Emerging from a fog of sleep the following morning, I marvelled afresh at how comfy my mattress was, and how peaceful my surroundings. No Nina, crashing around in her kitchen, or singing loudly in the shower, as if to prove a point.

I’d got along well with Nina at work, where she was senior events coordinator. When she’d realised I was good at taking orders, eager to learn, and didn’t mind the long hours, she’d taken me under her wing. But, apart from the odd drink after work, and a few confessional sessions over some wine and a takeaway, we weren’t exactly best mates. She’d always stressed the importance of maintaining a professional relationship – even if she hadn’t always stuck to it.

She’d offered me her sofa bed when I decided not to renew the lease on my flat, and had let me store my things in her basement, but hadn’t wanted me there too long because she’d started dating her personal trainer, and having an unemployed house guest wasn’t conducive to romance.

‘Do you really want to stay in event planning?’ she’d asked one evening, while I was scouring job sites on my laptop in my bathrobe, and she was painting her nails a deathly shade of blue. ‘Maybe it’s time for a change.’

Panic had caught hold of me. After all the hours I’d put in at Five Star, and the skills I’d learned, how could I even think about giving it up? I was only a few years into the glittering career I’d planned after completing a management course at college and moving to London with a friend on a wave of optimism. The first couple of years had been thrillingly chaotic, brimming with excitement, even if the jobs I’d ended up doing mostly involved waiting on tables, or making the tea at some fancy agency. At weekends, we’d wander around art galleries and museums, and visit pubs and clubs in the evenings, and it was only when it began to sink in that my career hadn’t exactly started that some of the sparkle vanished. Then, my friend Trudy had landed a job at Five Star and persuaded Carlotta to take me on to chase up bookings and liaise with suppliers. Even though Trudy had left soon after, following her new boyfriend to Italy, I’d grabbed the opportunity with both hands. I was determined to make my mark in the world of event planning and relieved I was finally on my way to becoming the successful businesswoman I’d assured my family I would be. It had never occurred to me to give it up – even with a boss as difficult as Carlotta, who seemed increasingly annoyed by my attempts to rise from the ranks of assistant to… something more than an assistant. But now my plans had been cut short, thanks to a hungry goat and a grumpy Shetland pony. Event planning was a competitive market, and as I’d been fired with no chance of securing a reference from Carlotta (apart from a character assassination) I was struggling to get even as far as an interview. Going solo seemed to be my only option, but with nothing to show for my time at Five Star I was fighting a losing battle, and with nowhere to live I’d had no choice but to come home.

I’d decided early on not to tell my family the real reason I was back. Much better to subtly set the wheels of my new future in motion, before returning to London with a portfolio of events I could show to prospective clients. In no time at all, I’d have a list of bookings, my own little army of staff, and perhaps a nice apartment near a park or some gardens. My parents would be even prouder if I had my own business, and would probably end up seeing more of me in the long run. There’d been no time to visit them for more than a flying visit at Christmas over the last few years, and on their occasional forays into London they’d ended up visiting the tourist spots on their own, because work had been so crazy that I’d had to be available all the time.

Sighing now, I thrust off my duvet and swung my legs out of bed. It felt odd to be up so late. I normally set two alarms to make sure I was awake at five thirty, ready to email suppliers and check out venues, before grabbing coffee for Carlotta on the way to the office.

I picked up Mr Rabbit, who looked rather doleful, and gave him a reassuring kiss, then wandered downstairs in my pyjamas, pausing to look at the photos lining the wall. There were several of Rob and me in school uniform, with missing front teeth; a couple of us on the beach at Seashell Cove, exploring the rock pools, sand clinging to our skinny legs; and a recent one of Rob onstage, playing his keyboard with one hand. My gaze skimmed over a selfie my parents had framed of me at an event in New York, surrounded by people in Bollywood fancy dress. I was grinning manically, despite battling a forty-eight-hour headache, and I remembered I’d had to remove a faulty lighting box that had started billowing smoke, before anyone noticed. Someone had noticed, though, and had reported it to Carlotta, who’d given me my first warning.

I wondered whether Rob was still in bed. I hadn’t heard him come in the night before, but I’d been so tired after dinner I’d barely been able to keep my eyes open, and could only summon one face-splitting yawn after another when Mum had attempted to probe me about what I’d meant by ‘putting the café on the map’.

