

‘Jesus, I’m so sorry, Claire.’

They were quiet for a few moments as Claire remembered how it had felt to see her dad lying there. She remembered thinking, Is this what marching off the map does – drives people apart, leaves people dying in pain all alone?

She’d cared for him over the next few days, reading his favourite books to him, sharing memories from her childhood. The third night, he’d gestured towards one of the drawers in his room. Inside, Claire found a sky lantern, just like the ones they used to send skywards each New Year’s Eve, all the troubles and negativity of the year before written down on notes attached to them and sent away forever. He scribbled a note with trembling hands: his name, Bo. She hadn’t understood at first. But when he drew his last breath and her world felt like it was ending, it dawned on her: he wanted her to let him and all the negativity associated with him go.

So that very night, she did what they’d done every New Year before: she sent the lantern skywards, her father’s name attached to it.

‘I went back to the UK after,’ she said, sighing. ‘Talked myself into a university course—’

‘Talked yourself?’

‘I’d been home-schooled, remember? Dad said education was just society’s way of brainwashing children so I had no qualifications. So I wrote this long rambling letter to a bunch of admissions directors at various universities and one recognised something, got me in for an interview and that was that. I worked my arse off, came away with a first-class degree in English, got the job at the magazine, got a mortgage, life insurance, the works, everything Dad once despised.’ She forced a smile onto her face as she took a sip of cider. ‘And now here I am.’

‘Why did you do everything your dad despised?’

‘Seeing him like that scared me. I realised if I followed the path he had, I might end up dying alone too. I chose a safer path.’

‘Are you happy with that decision?’

She swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know. I can feel it pulling at me sometimes, the desire to just let everything go and fly with the wind.’ She paused. She’d not admitted that to herself properly, like the nights she’d feel the urge to just throw open the window and breathe in the wind, Ben protesting it was too cold as she imagined climbing out and leaving.

‘What about your husband?’ Milo said, his eyes flicking to her wedding ring. ‘Is he a writer too?’

She froze. She’d purposefully not mentioned Ben to Milo, aware of her growing attraction to Milo and what a betrayal it might be to her husband to utter his name in front of him. ‘No, he’s an engineer.’ Her voice cracked and she turned away, feeling tears start to well up.

‘Are you okay?’ Milo asked softly.

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled to show she was okay but it just made her feel even more upset, her smile turning into a grimace.

‘Claire, what’s wrong?’ Milo asked, leaning towards her and trying to look in her eyes. He hesitated a moment then sighed. ‘I saw you crying before I shot the stag.’

She looked up at him. ‘You saw that?’

He nodded, his brown eyes full of emotion. ‘I know we hardly know each other but sometimes it helps to talk to people who aren’t so close to the situation.’

‘It’s more complicated than you know.’

‘Try me.’

She looked into his eyes. They were open, curious, full of feeling. Maybe he was right?

‘My husband and I are having problems,’ she said. ‘He suggested we take a break.’

Milo took in a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I don’t want you to think my marriage is a shambles,’ she said quickly. ‘It was good at first, really good. We met at uni, and though we’re completely different – I was studying English, my husband was studying engineering – we clicked right away.’

Claire thought about the first time she’d met Ben. It was just a few months into her first year at university and she was starting to regret her choice. It all felt too restricting and regimental, lectures at particular times, meetings with professors, special clubs and different cliques. One night, when it all got too much, she got horribly drunk on snowball cocktails at a party and had to make her way back to her room in the dark. That’s when Ben turned up, driving alongside her in his Renault Clio and offering her a lift. Anyone else and she might have steered well clear. But there was something about Ben: an honesty in his soft green eyes, the neat turn of the collar on his shirt, the polite way he talked in his Home Counties voice. When he helped her into his car, she felt instantly safe and on the car journey to her room she unburdened herself, telling him how stifled she felt at university, even confessing she wanted to quit, something she hadn’t even admitted to herself. The next day, he talked her out of packing in her course over lunch then asked her out for dinner. And that was that.

‘What went wrong?’ Milo asked, pulling Claire from the memory.

‘We started struggling to conceive.’

She paused, checking Milo’s expression. But he looked the same, willing her to continue with his eyes.

‘My fault,’ she said. ‘My insides are a bit of a mess, blocked tubes and dodgy eggs.’

