‘I’m just not sure I’m ready to go to a wedding.’

‘It’s not as if it’s ours.’ Rufus sounded slightly regretful. ‘I know you’re a free spirit, it’s one of the things I lo— like about you, but you said yourself, you were ready to try a grown-up relationship, and that involves us going places together.’ He stopped walking and looked at me, hands on his coat-clad hips. I didn’t like it when he stood like that. It made him look like a teacher. Which he was, but I wasn’t one of his pupils, to be given a hundred lines. You will go to the wedding, whether you like it or not.

‘We do go places together,’ I protested. ‘We go out for meals and drinks.’

‘I mean, around other people. Our families, for instance.’ He glanced at the rumpled sea and fudgy sand before trailing his gaze up the grassy headland to the café. ‘You couldn’t even sit in there with me for long.’

I glanced at the sky, where weak sunlight was trying to break through a bank of cloud. ‘I needed some fresh air, that’s all.’ The truth was I still hadn’t worked out what it was I’d wanted to say, and once we’d covered the weather, and I’d updated Rufus on the lack of progress in the function room, and he’d told me he’d been working on his best man’s speech for the wedding, I’d leapt up and asked Gwen if I could take an early lunch break.

‘Be my guest. It’s not like I’m ’ere on me own,’ she’d said with heavy irony, but I knew she wouldn’t have let me go if she’d thought she couldn’t manage.

‘You know I don’t like being cooped up indoors for too long,’ I said to Rufus.

‘Is that what you think it’ll be like at the wedding, because it won’t be.’ His fine-featured face was puckered with concern. ‘There are lovely grounds outside the Abbey, we can have a nice walk after the ceremony, if you’d like to.’

‘It’s not that.’ I jammed my hands in the pockets of my shearling jacket, wishing I’d worn gloves and a scarf. Possibly a woolly hat. After a mild spell, winter had arrived with a vengeance, and the weather forecasters were predicting a white Christmas.

‘What’s it really about then?’ His voice became a bit punchy, and I could suddenly see him trying to control his sixth-formers – a difficult bunch by all accounts – at the college in Ivybridge where he taught biology, and where we both lived (separately). ‘I mean, I thought we were getting on well.’

‘We are,’ I said. ‘I’m just not used to this whole couples thing.’ My laugh was meant to imply emotional dimwittery, and his head swooped back, as if he was seeing me properly for the first time. His eyes – the same winter-grey as the sea – looked watery.

‘I know that.’ He blinked into the wind. ‘I’ve already told you how flattered I am that you chose me to be your first “proper” boyfriend,’ he scratched little quote marks in the air, ‘and I’m so happy that your father introduced us.’ He swiped at his hair with his fingers. ‘I really think we’ve made a connection, Tilda, and want to take our relationship to the next stage.’

‘My name’s Tilly.’ He’d thought Tilda the more ‘grown-up’ version of my full name, Matilda, and had tried to make a thing of it, probably hoping I’d find it cute. ‘I do like you, Rufus, I really do…’ I stopped. He looked older than his thirty-eight years, and it struck me it was my fault. He was upset because I hadn’t committed to the simple act of going to his brother’s wedding. I reminded myself that my dad had recommended Rufus… no, not recommended him, he wasn’t a brand of toothpaste, but he’d designed an eco-friendly house for Rufus’s parents and got to know them well, and thought I might like to ‘try dating someone different to your usual type’. He’d meant the type I didn’t bother introducing to my family, knowing there was no point, and I blamed turning thirty for finally caving in. My birthday, three months earlier, had brought with it a sense that my life wasn’t quite as satisfying as it had been – that maybe there was something missing. It didn’t help that my two best friends had fallen in love within months of each other (not with each other), highlighting the fact that I’d never come close to saying those three little words. Not that I could visualise saying them to Rufus yet, despite the novelty of being wined and dined by a man with a job I found genuinely fascinating, and shared musical tastes with – anything from the nineties and Alanis Morissette – but it was very early days.

‘Does it bother you that I’m shorter than you?’ He puffed himself up to his full five feet nine, broadening his shoulders and pushing out his chest.