‘You’ll see,’ I’d managed, attempting an enigmatic smile as another yawn broke out, and, to my relief, Dad had suggested I take myself to bed with a mug of tea. I hadn’t argued, and had quickly succumbed to the merciful pull of sleep.

The kitchen was deserted, but there was a note on the table in Mum’s loopy handwriting:

She’d gone a bit overboard on the exclamation marks and I had the sense that my mum in particular was behaving as though a celebrity had come to visit. Imagining her disappointment if she knew why I was home, it suddenly became imperative that I start planning my future, and my thoughts turned to the café.

On my last visit home, I’d gathered that business wasn’t too good, and yesterday it had occurred to me on the train that it shouldn’t be too hard to re-launch an old-fashioned café in south Devon. Not when I’d helped to arrange lavish corporate affairs, and the wedding of a minor soap star. It would be a perfect opportunity to network and, once word spread, job offers would start flooding in. Maybe I could persuade a local magazine or newspaper to run a feature, and I could subtly mention I’d worked at Five Star… without going into too much detail.

On a sea of enthusiasm, I set about breaking eggs into a pan.

‘Rob!’ I called from the foot of the stairs, impatient to see him and start trading stories now we were under the same roof for the first time in ages. ‘Rob?’

Even before I ran up to check, I knew he wasn’t there. Judging by the state of his bed, he’d been wrestling a giant squid all night. Dejected, I returned to the kitchen. Had I really imagined us eating around the table like we had as kids? That Mum and Dad would have asked one of their staff to open the café, so they didn’t have to rush in? Then I remembered, I hadn’t been due home until today, so of course they wouldn’t have made plans.

‘Get a grip, Maitland,’ I ordered, in a sergeant-major voice, rescuing the eggs before they burnt. Once I’d eaten, I stood for a while at the window overlooking the sunny garden, where the old swing and slide set were rusting away at the bottom, then went to retrieve my laptop from my bedroom to make a ‘to do’ list. No time like the present, as Carlotta used to say, with a tight-lipped smile that never reached her eyes.

Dad fancied himself as a coffee connoisseur, because his grandmother had been French and had introduced him to espresso at an unnaturally early age – according to Nan, he’d be bouncing off the walls for hours after a visit there, and once stayed awake for nearly forty-eight hours – but he’d been stocking the same brand at the café for years.

I remembered a company that Five Star had dealt with in the past, and logged on to their website. I selected several varieties from around the globe, adding some unusual teas for good measure. A taster session at the café – or ‘cupping’ as it was known – would make a perfect first event.

Having racked my brains for more ideas, I decided it might be sensible to take a look at the café with fresh eyes, and clapped my laptop shut with a sense of relief.

After a quick shower, I dragged my hair into a ponytail and pulled on a slouchy pink top and blue jeans, happy not to be wearing my usual monochromatic work outfit, designed to look ‘professional, but to blend in’.

Outside, spring had returned, bathing the street in pleasantly warm sunshine. On the other side of the street, Sid Turner was buffing his old blue Ford outside his house, and threw me a friendly wave as I came out.

‘Visiting your mum and dad?’ he called, as if there might be another reason for me being in their house.

‘I thought it was about time.’ I crossed the road in a confident fashion befitting a woman too busy to pop home often.

The wrinkles of his face lifted into a smile. ‘Still not got a car?’ he asked, patting the Ford’s bonnet as if it was a beloved pet. ‘I can still remember your dad teaching you to drive, and you kangarooing down the road.’

I smiled and shook my head. ‘No need, in London.’ It struck me that I’d have to get a car – providing I could remember how to drive – if I was going to stay in Devon. ‘I just hop on the Underground.’

‘Rather you than me.’ He shook his head, probably imagining worse things happening on Tube trains than being ignored by your fellow passengers. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got a driver, what with you doing so well.’ Mum had obviously been extolling my virtues, but my salary – while generous by Devon standards – had hardly extended to being carted around the city by a uniformed chauffeur. ‘Hey, do you remember when you and your friends formed a girl band?’ With a throaty chuckle, he folded his polishing cloth into the pocket of his faded corduroys. ‘What was it you called yourselves?’

