‘It’s definitely you, I’d know those eyes anywhere.’ Danny came to a halt on the grass in front of me, rugged and casually groomed, a delighted smile on his face. Where had those cheekbones come from? ‘My schoolboy crush, no less.’ He pressed a palm to his heart, his eyes sparkling. They were a greenish-blue colour. Just like the ocean.

My smile was lasting a lot longer than I’d meant it to, and my heart appeared to have hiccups. ‘Danny Fleetwood, as I live and breathe.’ I had no idea why I’d adopted an Irish accent, or why a flood of warmth had shocked my body into life. Probably the surprise of seeing him after all this time. He was taller than I remembered, with a suggestion of strength in the width of his shoulders, and his chest – from what I could see – was tanned and well-muscled beneath a downy fuzz of hair. ‘You should button your shirt, you’ll catch a chill.’ I’d intended to sound wry to disguise the effect he was having, but unfortunately my breathing had gone haywire and I sounded as if I was planning to rip his shirt off. ‘At least you don’t wax your chest,’ I added, wondering where all my saliva had gone. My tongue was making an unattractive clicking noise against the roof of my mouth. ‘Or, maybe you do, I wouldn’t know, men do wax a lot more these days, it’s called male grooming.’

‘You seem very interested in the topic.’ The width of Danny’s grin suggested he was enjoying every second of seeing me squirm. ‘For the record, I’ve never waxed any part of my body and never will. Apart from the pain involved, I believe we were born with body hair for a reason.’

‘Yes, it’s to keep us warm, and to act as a barrier against infection,’ said Nan, reminding us she was there, watching our exchange with open curiosity. ‘I was seeing a GP for a while,’ she added, by way of an explanation. ‘I stopped shaving my bits a while ago.’

Catching Danny’s look of amused horror, I quickly asked him, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Helping this lovely lady get back to nature,’ he said, raising an imaginary hat to Nan. ‘The allotment’s doing well, and I’ve just finished constructing a composting toilet behind the shed.’

I looked at her, appalled. ‘Please tell me you’re not going outside, when you’ve got a perfectly functioning toilet indoors?’ Nan merely raised her eyebrows. ‘How has clearing out your wardrobe led to this?’

‘I told you, I want to be kind to the environment,’ she said. ‘I saw a television programme about it.’

‘Seeing it on TV doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’ I was glad to have a new focus for my jumbled feelings. ‘Didn’t you read an article at the dentist’s?’

‘I did, ma chérie, and then I watched a documentary about how we’re damaging the planet and it spoke to my soul.’

‘But weeing in your garden won’t make any difference, Nan. It’s not like getting rid of all the plastic from the sea.’

‘No, but every little helps.’ She was infuriatingly calm, as though she’d been given a sedative. ‘Marcus helped me to research it before I ended our relationship,’ she said. ‘He’s not cut out for living the simple life. And by simple life, I mean being self-sufficient. That man practically lives on ready-meals. Tesco’s bangers and mash, to be precise, and you should see all the packaging they use.’

I looked at Danny, who was studying the patch of grass around his boot-clad feet and rubbing the back of his neck. His hair had lightened over the years to a warm, golden-brown shade of toffee or caramel, and he wore it longer than he had at high school, when most of the boys favoured buzz-cuts. ‘Do you think you should be encouraging her?’ I said.

When he raised his eyes to mine, my breathing faltered again. ‘I’m sure you know perfectly well that Sylvia has a mind of her own.’ He was still smiling, but some of his sparkle had gone, and it struck me that I was bringing the mood down yet again.

‘Sorry,’ I said to Nan, who graciously bowed her head. ‘It’s just a lot to take in.’

A cloud passed over the sun, and a pair of pigeons clattered out of the hedge, making me jump. I fixed my gaze on a giant bee hovering over a spray of pink flowers that had somehow survived Nan’s cull. Presumably they were allowed to stay as they’d grown outside. Their scent mingled with oil paint, wood chips and something like warm skin, which seemed to be emanating from Danny, making it even harder to think clearly. I was glad when Nan broke the silence by saying, ‘I’ll go and fetch you both a drink.’

‘Good idea,’ I said, gratefully.

‘Lovely,’ said Danny at the same time. ‘Ma throat’s as dry as a country road in a heatwave.’

His Texan accent was a lot more successful than my Irish one, reminding me that he’d had a gift for mimicry at school, particularly the Geordie twang of our art teacher, Miss Finch. As if remembering too, he gave me a crooked smile that sent a blast of desire rocketing through me. It’s Danny Fleetwood I reminded myself, in the sternest voice I could summon (which sounded a lot like Carlotta’s). Danny Fleetwood who’d once invited me to a school leavers’ party and had promptly stood me up. Probably an early indicator of future behaviour. A man who probably went into flirt mode with every female he met. A man who spent his days sign-writing and making outdoor toilets, which wasn’t a proper job. If he hadn’t settled on a career by now, he probably never would, and I doubted he was financially stable.