She didn’t tell Milo her blocked tubes were caused by swelling from the chlamydia she’d caught from a man she’d met in Paris while searching for her father. She’d been devastated when her GP had told her: yet more proof that travelling off the edge of the map was the wrong thing to do. She’d had an op to unblock her tubes but, when she still hadn’t fallen pregnant a year later, more tests revealed she had low quality eggs. IVF was her only chance of ever becoming pregnant.

‘We tried IVF,’ she said to Milo. ‘Three rounds, each one a dud. The last one was two months ago.’

‘Claire, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard IVF can be very difficult.’

‘The physical stuff I could deal with,’ she said, fiddling with her glass. ‘Sure, having your flesh pierced with needles each night isn’t exactly a ball. Being poked around by doctors, I guess you grow used to that over the years when you’ve been through what we’ve been through. And the effects of the hormones, the headaches and the nausea and the crazy outbursts … it was bloody hard, don’t get me wrong. But the worst part was how it affected me emotionally.’

She could hear the tremor in her voice but ignored it. She needed to get this off her chest. She’d turned down the counselling that had been offered to her, thinking she could cope. And she’d always put on a brave face with family and friends. As for her and Ben, they couldn’t talk about it, not properly, because then they’d need to admit how difficult and painful it all was. This was her chance to vent and she was grabbing it with both hands.

‘The idea of never being a mother,’ she said, ‘never holding a baby in my arms and leaning my nose in to smell its sweet head, never feeling the tickle of its soft hair on my cheek.’ She shook her head, eyes filling with tears. ‘It’s unbearable. I’ve never been one of those girls whose whole life revolves around the idea of being a mother. But I’ve always wanted children. And the more you fight for it, the more you want it, you know?’

Milo nodded, his face very sombre. Claire looked out towards the stretch of beach below, the hill they’d walked along earlier spreading out to its right. Two children splashed into the shallow water in their wellies, a little dog jumping up and down, yelping in excitement as their parents watched from nearby.

‘Seeing other people’s kids grow older,’ she said, ‘that’s been hard too, especially kids who are the same age my child would be if I’d fallen pregnant straight away.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And then there are the looks of sympathy you get when you turn up to yet another wedding, still childless. That’s all bad enough but then add society’s expectations to it all: if you’re not a mother, a parent, you’re nothing.’

Milo shook his head. ‘That’s rubbish. It’s an important role, yes, but you don’t need kids to have a fulfilling life.’

‘I guess I know that. But the message you do is in everything I see.’ She sighed. ‘And now I know all hope’s gone—’

‘You do?’

She nodded sadly. ‘We paid for our first three rounds because the NHS waiting times were ridiculous. Now we’re finally at the top of the list and the NHS won’t fund us because my hormone levels are too hopeless.’ Claire stabbed her fork into her fish. ‘It’s definitely not going to happen now.’

That consultation had been a month ago. Claire was used to these post-round consultations. With each one, more and more hope drained away, the doctors’ once jovial and optimistic demeanours replaced by frowns and serious tones. She’d known something was particularly wrong with this last one because the doctor they saw could hardly look Claire in the eye. When he’d broken the news that her last blood test had shown her hormone levels had climbed, suggesting her egg quality had plummeted, it felt like the swivel chair she was sitting on was spinning her around and around, sending her into freefall. She’d held on tight enough to her emotions to ask all the perfunctory questions, even cracking the odd joke or two. But when she stepped outside, she had broken down, mumbling into Ben’s shoulder, ‘It’s chaos, it’s all chaos.’ Because how could so many millions of people, some of whom didn’t even want to be parents, get pregnant and she couldn’t?

Ben had just stared into the distance, trying to control his emotions, jaw tight, the same expression he’d had on his face ever since.

Milo was silent so Claire looked up at him, heart thumping painfully against her chest. ‘This is the bit where you’re supposed to offer useless advice.’

‘What, like relax and it will happen?’

‘I prefer “My friend’s second cousin couldn’t conceive so she gave up and guess what? She got pregnant!”’ That’s the one my sister Sofia uses all the time.’

She smiled but Milo didn’t smile back. He knew what she was trying to do, lighten the tone. Except this was a serious subject, wasn’t it?

‘If you say it’s not going to happen, I believe you,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair to offer false hope.’

