‘Wake up, Cassie, you’ve got a visitor.’

I came to with a violent start. In the green, subterranean light of my bedroom, Mum’s face looked slightly alien and, for a second, I thought I must still be dreaming.

‘Cassie!’ She pressed my shoulder. ‘It’s Danny Fleetwood.’

‘What?’ I pinged upright, almost head-butting Mum. ‘What’s he doing here this early?’

‘It’s not actually that early.’ Mum crossed to the window and yanked the curtains open, revealing a swatch of bright sky that made me blink. ‘Your dad opens up on a Monday morning so I can have a lie-in, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ He’d done it for years, while Mum opened the café on Wednesdays, so Dad could snatch a couple of hours extra sleep. Peering blearily at the digital alarm clock, I saw it was gone nine. ‘You should have woken me earlier.’ I flung off the duvet and leapt out of bed, wishing I hadn’t when stars danced in front of my eyes.

‘I thought you might need to rest, after waiting up for Rob.’ A small frown marred Mum’s face when she turned from the window. ‘I told you he’d stay over at Nick’s, hoping to see Emma.’

‘I don’t know why,’ I said, tugging my crumpled nightshirt over my thighs. ‘It’s not like she lives with him.’

‘No, but sometimes she pops in, apparently.’

‘If she’s asked for some space, Rob should accept that.’ I was still annoyed that he hadn’t let me know whether he’d managed to procure a music act for the café.

I’m interpreting your silence as a no, my last message had read, as my eyelids drooped in front of a rerun of Blackadder on UK Gold. Mum and Dad had already retired to bed with mugs of hot chocolate and a novel each, creeping out of the room with exaggerated care as I tapped away at my phone, presumably thinking it was work-related – which, in a way, it was – but I could see by the lack of blue ticks that Rob hadn’t read any of my WhatsApp messages.

‘I think your brother’s just keen to prove to Emma that he’s serious about his new future,’ Mum said with a reflexive smile, and the part of me that wasn’t panicking about what to wear, marvelled afresh at how easily she and Dad had accepted Rob’s news, when they used to imply that living in the area where we’d grown up – never mind the same house – would be akin to an admission of failure.

‘Could you ask my visitor to pop back later?’ I said, as Mum shook out my duvet, sending the sketch pad I’d looked through the day before flying to the floor.

‘I got the impression he wants to see you now,’ she said. ‘I made him some coffee.’ She picked up the sketch pad and stared at a picture of a bus crammed with passengers as if it was a naked man. ‘What’s this?’

‘What does it look like, Mum?’ I prised the pad off her, before she could flip through it, and stuffed it back in my open rucksack. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘I thought you gave up art a long time ago.’ I couldn’t work out whether her tone was anxious or disapproving, or somewhere between the two.

‘I like drawing,’ I said, wondering whether it would be polite to have a shower and wash my hair before venturing downstairs. ‘Is that OK?’

‘Of course it is.’ Mum’s smile seemed less natural than it had moments ago. ‘I didn’t realise you still did it, that’s all.’

I paused in the act of pulling on my dressing gown, having decided that Danny Fleetwood would have to take me as he found me.

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ I said, squeezing the words past an unexpected ache in my throat. ‘I’m not planning to do a reverse-Rob and throw in my amazing career to take up painting again.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with painting,’ she said, lurching forward to tie the belt of my dressing gown a bit too tightly. ‘As a hobby, I mean.’ Her eyes grazed mine. ‘Although, you probably don’t have much time for hobbies, with your lifestyle.’

Gritting my teeth, I shook my head and moved to the dressing table so that she couldn’t see my face. ‘Not really,’ I said, just about managing to match her jolly tone. ‘Could you tell Danny I’ll be down in a second? I just need to comb my hair.’

‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’ she said, as she backed towards the door. ‘Not London good-looking, but for around here.’

As she left, an urge to giggle rose as I imagined saying, ‘I suppose he’s what you’d call Devon handsome. Fit for outside the city. Buff, for a country lad.’ Not London good-looking. It was possibly the most ridiculous thing my mother had ever said.

I did my best with my hair, which was refusing to lie flat on one side, and swiped the sleep from my eyes with a cleansing wipe before dotting on some concealer and blending it in. After nipping to the bathroom for a wee and brushing my teeth, I decided my lips looked too pale so I chewed them until they went red, trying not to think about Danny Fleetwood downstairs in my parents’ kitchen.

Deciding I’d be at a disadvantage in my nightwear, I ransacked my suitcase for my newest jeans, before remembering I’d lent them to Nina and she hadn’t given them back. My other good pair needed washing, as did my baggy-kneed joggers, while the jeans I’d arrived in and the trousers I’d worn the day before were in a heap on the floor.