Not like Adam, whose salary could have supported a Third World country.

‘You didn’t do anything with your art, then?’ I said, at the same time that Danny said, ‘Your hair’s a different colour.’

‘It’s Plumberry.’ The words were laced with a hefty dose of defiance and I wondered why I was behaving as if I’d never spoken to a good-looking member of the opposite sex before. Adam had been (was) extremely handsome, albeit in a more textbook way; square-jawed and clean-shaven, with a rugby-player’s physique from early-morning gym sessions, and intensely dark brown eyes. ‘A mixture of plums and berries,’ I added, as if more explanation was required.

Danny tilted his head, squinting his eyes as the sun reappeared. ‘I’d say it was more Ribena.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘I happen to like Ribena,’ he said.

Not sure what to do with my hands – more used to clutching an iPad to look things up, or my work phone so I could take calls at all hours of the day or night – I stuck them in the pouch at the front of my top and moistened my lips with my tongue. ‘I’m thinking of growing it out,’ I said, as he appeared to be waiting for an explanation. ‘It’s not really me.’ Why had I told him that? ‘It fitted with my image, I suppose.’ I wished he’d stop looking at me like that. As if he’d dug up a Roman coin and was trying to work out its value.

‘What image was that, then?’

‘I’m in event management.’ I couldn’t quite summon the requisite enthusiasm, so it came out sounding as interesting as filing legal documents. ‘With a big company based in London. At least, I was.’

‘Yes, your mum told me.’ He bashed his spade into the ground and leaned on the handle, so his face was close to mine. He had a grazing of stubble around the lower half of his face, and I wondered whether he was growing a beard, or just too lazy to shave. ‘And you reckon purple hair’s essential for planning events?’

‘It’s not purple, it’s—’

‘Blueberryplumble. I get it.’ A grin lifted his well-drawn lips. Stop looking at his lips. ‘Your parents are insanely proud of you, you know.’

‘Tell me about it.’

He straightened. ‘They certainly told me all about it.’

I grimaced, trying to hold his gaze and not think about my stupid hair colour. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘I could hardly connect the woman they were describing with the girl I shared art classes with.’ His eyes gleamed and widened. ‘The girl who sketched a not-very-flattering caricature of Miss Finch when she was supposed to be doing a self portrait.’

‘I didn’t like looking at myself.’ Embarrassed, I glanced down to see I looked pregnant with my hands bunched in my pouch, so I snatched them out and folded my arms instead. Why hadn’t I brought my bag so I could fiddle about with it, like normal women? ‘Anyway, she liked my drawing.’

‘Exactly,’ said Danny, one finger stabbing the air. ‘So how come you ended up planning all these a-MAZING’ – his impression of Mum was uncanny – ‘events for high-profile clients, instead of doing something arty?’

‘How come you’re digging gardens?’ I shot back, unwilling to enter into a defence of my choice of career with Danny Fleetwood, of all people. ‘You were pretty good, too, as I recall.’

‘Ah, so you did notice me?’

His teasing grin sent all my blood to my face. ‘Hard not to when you were constantly messing about. Sometimes, all you did was flick paint at your canvas, and pretend you were the next Jackson Pollock.’

‘Still got a good grade though, didn’t I?’

‘So did I.’

‘I know,’ he said with a slow nod. ‘Because you were really good.’

His words produced a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. My temperature gauge was all over the place. ‘I liked painting, that was all,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to take it any further.’ I remembered Rob’s words from earlier, about his music. If I had pursued art, I’d probably hate it now, like he’d gone off music. ‘And, anyway, I wasn’t that good.’

If I’d been half hoping Danny would disagree, I was disappointed. ‘Sign-writing’s a form of art,’ he pointed out.

‘It’s writing with paint.’ I was being horribly unfair, but couldn’t seem to stop myself carrying on. ‘And isn’t it a dying trade? Most shops use vinyl lettering these days.’ I’d picked up that nugget from a feature I’d read online about the urban art scene in London. I might not paint or draw any more, but I liked reading about people who did.

Danny pretended to look hurt – or maybe he really was. ‘It’s a bit more than writing with paint,’ he said. ‘There’s been a revival. Businesses like the personal touch, something bespoke. Like your parents, for instance.’

‘How did you end up at the café?’ Embarrassment was making me blunt. ‘Nothing better to do?’

‘Christ, you’re grumpier than I remember.’ He swung back and held his arm out, as if to ward off an attack. ‘Tilly Campbell recommended me, do you remember her?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘I bumped into her when I came back from Spain.’

‘You’ve been to Spain?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’ His smile was bright with mischief. ‘I haven’t been holed up in my bedroom for the past ten years, playing with my Gameboy. And that’s not a euphemism.’

I didn’t want to think about him doing anything in his bedroom, but found I was picturing him lounging on a revolving (why?) king-sized bed in his pants, and had to work hard to overcome a powerful blush.

‘I spent a year over there, honing my trades,’ he said. ‘Lived with a Señorita for a while, but it didn’t work out.’