‘Thank you, I agree,’ she said, sighing. ‘I did think about getting a loan to pay for another private round but I just can’t face it. You hear of people who have loads of rounds and it just takes over their lives. That’s one of the worst things too, feeling like you’re in limbo. I can’t be in limbo any more, I just can’t.’ Claire watched a woman walk along the shoreline below them, a book in one hand, her sandals in the other, her long blonde hair like candyfloss as it whipped around her head in the wind. ‘I think my life can be complete without a child, you know. I think I can carve a place for myself.’

‘Definitely. I have no doubt about it.’

She looked into Milo’s impassioned eyes and almost believed it herself when he said that.

‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘Does he feel the same way?’

‘No, he thinks we should have another round. He brought it up during our last consultation, but after, I told him I just couldn’t face it. Since then, we barely talk, just go through the motions. God, that sounds like such a cliché – married couple runs out of things to say to each other.’

She laughed but Milo didn’t. Instead, he placed his hand over hers. She lifted her eyes to meet his, and she saw something in them that made her heart seem to thump a million beats at once. It wasn’t just sympathy for what she was going through; there was more to it than that.

‘You’re trembling,’ he said, voice hoarse. Her tummy flipped and half of her wanted to bury herself in his brown eyes and stop talking, just forget all the bad stuff. But the other half needed this, to get it all out, no interruptions from well-meaning friends about different remedies she could try to miraculously become fertile.

‘I can’t figure out if it’s simply the stress of being infertile,’ she continued, her gaze dropping from his, ‘or because we just don’t love each other any more and this would’ve happened even without the infertility. I think the problem is we married an idea of a life. A life with a nice house to do up, visits to DIY stores, life insurance … kids. But without the possibility of kids, it feels like that’s all gone. And with it, the purpose of our marriage. Does that make sense?’

‘Of course,’ Milo said.

She put her head in her hands. ‘God, I feel guilty talking about all this, he’s a wonderful man. I shouldn’t be unburdening myself on you either, it’s not fair.’

‘Unburden all you want! You shouldn’t feel guilty. You’ve been through so much. It can happen at the best of times, but after everything you’ve been through …’

She fiddled with the globe pendant on her bag, trying to control her emotions. ‘I don’t just feel guilty about how confused I am right now but also because it’s me who’s got the fertility problems, not him. He’s always been the one who’s really wanted all that. If it weren’t for me, he could have it by now, just like all his friends.’

Milo frowned. ‘Is this what this is about? You feeling like you’re holding him back? Maybe he doesn’t feel that way at all.’

Claire shook her head. ‘He does.’ It was right at that moment she realised Ben wanted it to be over. He was just too kind to do the ending.

And Claire wanted it to be over too.

It all got too much then, the tears starting to come. She didn’t want Milo to see her like this so she scraped her chair back and ran to the toilets. When she got there, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked like it was stuck mid-argument; skin stretched, the tops of her cheeks red, eyes angry.

Her face crumpled and she slumped down into the wicker chair next to the sinks, sobbing into her hands. Her marriage was over, and she was terrified. Terrified of what the future held, terrified of the road she’d be forced to take. It wasn’t just Ben she was leaving behind, it was kids too. There was the possibility of adoption with Ben. But if she stepped away from her life with him now, that might mean turning her back on ever having a family.

‘So be it,’ she said, her jaw clenching. ‘This is what fate’s dealt me. So be it.’

She took a deep breath and got up, patting some water over her face before walking back outside, pausing at the entrance when she noticed Milo leaning over the railings with Archie, pointing something out to him as Blue stood with his paws on the railings.

How could it have taken a farmer from Exmoor to help her see the truth?

She walked towards him.

He turned when he heard her approach. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s none of my business, I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about it all.’

‘No, it’s helped. Really …’ She paused, trying to hold herself together. ‘I need to accept my marriage is over. I think Ben has; it’s time I did too.’

On the way back, Milo let Claire quietly sob as she digested the acknowledgement she’d just made about her marriage. Her heart ached for Ben and every wonderful moment they’d shared: the footprints they’d made in the sand during their wonderful honeymoon in Sardinia; the way he’d carried her over the threshold the day they’d moved into their house; the long dinners they’d shared with their friends, talking into the early hours. There were sad moments too, the touch of his hand when she woke from being sedated in their IVF clinic, the tears they’d shared at yet another negative pregnancy test.