‘Oh, for god’s sake.’ Danny was probably wondering what I was doing. I jabbed my feet into my slippers and went downstairs, to see Mum zipping her jacket up.

‘I’m off to the café,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Do you have to go now?’ I went hot at the thought of being left on my own with Danny. ‘I could give you a lift in Sir Lancelot.’

‘I always walk on a Monday, if the weather’s nice.’ Mum opened the front door, letting in a blast of fresh air. ‘Look at that sunshine.’

Typical. Where was the rain when you needed it? ‘I’ll see you this afternoon then,’ I said, trying to delay her a bit longer. ‘Someone’s popping round with some paintings.’

‘Look forward to it.’ Mum hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and blew me a kiss. ‘’Bye, love.’

‘’Bye, Mrs Maitland,’ came a voice from the kitchen.

‘How many times have I told you to call me Lydia?’ Mum lowered her voice. ‘He’s such a gentleman,’ she said. ‘He’ll make someone a lovely husband one day.’

‘I can hear you, you know.’ Danny sounded amused.

‘I’m not looking for a relationship right now,’ I loud-whispered, bundling her outside.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean for you.’ She paused on the doorstep and squeezed my arm. ‘He’s obviously not your type.’

She was probably thinking about Adam, assuming I’d eventually end up with someone similar, and while I had no intention of hooking up with Danny, it hurt that she thought I’d rule him out just because he wasn’t ‘London good-looking’.

I closed the door with a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction and, adjusting the belt of my dressing gown, went into the kitchen.

My insides jumped at the sight of Danny leaning against the stove, cradling Dad’s ‘Rise and Grind’ coffee mug. I wished I’d got dressed. And that I wasn’t wearing slippers with bunny ears.

His eyes kindled at the sight of me, in a way that might have been flattering if I’d been in the mood. ‘Good morning, Miss Maitland.’

‘Hi.’ Inventive. ‘Please don’t call me Miss Maitland.’

He grinned. ‘Sorry, I’ll start again. Good morning, Cassie.’ It sounded way too intimate. He had one of those husky voices that made even the most innocent sentence sound oddly seductive.

‘’Morning,’ I said grudgingly, failing to stop my eyes from roving over him. He was wearing black jeans and a deep blue T-shirt that somehow made the details of him – skin tone, eye colour – leap out. His arms looked muscly, but not in that body-builder way I disliked, and his thighs… I quickly pulled my eyes back to his face to see him taking a similar inventory of me. Aware that my outfit hinted at a night spent twisting and turning in bed, I grew hotter and redder and folded my arms across my chest. ‘What do you want?’

There was a beat where, if we’d been starring in a romantic film, he might have said, ‘You.’ But we weren’t, and he said, ‘I’ve got something you might like,’ instead, which was almost as cheesy.

‘Is it a puppy?’ I glanced automatically at the corner of the kitchen where Rosie’s basket used to be, feeling a pang for the dopey spaniel that had been part of my life growing up.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Danny put down his mug with a clownish grimace. ‘Sorry, if I’d known…’ He lifted his hands.

‘I was joking.’

‘So was I, although I do know someone whose bitch has just had puppies, so—’

‘I don’t want a dog,’ I lied. I’d actually love a dog, to walk on the beach and to snuggle up in bed with. There’d been a ‘no dogs or cats’ rule at my flat in London and, before I met Adam, I’d been considering getting a house-rabbit for cuddles. ‘I won’t be staying here long enough, apart from anything else,’ I said, to give the impression I could be anywhere in the world at any given moment. I shuffled across to the counter and picked up the lukewarm coffee jug. ‘And my parents wouldn’t want one. They swore they’d never have another pet after Rosie died. It was too heartbreaking. We didn’t stop crying for about a fortnight…’ Aware I was talking too much, I stopped.

‘They become part of the family,’ said Danny. He must have moved closer, because I suddenly smelt something zingy that made my stomach leap. I concentrated hard on taking a mug from the cupboard and pouring out some coffee. ‘We had a lurcher called Ziggy, as soft as anything, he was. I still miss the old boy.’

A moment’s silence stretched, during which everything felt heightened; the hum of the fridge, the sound of my breathing (too fast) and the contrasting colours of deep brown coffee against the bone-white mug.

I spun round, fingers gripping the edge of the counter behind me, and the rapid movement pulled the edges of my dressing gown apart.

‘Do not disturb,’ Danny said, reading the slogan on my nightshirt, and I was surprised to see he was still standing by the stove. ‘I’m sorry if I did,’ he added. ‘Disturb you, I mean. I probably should have phoned.’

‘I’m assuming it’s part of your plan.’ I tried to sound relaxed as I pulled my dressing gown closed. ‘To “win me over”. Only, you’re not doing a very good job.’

