I’d hoped the beach might be empty, but we immediately ran into a dark-haired couple walking a muscular dog, and I recognised the woman as one of the neighbours who’d told Ollie ‘his sort’ weren’t welcome.

‘Our Brian was awake the rest of the night after your visitor woke him up.’ Her voice was ripe with disapproval.

I glanced at her husband, who was trying to control the dog as it strained on its lead. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him, jogging on the spot.

‘I’m talking about Brian.’ The woman pointed at the hound, her expression darkening. ‘He’s a rescue dog and Celia Appleton told us to keep him calm, but how can we do that when there’s rioting on the streets?’

‘Hardly rioting,’ I panted. I stopped jogging, grateful for a reprieve, even if the woman looked murderous. My lungs already felt on fire and we’d only run from the car, parked by the harbour. ‘But it won’t happen again,’ I said, watching Craig back up when he realised I wasn’t beside him.

‘I should hope not.’ The woman was shorter and skinnier than me, but had a ferocious air not dissimilar to the dog’s. ‘And we don’t want someone like him passing judgement,’ she continued. ‘What does he know about Christmas lights?’

‘What do any of us know?’ I kept my voice buoyant, while wishing a wave would sweep in and knock her off her feet. ‘He’ll be fair, don’t you worry.’

‘Not after I told him off last night, he won’t.’ She jutted her jaw at me, while her husband, throwing me a rueful smile, allowed himself to be dragged away by Brian. ‘You should never have invited him to stay with you, it’s… unethical.’

‘Unethical?’

‘He’s meant to be impartial, but how can he be now he’s met us? He’s bound to have formed opinions.’

She had a valid point. ‘Emotions won’t come into it,’ I assured her, with more conviction than I felt. ‘He’ll make a decision based solely on which display he thinks is the best.’

‘But isn’t it subjective?’ She dug her hands in the pockets of her navy fleece. ‘I mean, one person’s best is another’s worst.’

Flaming Nora. ‘Surely the same could be said of any judge.’

‘Exactly!’ Her face lit up with triumph. ‘That’s always been my point.’

‘What has?’ I willed Craig to intervene but he was a little way off, doing lunges, though I had the sense he was listening.

‘We shouldn’t be judged at all,’ she said, shaking a strand of black hair from her eyes. ‘The lights are there for everyone to enjoy. It shouldn’t be a competition, or if it is, everyone should win.’

I’d heard similar comments about school sports days, which is why all the children were now given a star and told they were winners, even when they came last.

But these people aren’t children.

‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ I said, copying Craig by rotating my shoulders. I should have warmed up before setting off, but I’d been so distracted at being caught with his headphones, which I’d blushingly said I’d been ‘trying on’ because I needed a new set, that when he’d asked if I was an experienced runner, I’d said yes. ‘Being competitive has all sorts of benefits.’

‘Such as?’ She looked at me sceptically, seemingly unbothered that her husband was being yanked along the shoreline by a bounding Brian.

‘Well, it can encourage innovation and creativity, and make people more goal-orientated, and it teaches us that losing is part of life.’ OK, so it was a speech more geared to schoolchildren, but it still felt salient.

‘It leads to arguments, falling out, feeling pressured, and some people thinking they’re better than everyone else.’

One nil to grumpy neighbour. ‘The first rule of competition: in order to win, you have to want it more!’ It was a quote from Desperate Housewives and intended to make her smile – if she was capable of such a feat.

Her skinny eyebrows knotted together. ‘You’re encouraging that kind of behaviour? Triumphing over others?’

Oh jeepers. ‘No, not at all,’ I said, doing some star jumps to work off some nervous energy. I should have worn a sports bra, but didn’t possess one. ‘Don’t you think you’re taking it a bit too seriously?’

‘Lambert and Flannery are the ones who take it seriously.’ She made them sound like a comedy double-act. ‘It used to be fun, when everyone had a chance of winning.’

‘You don’t have to take part,’ I risked pointing out.

‘Of course we don’t take part.’

I paused, mid-lunge. ‘You don’t?’

She rolled her eyes, as if I was the stupidest person she’d ever met. ‘Don’t you listen? I just told you, I don’t believe in competing.’

As I struggled for an effective response, Craig finally came over. ‘Hello, Annabel,’ he said, in a friendly fashion.