After a while, they reached a small village crammed with thatched-roof cottages. The sun was starting to set, casting a pink glow over the village. As Milo drove into its centre, a castle appeared. Claire looked up, wiping the tears from her cheeks and smiling slightly.

Milo smiled as he noticed her reaction. ‘Nunney Castle,’ he said. ‘We used to come here as kids – Dale, Jen and me. I thought you might need something to smile about.’

‘It’s perfect.’

As they drew closer, she could see its exterior walls were discoloured and crumbling, its turrets falling apart, huge weeds curling around their bases. Circling the castle was a moat, grey water glistening in the setting sun, ducks shaking their wings on its banks.

They left the dogs in the car and stepped inside the castle, taking in the disintegrating walls and empty windows which looked out onto the pink sky. Claire pulled out her camera, noticing how perfect the light was.

She started taking pictures as Milo leaned against a nearby wall and watched her. She tried not to get distracted by the sight of him there, his dark hair in his eyes, arms crossed.

‘I can imagine you living somewhere with no roof,’ she said as she crouched down to take a picture of a cobweb that stretched across a crook in the wall.

‘Why’s that?’

‘You always like to be outdoors. I bet you have the window wide open in your room when you sleep, even in the winter.’

She thought about watching him sleep. She imagined the way his eyelashes would curl over his skin, the way his mouth would open slightly, the way his dark hair would look against a white pillow. She pressed her nails into the skin of her palms to drive the thoughts away.

‘I’m not that daft, though I do like to camp out in the summer and sleep under the stars,’ he said. ‘Funny you say that though. When my grandfather went to Greece, he slept on the beach for a week because he couldn’t afford a hotel.’

‘He sounds really interesting.’

‘He was; it’s great reading all his letters. Shame things ended for him the way they did.’ Claire thought again of what Henry had told her and Milo rolled his eyes. ‘Henry told you, didn’t he? I can tell from the look on your face.’

‘He did mention something.’

‘He probably forgot to mention my grandfather had liver disease and was in terrible pain, according to his final letters. He couldn’t take the pain any more.’

Claire thought of the pain her own dad suffered. ‘That must’ve been difficult, making that decision, going through with it,’ she said.

Milo sighed. ‘I understand why he did it. I’d do the same. But it hasn’t exactly helped our family’s reputation.’

‘What reputation?’

His jaw clenched as he looked down at the dusty ground. ‘Mum used to say the James family was cursed – the “James Curse”. There’s lots of stuff in our family’s past going back generations, various scandals. That farmhouse has seen more action than most. If it weren’t for our mad family, we’d have a lot more money, that’s for sure. I personally think it’s more about the James propensity for depression. My dad had problems with drinking, probably the reason he had a heart attack in the end.’

‘I’m sorry, Milo.’

‘It was hard growing up. Just hope I don’t end up the same,’ he mumbled.

‘You don’t strike me as being like that,’ Claire said softly.

He smiled. ‘Mum said the same. She said I’m different from the other James men. Apart from the sleeping in the open, that is,’ he added, raising an eyebrow. He looked up at what remained of the castle walls. ‘Reminds me of Venice in this light,’ he said. ‘Pink crumbling rocks, the strange gaping emptiness of it all.’

‘Very poetic. When did you go?’

‘School trip ages ago. Haven’t you been?’

‘No.’

‘I found it a tad tacky actually. It was probably nicer before the twentieth century got hold of it.’

Claire smiled. ‘I’m pleased you said that. I always thought the same.’

Milo stepped into a large hole in the wall. ‘This’ll make a good photo,’ he said, peering up. ‘Come look.’

‘Can it fit us both in?’

‘Sure.’

It wasn’t so dark inside but it was small, just wide enough to fit three, maybe four people. Milo blinked at Claire in the gloom and her heart rebounded against her chest. She wondered if he could hear it in such a small, quiet space.

‘Here,’ he said, taking her shoulders and twisting her around so she was facing outwards again.

Her arms tingled at the feel of his fingertips through the thin material of her cardigan. She pressed the camera into her chest to try to still her heart.

‘See,’ he murmured into her ear, his lips close to her neck. ‘You get a great angle from here.’