‘Ah.’ He smirked. ‘That’s because you haven’t seen what I’ve brought.’

My stomach dipped. ‘You’d better go and get it then.’ I affected a casual tone. ‘I haven’t got all day, and you must have work to do.’

‘I’ve been working already,’ he said. ‘Moving Sylvia’s things into storage. That’s when I came across this box of stuff I thought you should have.’

Curiosity piqued, I urged, ‘Well, go on then.’

He crossed one foot over the other and folded his arms. ‘So, what is it you’re up to today that’s so important?’

‘Danny, please.’

‘OK, OK.’ He held up his hands in surrender, a smile on his infuriatingly perfect lips. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

As he opened the back door and stepped outside, a welcome whoosh of air hit my overheated skin, but I’d no sooner slurped some coffee and cursed myself for pleading than he was back, tilting under the weight of the box he was carrying.

‘Here we are,’ he said, waiting while I cleared a space on the table so he could plonk it down.

‘What’s in it?’ I pulled at the curling tape holding the top edges of the box together. As they sprang apart I peered inside to see it was crammed with pictures.

‘Recognise them?’

I glanced up to see Danny smiling a private smile, clearly anticipating my reaction, and realised my heart was beating too fast as I dug a hand inside and pulled out one of the pictures.

‘I did this.’ I stared at a painting of Seashell Cove on a summer’s day, the sea a great wash of aquamarine against the fudge-coloured sand. In fact, that’s what I’d called it. Seashell Cove on a Summer’s Day. Hardly imaginative, but it fully captured the essence. The painting positively oozed summer magic. I could almost feel my toes scrunching into the sand, and the golden sunshine bathing my neck in warmth. Not that I’d been there that day. I’d painted it from memory, in class, for an exam. I got top marks for it, too.

‘Nan used to have this on her wall,’ I said, looking it over with a critical eye. It really wasn’t that bad. There was something almost naïve about it, as though the artist had painted impulsively, keen to get down the image (which I had), but somehow it worked.

‘She had a lot of your paintings in the attic,’ said Danny. ‘She told me you didn’t like seeing them displayed, that you were embarrassed and made her take them down.’

‘I did.’ I remembered Nan saying she used to go up to her attic and look at them sometimes, but assumed it was the sort of thing all grandmothers said about their grandchildren’s artistic efforts. Mum still had a misshapen pottery vase that Rob had made her for Mother’s Day, when in Year Four, while my primary-school attempt at a felt Father Christmas with a cotton-wool beard still made it onto the Christmas tree every year.

‘I can’t believe she kept them,’ I said, pulling out picture after picture, all of them beautifully framed. Some were sketches: a pencil drawing of her and my grandfather, standing on either side of his car, smiling in a way I’d imagined rather than seen; and one of Mum and Dad stationed behind the counter of the café. Mum’s hair was a crazy spiral of curls, Dad was holding up two coffee mugs, and there was a profusion of café paraphernalia all around them. There was also a caricature of a customer with big, horsey teeth and flaring nostrils, about to bite into a scone.

‘I’d forgotten about that one,’ I said faintly. The truth was, I’d forgotten about them all, but the memories came flooding back as I looked at each one. ‘That was a terrible summer.’ I prodded a painting of a storm-lashed village, the houses and cottages seeming to cower beneath a lowering sky.

‘It rained solidly for three weeks,’ said Danny. ‘I still went fishing with my dad every day though. It was pretty miserable.’

I glanced up. He seemed lost in memories too, and not very happy ones at that. ‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘Hmm?’ It took him a moment to refocus. ‘Oh, yes. They’re fine,’ he said, but I had the feeling there was more to it than that. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘About these?’ I returned my attention to the pictures spread out on the table, feeling a mix of emotions. Pride, that I’d been… not bad. Surprise, that Nan had framed them, even though I’d ordered her not to hang them up. Why had I been so silly? I was aware, too, of a strange sense of loss… for the total absorption I used to feel while painting; the sense that all was right with the world, as long as I had a canvas and a paintbrush in my hand. Teenage feelings; the sort that were bound to fade once real life crept in, but which probably explained the urge I still felt now and then to put pencil to paper and sketch something. ‘Was she going to throw them away?’

‘Of course not,’ Danny said. ‘She’s kept her favourite, and asked me what she should do with the rest. I said you should have them.’

‘Why?’

‘I heard you were looking for some artwork to display in the café.’ He picked up a picture of a younger, mop-haired Rob, sitting hunch-shouldered at his computer.

‘And?’ I said, wondering where he’d heard that.

He swept a hand over the box of paintings, as though it was obvious. ‘So, here it is,’ he said.