Page 67 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

The smell reached her before anything else. Spices, warm and layered. Coconut, something smoky beneath it mixing with the salty air.

A queue curved out from the open hatch. People standing in clusters rather than a line – flip-flops half off, bottles of cider and cans of beer in their hands. A couple leaned into each other, sharing something from a paper plate; a child darted back and forth with a melting ice cream; someone further back laughed, the sound carrying over the low hush of the sea.

Without thinking, Sammy lifted a hand to her hair, fingers hovering. Shorter now. No quick twist into a messy ponytail to tuck it away. It folded around her face. The stylist had been certain. Trust me. Sammy had. And now, with the sun warming her skin and the noises from the beach, she was glad she had.

‘Every year at Easter,’ Nate said, pointing at the tatty caravan, ‘they winch it down from the top. Leave it here for the summer.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘She’s Thai. So that’s what they cook. Starts at six, stops when they run out.’

‘And it just . . . works?’

‘It just works.’

Sammy watched the easy ebb and flow of people, paper plates in hand, sandy feet. There was something deeply reassuring about a place that knew an evening didn’t need to cost very much to feel special.

‘Wooden forks. Bring your own drink,’ Nate added. He shrugged off his backpack and fished out two cold beers. ‘You all right with that?’

‘Yeah. This is . . . good.’ More than good. This felt like something. A date. Even if he hadn’t said it.

They joined the queue, Nate greeting people as they went.

‘Nate,’ someone called. ‘You still owe me a pint.’

‘Noted,’ he replied.

Sammy watched him a moment longer than she could justify. He belonged here. She wondered what that felt like.

When they reached the front of the queue, he ordered for them – one fish, one veg – then carried the plates down to the sand, which was still warm underfoot.

People had settled wherever they could. Towels spread out and pinned down at the corners with bags or shoes. Others perched on the low rocks, plates balanced on knees, passing things back and forth. A group had claimed a stretch near the waterline, their belongings scattered across the beach – jumpers, a speaker playing something tinny.

A short distance away, she spotted Magnus. Alone, but not isolated. People spoke to him as they passed; there were brief exchanges, hands waved. He’d changed. Technically. He had replaced his uniform with a stripy blazer, crisply pressed trousers and shirt, and shoes that had no business on sand but somehow remained untouched by it. A straw boater shaded his face. He looked as if he’d stepped out of the Henley rowing Regatta for the evening.

Unlike everyone else – sitting on towels, or rocks – Magnus had a folding director’s chair. And on his lap, a small tray – with a glass, crockery, metal cutlery and a linen napkin.

Nate handed her the plates, pulled a picnic blanket out of the rucksack, unfurled it and lowered himself onto the sand.

She passed him a plate.

Nate patted the ground beside him. ‘Why don’t you sit down,’ he said.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said quickly, picking up her fork.

He frowned.

Thinking he didn’t want to start first, she dug her fork in, chewed. ‘Oh, that’s lovely that is.’

‘Sit down.’

‘Honestly . . . I’m okay by here.’ She took another forkful, as if that settled it.

He still hadn’t picked up his fork. ‘Sit,’ he said again.

She tried once more. ‘I’m all right by here.’

Nate shifted his plate slightly, making space beside him on the blanket. ‘You won’t be in the way,’ he said.