It was true. The sky was framed by the jagged outline of the entrance to this small hideaway, orange light gleaming in through all the different-sized windows. But Claire could hardly focus on it; all she could sense was Milo behind her.

‘Look up,’ he said, smiling. She lifted her camera but he put his hand on her arm. ‘Without hiding behind that camera of yours. Look with your eyes.’

She lowered her camera and did as he asked, taking in the slice of red sky that showed through the gap in the ceiling above. He was so close now, she could feel his breath on the bare skin of her shoulder, almost feel his lips there. She closed her eyes. She had two choices: step away into the safety of the castle, or stay here and see where the moment took them.

Her dad had said something similar a few days before he left.

I want to see where the moment takes me. I want to try a new path.

Where had that led him? Dying of cancer all alone, that’s where.

Claire stepped out of the crevice and thought she heard Milo sigh.

‘We better head back to the car,’ he said after a while. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

Claire saw Milo as soon as she stepped into the wedding marquee the next day. He was standing with Holly in a dark grey suit, pulling awkwardly at the collar of his white shirt as he watched Matt and Sarah’s wedding guests walk in from the warm autumnal evening. When he caught sight of Claire, he stopped what he was doing and smiled.

She smoothed down her hair then walked up to him and Holly, feeling awkward in her oriental dress, the kitten heels of her shoes digging into the mud.

‘I love your dress, Claire,’ Holly said. ‘Is it from your travels?’

Claire nodded. ‘Japan.’

‘I’d so love to go there! A Japanese lady came to school to tell us about their culture. It’s so different from boring old England,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as she looked towards the farmhouse.

Claire smiled. She remembered feeling the same each time her family returned to the UK for a family event. ‘Maybe you will go to Japan one day.’ She took in Holly’s dress, the same blue taffeta one she’d worn for her birthday. ‘You look pretty yourself, Holly.’

‘I’m not so sure. Dad said he can’t afford a new one,’ she said. ‘It’s too childish. They’ll all think I’m a little girl.’

‘No they won’t,’ Milo said, putting his hand on his niece’s shoulder. ‘Claire’s right, you look really pretty in it.’ Holly looked up at Milo, beaming at him.

Claire pulled the bejewelled clip from her hair. ‘Take this,’ she said to Holly. ‘It goes better with your dress than mine.’

Milo smiled.

‘Oh, I can’t!’ Holly said.

‘Please, consider it a belated birthday present. A freedom fighter in India gave it to me when I was about your age so you can wear it and feel very grown up knowing that.’

Holly’s eyes lit up as she took it, staring down at it in her open palm as Milo mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Claire.

‘The heroes!’ someone shouted out.

They turned to see Matt strolling towards them. He was clearly already drunk but looked happy and very handsome in a black morning suit and pink cravat. He pulled Claire and Milo into a sweaty hug, pressing their faces together as Holly laughed. Then he beckoned some friends over and they spent the next twenty minutes listening to him tell the story of his ‘rescue’ all over again.

‘If I have to hear that story again,’ a familiar voice murmured next to Claire, ‘I think I’ll combust.’

She smiled. ‘Hello, Jay.’

He was wearing an usher’s suit in a similar style to Matt’s but he’d added a dash of his own style with a smart top hat and pink silk handkerchief.

‘I’m pleased you’re here,’ he said, completely ignoring Milo. ‘I want you to meet Yasmine. She’s an associate editor at Travel magazine in the US and was only saying the other day how she needs some fresh blood on her editorial team.’

Travel was big, glossy and had a huge circulation aimed at people who had the money to discover new places without missing out on the luxuries. Her dad would turn in his grave at the thought of her working for a ‘sell-out’ magazine, as he’d call it. But she’d heard great things about the way they treated their staff, a contrast to her current employers. And if her marriage was really over, she’d need a change. She couldn’t face still living in Reading, seeing the same people, bumping into Ben.

Milo took Archie’s lead from Claire. ‘You go ahead, Claire. Holly and I will take Archie and go find Blue. We’ll come back in a few minutes.’

‘Good idea,’ Jay said. ‘Lugging a dog about isn’t going to impress Yasmine.’

Milo smiled tightly then strode off with Holly as she twisted around to frown at them.

‘Come,’ Jay said, steering Claire towards a group of people.