‘Oh, hi!’ Her face melted into a smile that took years off her and revealed a pair of dimples. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’ She looked at me as though I’d tricked her. ‘I’m sorry about having a go at you last night,’ she said to him, sounding like a different person. ‘But Ollie whatsisname was making such a racket, and like I was telling you the other day, I don’t believe that celebrities should be allowed to get away with doing whatever they want.’ Was she actually batting her lashes? ‘I wouldn’t really have called the police, I just wanted to scare him.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, in a warm voice. ‘We’ll soon be out of your hair but in the meantime, I hope you’ll bear with us.’

She dimpled at him again. ‘I think we can manage that.’ She gave a low, provocative laugh. ‘Seeing as you asked so nicely.’

Craig dipped his head, modestly. ‘You’ll be there tomorrow, to see Ollie switch on the tree lights?’

‘Be at the square or be square.’ She giggled – giggled! – and gave him a double thumbs-up. ‘You can count us in.’

I sensed her staring after us as we jogged away, before a piercing whistle brought Brian bounding up the beach, the red-faced husband still clinging to its leash.

‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse?’ It came out breathy, due to the jogging, and sounded as though I was flirting.

Craig’s feet were pounding the beach in a steady rhythm, whereas mine felt encased in concrete. My trainers were full of sand. ‘She’s OK,’ he said, mildly.

‘Maybe with you.’

‘I can’t help having the knack.’ He flashed a grin to show he was joking – even though clearly it was true. He fixed his eyes back on the pier, where we’d agreed to run to, before circling back along the parade to the car. ‘Everyone has a story.’

‘What’s yours?’ I said. It seemed easier to ask out there, surrounded by the elements, though I was having trouble hearing above the roar of my heartbeat.

‘You probably know some of it, if you’ve talked to Ollie,’ he said.

‘Not much.’

I thought he wasn’t going to answer and took the opportunity to try to steady my breathing. Then he said, ‘My father worked as a gardener for the Mathesons for most of his adult life and my mother died when I was sixteen.’

I threw him a look. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, but I’d had a good childhood up until then, and the Mathesons were very good to us. And I had Ollie, who always treated me like a brother.’

‘Are you an only child?’

He nodded. ‘You?’

‘Older brother and we had a happy childhood, too.’

‘When did you lose your dad?’

I stumbled and almost fell. Craig shot out a hand, but I recovered and kept on going. ‘Nearly three years ago,’ I said. ‘I miss his voice.’ His warm, comforting hug of a voice. He’d loved to talk on the phone. After I’d moved out, I’d call home every Sunday evening and we’d put the world to rights. My friends had teased me about it, but I’d looked forward to those conversations. ‘We came here on holiday a few times.’

I remembered how, once, Dad carried me along this stretch of beach on his shoulders, because I didn’t want to get sand in my new sneakers, and, when I went to splash in the sea, he put them in a bag to protect them.

‘I still miss my mother,’ Craig said, elbows slicing the air. ‘It gets easier, but never really goes away.’

‘I suppose it’s not love if it doesn’t hurt.’ Chris once said that, in a rare moment of brotherly insight. It hadn’t helped much, at the time.

‘Exactly,’ said Craig.

I waited for the usual punch of grief, and when it came a sob escaped but I didn’t stop running. I kept going, even though my chest was burning and I knew my cheeks were beetroot. I picked up speed until I was in synch with Craig and, as the pier grew closer, the salty wind tossed my hair and dried the tears on my cheeks.

When we arrived I felt like I’d burst through a barrier. ‘WOO-HOO!’ I cried, waving my arms in the air. Then I doubled over, hands on my knees, and swallowed some sick.

‘Not bad.’ Craig was barely out of breath as he smiled down at me. His hair was windswept too, but he radiated health and well-being, whereas I felt like my organs had shifted.

‘I’ll race you to the end,’ he challenged. ‘Last one there puts the kettle on when we get back.’

I launched after him but a stitch took hold and I hobbled most of the way, clutching my sides.

‘You’re not an experienced runner, are you?’ he said, when I finally reached him. He was leaning against the rail at the end of the pier, eyes bright with amusement.

I rested my chin on the cold metal beside him and let my arms dangle over. ‘How can you tell?’

‘You were clutching your boobs at one point and your feet were sort of turned in.’

‘Sand in my shoes.’ I waited for my supercharged heartbeat to slow down.

‘You might want to get some proper running shoes.’ His arm nudged mine. ‘And maybe warm up, next time.’

I straightened, elated to realise that I wanted to go running again. I liked running! ‘I will,’ I said, stretching my arms out and doing a couple of side bends. ‘See, I’m cooling down as well.’

‘It’s cold enough already.’ He tipped his eyes and scanned the cloud-laden sky. ‘Maybe more snow’s on the way.’