‘Legal Mystics,’ I said right away, still proud of the name I’d come up with. ‘It was an anagram of Meg, Tilly and Cass.’

‘That’s it.’ Sid chuckled again. ‘You did that show for everyone in your mum and dad’s back garden, do you remember?’

‘Hard to forget,’ I said drily. We’d thought we were so edgy, channelling our favourite band All Saints in combat trousers, teeny vest tops and chunky trainers. The summer we turned fifteen, we’d been in possession of a wild and soaring confidence that even a lack of talent couldn’t dent, and had wowed our family and neighbours with a well-choreographed performance. Rob had accompanied us on his electronic keyboard, risking the mockery of his mates. I wondered what Meg and Tilly were doing now. We’d met at secondary school in Kingsbridge, drawn there from our respective villages – Meg from Salcombe and Tilly from Ivybridge – and had bonded during a fire drill on the first day, when Tilly offered Meg and me some chewing gum (immediately confiscated).

‘And now it’s your brother who’s in a band, not that his music’s my cup of tea. I prefer a bit of rock and roll,’ said Sid, clearly hungry for company. I guessed his wife was visiting her sister in Scotland, which she’d done every April for as long as I could remember. ‘Performing all over the world,’ he went on, sucking in a breath. ‘I don’t know how your parents coped with the pair of you off goodness knows where from such a young age.’

‘Not that young.’ My smile faded. ‘They wanted us to be independent.’

‘Of course they did.’ Sid’s rheumy eyes grew big, as if worried he’d said something wrong. ‘They’re very proud of you both,’ he added, turning back to his gleaming car, and bending to polish the bumper with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I’d better let you get on.’

A little unnerved at being so hastily dismissed, I said goodbye and headed for the lane behind the sloping row of colourful houses that led to the cove; a shortcut Rob and I used to take as children to avoid the longer walk through the village.

As I finally emerged onto the coastal path, a smile leapt to my face. There was so much space. When I was in London, Seashell Cove had shrunk in my memory to a tiny, twinkling jewel, when in reality there was so much of everything – sky, sea… clean air.

The stretch of sand in the cove was as butterscotch golden as I’d remembered, and the sea a perfect, shimmering turquoise. Waves lapped the shore where the curve of the headland hugged the beach and I stood and listened, until my heart was beating in perfect synchronicity. It was hard to imagine that the area had once had a reputation for smuggling, and for plundering ships that had been wrecked on the jutting rocks on the other side of the headland. Today, it looked holiday-brochure perfect.

I switched my gaze to the café nestled on top of the headland, surrounded by a white picket fence, the light dancing off its whitewashed walls… Hang on! There hadn’t been a white picket fence the last time I’d looked, and the exterior hadn’t been quite that white. Had the windows – wide and deep to make the most of the view – always been as sparkly? And where had those tables outside come from, with navy and white parasols offering shade from the sun? They looked a lot smarter than the bench tables, worn and scarred by the elements, which had been a fixture for as long as I could remember.

Hurrying now, I almost tripped along the path, suddenly too warm in my jeans and slouchy top, wishing that I’d worn a vest underneath so I could take the top off.

Growing closer to the café, I was surprised to see that the tables outside were crowded with customers. As far as I remembered, the café only got this busy at the weekends, and even then the regulars had been more inclined to sit inside, even when it was sunny, probably so used to the view that it barely registered.

A couple of customers had laptops and looked to be working, which couldn’t be right. Mum and Dad didn’t agree with anything but the most basic technology at the café, insisting it was a place for people to escape to, not for ‘laptop lingerers’. I’d suggested more than once that they get Wi-Fi installed, to compete with the chain cafés springing up everywhere, and Dad had told me, with a sorrowful look, that I ‘didn’t get it’.

‘Old-fashioned charm, that’s what our customers want.’

‘There’s old-fashioned and there’s pre-war,’ I’d grumbled, concerned that their reluctance to move with the times might one day spell the end of their business, but from the look of it they’d taken my words on board.

As I made my way to the entrance, I noticed one customer sketching the view on an artist’s pad, and a group of women discussing a book they’d read. A book group? At Maitland’s Café? Feeling destabilised, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. At least in here nothing would have changed.

My eyes swung round and my mouth fell open.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Everything had changed.