She didn’t see Milo ‘in a few minutes’. In fact, she spent the next hour talking to the editor Jay had mentioned, as well as a host of ‘important people’ she couldn’t get away from. When she finally did extract herself, she couldn’t find Milo, just Holly who was feeding Archie wedding cake under a table at the back.

She stood on her own, imagining what it would be like at future weddings without Ben. She’d cope. She’d always been independent. She glanced at Yasmine. Maybe she wouldn’t have time to go to weddings if she was jet-setting around the world with Travel magazine? It was a completely different vibe from her magazine, which was run on a shoestring … and from her ramshackle travelling days with her family. She’d be drawn into a different world, a world with money and privilege. Did she want that, no matter how much of a welcome change it offered? She looked over at Jay, who was clearly used to a world like that. One of the bridesmaids he was talking to, a beautiful girl with long black hair, let out an ear-piercing laugh as he whispered something in her ear.

‘What is he like?’ Claire turned to see Sarah smiling down at her. She’d seen her earlier, looking dazzling in her sleek ivory wedding dress, her curly blonde hair piled on top of her head, set off by a silver and pink tiara. ‘I thought he was gay the first time I met him. But he’s since slept with half my friends. And that fashion sense of his? Turns out he got all his style from his mother, she was a fashion designer. She died when he was young and his dad’s a typical rich banker type, hence Jay’s job at Daily Telegraph. But his heart is in culture and the arts.’

Maybe her and Jay weren’t so different.

Sarah peered towards a woman with black hair. ‘You must meet my boss later, Audrey Monroe. Have you heard of her?’

Claire shook her head.

‘She set up her own foundation, the Audrey Monroe Foundation,’ Sarah explained. ‘It helps animals affected by war. Our volunteers are in Chechnya right now and I’m due to go to Serbia in a year or so, my first trip for work. We rely on volunteers to pass the message around so please do.’

‘I will. Sounds like a wonderful charity.’

Sarah looked around her. ‘Where’s Milo?’

‘I don’t know. He just disappeared.’

‘I suppose this isn’t his kind of thing really, is it? All these people, hemmed in by white plastic?’

Claire laughed. ‘No, you’re right.’

‘You like him, don’t you?’ Claire’s laughter trickled away. Sarah clearly hadn’t noticed her wedding ring. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t let a hunky farmer like Milo slip from my grasp. In fact, I’d be down at the stream at this very moment.’

‘The stream?’

‘He’s there, I saw him a moment ago when I popped out for some fresh air. Archie’s fine.’ Claire followed Sarah’s gaze towards Archie, who was tentatively lifting his paw towards Holly as she hovered a piece of wedding cake over his nose. ‘Go on, go find Milo. Make sure your dog isn’t the only one having some fun tonight,’ she added with a wink.

Claire looked out into the warm summer evening, the soft tinkle of the nearby stream calling out to her like a siren, the champagne running through her veins making her feel brave and foolish. Maybe Sarah was right, maybe she shouldn’t let a man like Milo slip from her grasp? She put her arms around herself and stepped out of the marquee, the grass tickling her toes …

Chapter Four
Krabi, Thailand
2004

I look up from the note I’d found in Claire Shreve’s atlas, eyes blinking into the sun as I peer out of the window. Huge mountains hover in the distance, large signs and palm trees jostling for position on the dusty roadsides. I think we’re in Ao Nang now, I recognise it from the tourist book I got at the airport. But the busy market stalls they showed in the photos are empty, the glimpses of a sweeping yellow beach in the distance clear of crowds. I’d heard it wasn’t hit as badly as other resorts I’d seen on the news, hence choosing it as somewhere to stay. Its location meant the power of the waves had dissipated a little by the time they reached its shores. But lives were still claimed here, and I see signs of that now: wood clogging the road’s edges, photos hung up on walls, ripped clothes tangled around lampposts. And then there’s the eerie silence.

I quickly gather my stuff and stand on shaky legs, moving down the middle of the bus as quickly as I can as it bounces up and down. ‘Stop?’ I say to the bus driver. ‘Can you stop please?’

He seems to be ignoring me. I panic. What if he doesn’t stop and takes me to some far-flung town? I shake his shoulder and point out the window. He brings the bus to an abrupt stop and I stumble backwards, my mum’s bag dropping from my shoulder, its contents spilling out onto the bus’s floor. The Thai couple next to me scramble to pick everything up, even smiling at me as they do so. I’m grateful for their kindness and smile back.