‘Thanks for that update.’

‘Listen, while you’re around we should have a drink and catch up properly,’ he said, as if I hadn’t just been unnecessarily sarcastic. ‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘Why would that bother me?’ I said. ‘I don’t care whether or not you’re seeing anyone.’

‘Are you seeing anyone?’

‘Maybe.’ It was hard to understand why he was still smiling that stupidly sexy smile, which he probably practised in front of a mirror, when my body language was anything but inviting. My mind volleyed to Adam’s face. He had a lovely smile, too, which showcased his perfectly aligned teeth. ‘Does it matter if I am?’

‘It might do, if I want to win you over,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be treading on anyone’s toes.’

For a second, I felt as if I was falling. ‘Why would you want to win me over?’ Especially when you couldn’t be bothered the last time. The words didn’t make it to my lips. ‘You’re not even my type.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve thought about you sometimes, over the years,’ he said, bringing his gaze back to mine. ‘Wondered how you were doing.’

He’d probably said the same thing to Tilly, who I imagined was still about ten times more his type than I ever would be. ‘Funny, because I haven’t thought about you at all,’ I said. ‘We can’t have spent more than two days together, tops. In a classroom with other people, years ago. Where you mostly made fun of our teacher behind her back.’

‘Listen, about the leavers’ party that night,’ he said, his eyes scrunching, as if suddenly remembering he hadn’t bothered to turn up. ‘I had a good reason for not being there. I really wanted to let you know, but couldn’t find you, and—’

‘You had a better offer,’ I chipped in, remembering the girl I’d seen him with, who’d looked a lot like Jennifer Hartwell from what I’d made out, and everyone knew that boys couldn’t resist her. ‘It’s fine, it’s all in the past and, anyway, I got off with Lenny Jamieson.’ Everyone had known of Lenny Jamieson’s heart-throb status, and with his habit of choosing a lucky recipient every week to ‘go out with’ it wasn’t unfeasible that it could have been my turn.

‘Really?’ His smile didn’t falter.

‘Yes, really. We spent most of the night snogging.’

He teased the spade out of the ground and hoisted it over one shoulder, looking every inch a seasoned gardener, down to his mud-encrusted boots. ‘Well, maybe it’s time I made it up to you,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Let me win you over properly this time.’

I had no idea why my heart was flipping about like a fish. ‘Isn’t there anything better to do around here?’

Before he could answer, Nan returned, carrying a mug in each hand, her robe flapping dangerously around her ankles, and I experienced another little shock at how different she looked. ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing us each a drink.

‘What is it?’ I peered inside, preparing myself for something home-made and herbal, probably featuring dandelion leaves, which I’d have to force down to be polite.

‘Tap water,’ she said. ‘I know you’re probably used to drinking it out of bottles, but – as you’ve already pointed out – all that plastic’s incredibly bad for the environment.’

‘I’m not actually, I just… you were gone for a while, that’s all, I thought you were…’ Leaving us alone together. ‘Making something… else.’ I watched Danny’s throat ripple as he guzzled his drink in one go. ‘You usually drink coffee.’

‘No more, unless it’s decaf and fair trade,’ Nan said. ‘Plus, I’m cleansing at the moment, purifying my body.’

Unable to cope with the image this presented, I gulped some water then handed the mug back. ‘Listen, Nan, I’ll let you get on,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to pop by and say hi.’

‘You should join me for a meditation session some time.’ She grasped my hand. ‘You seem very tense, Cassandra.’

‘I’m fine.’ I laughed lightly to prove it, aware I must look anything but, with my shiny red face and a pulse twitching beneath my right eye. ‘I’ve got lots of plans for while I’m here.’ I sensed Danny listening and tried to stay focused on Nan. ‘I’m arranging some events for the café.’

‘You work too hard, chérie.’ She squeezed my hand, a smile creasing her eyes. ‘What are these events?’

‘I’ll keep you posted.’

‘That means she doesn’t know,’ said Danny.

I rounded on him. ‘It means mind your own business.’ I sounded more like a truculent teenager than the career woman I was striving to be. ‘What are your plans?’

He grinned. ‘Well, I was planning to carry on doing a bit of this and that, as usual, but now I have a new challenge to look forward to.’

‘That’s right.’ Although his words had been directed at me, Nan had misunderstood. ‘He’s trying to find me a jeune coq.’

‘Beg pardon?’ said Danny.

‘She means cockerel.’ I frowned at Nan. ‘It’s French.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Danny gave me a stagey wink. ‘Looks like I’ve got two challenges on my hands.’

I could hardly say, ‘I don’t want to be a challenge,’ with Nan listening. Instead, I said, ‘I’ve really got to go,’ and glanced at my watch as if I had a vital appointment. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Nan.’

I turned and hurried away on legs that felt strangely wonky, aware of their eyes on my back and trying not to wonder whether they’d talk about me.

I’d thought coming home would be a port in a storm – a chance to regroup and start over – but, if anything, I felt more unsettled than I had when I’d lost my job.