‘Oh, Rufus, of course not.’ I couldn’t help smiling, even though my face was numb with cold. ‘Most men are shorter than me, I’m used to it.’

‘If you’re worried about this…’ he flattened a hand to the collar-length gingerish hair he combed creatively to disguise a thinning patch ‘… I was going to have it shaved for the wedding. My sister reckons I’d look like Jason Statham.’

I wondered whether his sister was partially sighted. ‘It’s got nothing to do with your hair,’ I said truthfully. ‘It’s habit, I suppose. You know I’ve never made it past a month with anyone before.’ I felt my way carefully, knowing he didn’t approve of what he called my ‘dalliances’. ‘Going to a family wedding seems very… grown-up.’

‘That’s because it is.’ Rufus’s shoulders dropped. ‘Come along, you’ll love it,’ he said persuasively. ‘I’ve been looking forward to showing you off to Grant.’ A half-smile rose to his lips – more confident now he’d sensed me weakening. ‘When I showed him a photo of you, he asked if you were a model.’

‘That’s nice.’ I was never sure how to respond to compliments about my appearance. I’d been approached once by a model scout, at the airport with my parents on our way to Canada – probably because I was tall and gangly, so stood out – but I’d known in some deep-rooted way that modelling wasn’t for me. ‘Where is the wedding again?’

‘It’s in Exmouth, so not far.’ I had the impression that if we’d been talking on the phone, he’d be throwing a victory punch. ‘Honestly, Tild— Tilly, we’ll have a great time, you’ll see.’ His eyes shuttled to my lower half. ‘I’m looking forward to dancing with you,’ he said. ‘They say if you’re a good dancer, you’re good in the bedroom department, though I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about there.’

‘Bedroom department?’ It sounded like something Mum would say. What’s he like in the bedroom department, Tilly? You want a man who knows what he’s doing!

He reached for my hand. ‘We make a good pair, Tilly, you and me.’ His fingers were freezing. ‘I’ll never forget our first night together, when you said I had a good body.’

I glanced round, imagining my friends’ reactions if they could hear this conversation, but there was only a disinterested seagull strutting about on the sand. ‘Well, you do,’ I agreed. Divested of his clothing – including the sort of billowing boxers favoured by my dad – his body was tanned and muscly (he’d confessed to starting a work-out regime after one of his sixth-formers said his granny could beat him in a fist fight) and, I admit, our encounters in his hotel-like bedroom had been pleasant so far – though I’d sensed him reading more into them than I had, saying he loved my ‘laid-back vibe’ and that I was the yin to his yang. ‘It’s very nice,’ I added, as if complimenting him on a new tie.

‘I don’t mind you using me for my body.’ Letting my hand go, he flapped his coat open and shut like a flasher in what I assumed was an attempt at appearing irresistibly sexy. ‘But I’d like there to be more between us than the physical.’

The physical? ‘Right,’ I said, wishing we could fast-forward a week, so that the wedding was over and he could stop being weird. ‘Well, I suppose there are worse ways to spend a day than watching someone get married.’

‘Oh, great, that’s great.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So, you’ll definitely come?’

‘My word is my bond,’ I said, hoping he didn’t want it in writing.

‘You won’t regret it, Tilda.’

‘Tilly.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a black streak of fur tearing across the beach. It was a sleek-haired dog, barking as it darted to the water’s edge, and I remembered someone had recently bought the old cottage on the other side of the headland.

The dog was frisking about, barking at the waves, and I hoped he wasn’t about to run into the sea. Often deceptively calm in the cove, the water possessed strong undercurrents and there were rocks further out where ships used to run aground.

‘How about Mattie?’ Rufus was saying.

‘Sorry?’ I dragged my gaze back to see him flick up the collar of his coat, his hair flapping sideways in the wind.

‘Mattie’s got a nice ring to it.’

‘I prefer Tilly,’ I said. ‘It’s my name.’

‘You could call me Roo.’

I stared. ‘I… don’t think I can.’