When I get off the bus, I look up and down the street, trying to recognise the orange exterior of my hotel. Then I notice it a few doors down, one of several small two-storey buildings sitting right in the heart of Ao Nang’s shopping district. Though the streets are quiet, there are people milling about, including exhausted-looking relatives handing out posters of their loved ones.

I check in, struggling with the heavily accented voice of the receptionist, then head to my room. It looks different from what I expected, more ‘Western’, with clean white sheets over the small double bed, a dark wooden table fitted to the wall with a leather-topped stool, a small balcony overlooking the quiet streets. A fan whirs above, my shoes making a clicking sound as I walk across the cream-tiled floor. The wardrobe is the only indication of the country I’m in, made from thick pale wood, two square panels with ornate wooden carvings running down each door. As I move past it, I breathe in the faint scent of eucalyptus.

I take everything out of my suitcase, re-folding each item before placing it on the shelves of the wardrobe. I wonder where Mum stayed last. Did she unpack like I’m doing now? Or, more likely, fling her suitcase into the corner, her clothes spilling out of it as she headed straight out onto the streets – to ‘breathe in the atmosphere’ as she used to say?

After unpacking, I try to call home but it just rings and rings. Maybe Will has taken the girls out. I hope so. I leave a quick message then lie back on the bed, the jetlag catching up on me. But all I can see is Mum painting again, lip caught snugly between her teeth as she swirls pink with white to create her own pale skin on canvas. It’s almost like she’s there, right in the room with me.

‘Don’t look so anxious, Lou,’ she’d say if she were. ‘It’ll turn out all right in the end. And look,’ she’d add, gesturing towards the window. ‘The sun’s shining, there’s no children yanking you about, no husband insisting on his dinner. Make the most of it!’

I smile to myself. Yes, that’s what she’d say. Turn a serious moment into something frivolous.

‘I’m going to find you, Mum,’ I say to her mirage, my voice trembling with determination. ‘I’m going to bloody find you.’

My phone rings and I see it’s Will’s mobile. The image of Mum drifts away. ‘How are the girls?’ I ask as soon as I pick it up.

‘I told them you’ll be back in a couple of days. Jesus, I didn’t think you were serious. Do you realise how stupid you’re being?’

That word again. Stupid.

‘She’s my mother, Will. Wouldn’t you do the same for yours?’

‘That’s different.’

‘Different because Mum doesn’t wear pearl necklaces and attend WI meetings?’

He laughs bitterly. ‘Funny you say all that now considering you were only telling me last week you’d had enough of your mother not talking to you.’

‘That’s unfair to bring up.’

‘Why? Because she might be dead?’

I open and close my mouth in shock.

‘Because let’s be frank,’ Will continues, ‘there’s more chance she’s passed out in some shoddy hotel somewhere than—’

There’s the sound of crying in the background.

Chloe.

He’d said all that in front of her?

‘Let me speak to Chloe,’ I say, voice firm.

‘Why? You’re the one who left her to fly to the other side of the world.’

‘To find my missing mother, for Christ’s sake! Put Chloe on right now, Will.’

He’s silent for a few moments then sighs. ‘Come on, Chloe, your mother wants to talk to you.’

‘Mummy!’

I have to use every ounce of strength I have left not to sob out loud. ‘Hello, poppet. Have you been having a good time with Daddy?’

‘We’ve been at Grandma’s! She helped us make dolls.’

My stomach sinks. So Will drove them all the way to Surrey so he didn’t have to spend time alone with his own children?

‘That’s nice,’ I say, keeping my voice cheerful. ‘Are you staying tonight?’

‘Yes!’

‘Daddy too?’

‘He needs to work, Mummy,’ Chloe replies in an exasperated tone, the same tone Will adopts when he’s using that excuse.

‘Is Olivia there, darling?’

‘She’s sleeping. She thinks Nanna’s in the Nile.’

I press my eyes tight shut.

‘But I told her you’ll bring her back,’ Chloe says, her voice trembling. ‘You are going to bring Nanna back, aren’t you? She can sleep in my room if she wants and draw in my art book again.’

‘I hope so, darling.’ My voice catches. ‘You be a good girl for your grandparents, okay?’