‘I’m really hot,’ I said and grew even warmer when his eyes widened slightly. He bit his lip as though holding back a response, and I realised I was grinning.

We walked back to the car, arms occasionally brushing, and he told me how his dad had been paralysed from the waist down in a car accident, four years earlier. ‘Drunk driver,’ he said, mouth tightening around the words.

‘Is that why you went back to Players instead of finishing your Everest show?’

He shot me a look. ‘I needed a regular income to help pay for his care, plus I needed to be around.’

‘Couldn’t Ollie help out?’ It was a stupid question, and I regretted it instantly, but Craig didn’t seem offended.

‘He’s offered, more than once, and so have his family, but it’s my responsibility,’ he said. ‘And we’re managing just fine.’

I felt a flare of admiration and back in the car was emboldened to ask, ‘What would you do if you weren’t a cameraman on a reality show?’

He looked through the windscreen as he fastened his seat belt, as if seeing the future unfold in the car park. ‘I’d move to a small seaside town, meet a beautiful girl and settle down. Then I’d pitch a brilliant idea to television companies and let them fight it out.’

Heat rushed to my cheeks. ‘Don’t you have a beautiful girlfriend at home, wherever that is?’

‘I’ve been living with my father, not far from the Mathesons’ place in Hertfordshire.’

‘The shack?’ I said, remembering what Ollie had called it.

Craig gave a small smile as he started the car and turned the heating up. ‘Let’s just say our place is a lot less grand, but it’s home.’

‘You have someone to care for your father?’

He nodded. ‘When necessary. I had the house adapted and our neighbour, Linda, is more than happy to pop in and keep him company. I think they might have got married if he hadn’t had his accident, but he wouldn’t hear of it afterwards. Said he didn’t want to be a burden.’

I was silent for a moment as his words sank in. Dad had gone quickly, with no suffering. Wasn’t that better than lingering in pain?

‘He gets plenty of enjoyment out of life, believe me,’ Craig said, reading me like a book. ‘And to answer the rest of your question, there’s no girlfriend.’ My face zinged with warmth. ‘Let’s just say my lifestyle hasn’t lent itself to having a serious relationship.’

‘You must have met a lot of women on Players.’

His jaw clenched. ‘Not really my type, and none I’d want a serious relationship with.’

‘Is the show you mentioned pitching, Ordinary Lives?’

He slid me a look. ‘Do you mean, Behind Closed Doors?’

Whoops. ‘I saw your notes,’ I confessed, a flush enveloping my whole body.

‘I know.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘You didn’t put my notepad away properly.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to spying.’

‘It’s OK.’ Craig’s smile broadened. ‘But I like my title better.’

‘Well, keep mine in mind, in case the producers want to change it.’

He held my gaze, and my heart danced against my ribcage. ‘The night you arrived,’ I said, pushing the words out with difficulty. ‘When I answered the door, did… did you see… anything?’

He nodded gravely. ‘A very surprised, and possibly tipsy, woman in a face mask, clutching a cat with a chicken part in its mouth.’

I tried to read his expression, which didn’t waver. ‘And… and that’s all?’

His face softened. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I could have throttled Ollie for catching you out like that, but I promise I didn’t look… for too long.’

I gave an embarrassed laugh and covered my face. ‘Oh god.’

His fingers gently circled my wrist and drew my hand away. ‘I wasn’t filming, anyway,’ he said. ‘There was never any footage to delete.’

When we arrived back at the cottage I noticed Barry’s Explorer had gone, but Sheelagh’s car was parked on the drive.

Craig was looking, too. ‘I might try them again this afternoon,’ he said.

‘The Lamberts?’ I was glad we weren’t pretending he was only here to film Ollie, though I wasn’t sure how Ollie would feel when he found out. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried them already.’

‘I have,’ he said, as we got out of the car. ‘But he wasn’t keen. I think Sheelagh might talk to me if he’s not there.’

‘There’s something funny going on,’ I said, once we were inside, and I told him about seeing the woman at the Lamberts’ house the night before.

Craig looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe Sheelagh will open up.’

‘Is that ethical?’ I sounded like Annabel now. ‘I mean, probing people’s feelings for entertainment?’

‘A show like this could help other people going through something similar. It’s not just entertainment.’ He faced me squarely, his gaze earnest. ‘But I would never let anything go out if it didn’t feel right, or I thought it might hurt someone.’

‘That’s OK, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you Saint Craig, shall I?’

He swatted my arm. ‘Go and put the kettle on.’

‘I was hoping you’d forgotten,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘Besides, there’s somewhere I have to be.’