His face coloured down to his neck. ‘Don’t you think it’s nice when couples have pet names?’

‘I think it’s supposed to happen organically.’ I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing, sensing he wouldn’t like it. ‘When they’ve got to know each other much better.’

‘All the more reason to take our relationship to the next stage.’ Before I could ask him to please stop saying next stage, his head shot forward and he pressed cold lips to mine before backing away, his round-toed boots sinking into the sand. ‘I’m going to go now,’ he said, as if I’d been trying to detain him. ‘I’ll give you a call later, make sure you haven’t changed your mind.’ He mimed putting a phone to his ear, and waved with his other hand.

I waved back, stamping my feet. I felt like a Popsicle and needed to move to warm up, and was aware of a sweeping relief as I watched him walk back up the winding path to the café. It’s only a wedding, I told myself. Dad would be pleased I’d agreed to go. Date a man who deserves you, Tilly. Stop messing about with beach boys. He’d meant surfer types and I had to admit, I’d had my fill of them. Maybe my sister would approve of my ‘grown-up’ relationship too, and stop treating me with her usual contempt. I just wished I hadn’t boasted to her about a well-paying design job I’d had lined up – to prove that I was capable of working just as hard as she did – which had fallen through at the last minute. There was nothing else on the horizon. It wasn’t that I needed the money, thanks to the savings I’d accrued from jobs I’d done over the years (unlike Bridget, I didn’t covet expensive furniture, or have a mortgage to pay), but she’d been driving home how a satisfying career would give meaning to my ‘empty life’.

Shivering, I started walking, pulling my chin into the fur at the neck of my jacket, deciding that once I’d filled my lungs with fresh air, I’d drive to the supplier and pick up the rest of the paint.

As I strode out, my gaze travelled the length of beach I knew so well and had missed a surprising amount when I’d moved to Canada with Mum and Dad, twelve years ago. A movement caught my eye and I paused. A boy had sprinted onto the sand from the same direction as the dog, a bright blue towel flaring from his shoulders like a cape. Like the dog, he was hurtling towards the sea, shouting, ‘Digby!’ in a high, panicked voice. ‘Digby, come back!’

I shifted my gaze, heart stalling when I saw the dog’s head bobbing about in the water. The weak sunshine had retreated, and the sea was a choppy mass of foaming grey that I knew was capable of sweeping a person (or animal) away in minutes.

‘Wait!’ I called, starting to run as the boy flung off his towel and ran through the waves in his pants, but he either didn’t hear me, or was too intent on rescue to see the danger.

I picked up speed, adrenaline charging through my brain, the salty wind stinging my eyes as I threw off my jacket and peeled my sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head. I slowed to a stumble to kick off my boots, and when I looked up, the dog had made it back to the beach and was shaking off water in a spraying arc, but the boy was struggling in the sea, drifting close to the rocks.

I waded out, sucking in a breath as the icy water gripped me. ‘Hang on!’ I yelled, before ducking beneath the surface, swimming away from the beach with steady strokes as the current wrapped around me. The freezing water prickled my scalp and shot up my nose, making me splutter and gasp, while the undertow tried to pull me off course. I kicked harder and swam faster, as if I was back at school, my coach urging me on.

Come on, Tilly, you’ve got this! You’re winning, come on, Tilly!

I raised my head, caught a flash of saucer-wide eyes and a slick of dark blond hair, and then I was beside him. ‘Just go floppy,’ I panted, grabbing him under the arms. Making sure his face was above the water, I struggled back to the shore in a one-armed crawl, my legs thrashing frantically against the undercurrent, distantly aware of someone shouting from the beach.

My lungs felt on fire, and my neck was burning from the effort of holding the boy, and then he was being lifted from me by whoever had been shouting. Suddenly weightless, I half-crawled onto the soft wet sand and collapsed, gasping and choking for air. After coughing up a mouthful of salty water, I rolled onto my back, sounds rushing in as I blinked at the oyster-pale sky: boyish protests; a deep male voice, sharp-edged with panicky relief, and a series of staccato barks that came closer and a long pink tongue unfurled to lick my face.