‘Okay, Mummy. I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

There’s the sound of the phone being passed over then Will comes back on. ‘I’m sorry for what I said about your mother,’ he says, his voice contrite. ‘It’s just been very difficult with you disappearing like that.’

‘I did tell you I’d be going. Chloe said they’re staying at your parents. It wouldn’t kill you to spend some time alone with your daughters, Will.’

‘Says the woman who left them to find her eccentric mother!’

‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’ My voice is shaking so hard now, I’m surprised I can get my words out properly. ‘Remember Olivia’s cough medicine and Chloe needs new shoes so your mum might want to try the sales tomorrow. Goodbye, Will.’

‘Don’t put your phone down on me or—’

I slam the phone down and the four walls close in around me, making me feel like Alice spiralling down the rabbit hole. I grab my bag, slipping my shoes back on before making my way outside. The heat makes me sweat again, that horrible stench clogging my nostrils.

There’s even more sadness in the air now evening is approaching, people sticking posters on lampposts, Thais huddled in groups in café, heads close together, some of them crying. How trivial my argument with Will seems now.

My stomach gurgles, reminding me I haven’t eaten a thing all day. A lone street vendor shoots me a toothless smile and gestures to his wok. I lean over it then let out a small gasp when I see huge crickets, cooked legs pulled close to their scorched bellies. I stumble away, putting my hand to my mouth as the vendor laughs. Someone grabs me.

‘You want a new bag?’ a Thai woman says, gesturing towards one of just three stalls that are now open.

‘Sorry, I—’

‘I give you good price.’

‘No, please, I feel sick.’

I pull away from the woman and lean against a nearby wall, taking in huge gulps of air. Terror starts working its way inside. Will’s right, what the hell was I thinking, coming here alone? Before I even realise what I’m doing, I’m scrolling through the contacts on my phone with trembling fingers, finding Sam’s number. It rings and rings before eventually he answers.

‘Hello?’ Northern lilt, voice breathless.

‘Sam?’

‘Louise? Are you okay?’

‘Not really. They’re – they’re baking insects. It’s horrible.’ I let out a small sob then cringe with embarrassment. Get a grip, Louise. ‘I’m just being silly,’ I say, pulling myself together. ‘I’m exhausted and hungry and—’

‘You still haven’t eaten?’

‘No. Only insects on the menu, I’m afraid.’ I peer towards the vendor again. He smiles at me and waves. I force myself to wave back.

‘You have to eat,’ Sam says. ‘What hotel are you staying at?’ I give him the name of my hotel. ‘I know a place near there,’ he says. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

I pause. He’s a virtual stranger. And yet my stomach feels clawed out, my nerves shot to pieces and I’m craving the sight of another English face. ‘All right,’ I say.

‘Wait in reception, I’ll come get you.’

I disconnect and notice I’ve received a text from Will. I place the phone into my bag without reading it.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a sound like thunder outside. For a moment, I panic, thinking it might be the sea roaring towards the island as it had a few days ago. But then my eyes snag on something approaching in the distance – a huge chrome motorbike that sticks out like a sore thumb among the tiny mopeds whizzing past it, steered by familiar tanned arms.

I pull my bag close to my chest as I step outside, my forehead already growing slick with sweat. I’d showered then changed into a pair of cut-off white trousers and a pink petal blouse, but now it feels just like I’m wearing my old clothes again.

Sam pulls off his helmet, his gold hair standing on end. He looks even more exhausted, face grimy with specks of sand. He clocks the look on my face and smiles. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to get on this. The restaurant’s only a five-minute walk.’

Would I have got on the back of Sam’s bike if the restaurant weren’t so close? What would everyone back home say if I had? What would Mum say?

‘About time you had some fun,’ I imagine, that mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes. ‘Look at you, my straight-laced little Lou on the back of a stranger’s bike. Good on you, girl!’

Sam jumps off the bike and gestures for me to join him. I hesitate a moment. The heat’s making me nauseous and what if he takes me to some far-out place with cockroaches and squat toilets? Then I think of my mum again and fall into step beside him.

‘How long have you lived in Thailand?’ I ask him.

‘Four years.’ He looks around him at the debris and exhausted-looking Thais. ‘I’ve grown to love the place so it’s difficult seeing it like this.’

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