The phone call I’ve been dreading arrives a week later – on an ordinary Friday afternoon while tourists in shorts are eating butter-yellow ice cream outside the office window. It seems everyone is gagging to get their legs out as the temperature rises, and there’s no end to the heatwave in sight.

The weather, for want of a more meteorological term, has been freaking fabulous for days. And Cornwall is roasting in golden sunshine that makes the sea sparkle like it’s sprinkled with glitter.

I love scorching hot weather – the iron smell of baked earth, sun reflecting on glass, not having to wear a coat. But it’s sparked a massive moan-fest from work colleagues Gayle and Lesley, who reckon their bodies aren’t sufficiently beach-ready to be bared. They both look fine to me, and does it really matter if there are a few wobbly bits? Just shove yourself into an M&S swimsuit and give a mental V-sign to anyone who gives a damn. But they’ve been scoffing chocolate eclairs to cheer themselves up so there’s no end to the moaning in sight.

When they launch into yet another calorie-fuelled self-hate sesh, I resist the urge to yell ‘Step away from the cakes’ and retreat to the loo for a few minutes of peace. And that’s where I am when the call comes in.

‘Annie,’ yells Lesley, rushing into the ladies’ as I’m turning on the tap. ‘You’ve got to come now. Emily’s on the phone sounding upset and she says it’s about Alice.’

So this it, then. Out of habit, I swoosh my hands under the water, barely registering that it’s far too hot, and rush back to my desk without pausing to dry them.

The office phone is next to my keyboard but I hesitate before picking up the handset. Why can’t things stay the same? I’m happy with my life here in Cornwall, happier than I’ve ever been and, if I don’t pick up the phone, I can pretend nothing has changed.

But real life doesn’t work that way. Lesley grabs the phone and passes it to me with a sympathetic smile before going back to her desk. She and Gayle start tapping at their keyboards to show they’re not really listening in, but the air is thick with tension.

When I press the handset to my ear, water droplets fall from my hands and start dripping down my neck.

‘Emily, is everything all right?’

‘Annie, there you are. I tried your mobile but it went to voicemail and I don’t like ringing you on your work phone but I needed to get hold of you and I didn’t think you’d mind this once if—’

‘Just tell me what’s happened.’

Emily takes a deep breath. ‘It’s Alice. She’s got a fever and seems confused and keeps talking about someone called Freddie and she looks ill. Really proper ill. And I’m not sure what to do so I—’

‘Have you called the doctor?’ Emily’s been Alice’s carer for a year now and isn’t usually a panicker but she’s gabbling.

‘No, I spotted Roger walking past and he’s gone to get his car so we can take Alice to A&E at Seawinds. I don’t know if she needs to go but he says it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

Emily begins to sob as I balance the receiver between my chin and shoulder, already pushing my arms into the sleeves of my cotton cardigan.

‘Listen to me, Emily. Go with Roger, get Alice to A&E and I’ll meet you there.’

‘OK. But get there as quickly as you can.’ Emily’s breath is still coming in fast gulps but she sounds calmer. ‘Thanks, Annie. I’ll see you soon – and don’t worry.’

Don’t worry? Emily bangs down the phone while I start scrolling through the contacts list on my mobile for a taxi company. I’ll get to the hospital a.s.a.p. and text Josh from the cab on the way there. He was going to visit his mum straight after teaching and might be at her house already.

Summer traffic has clogged Cornwall’s roads and the taxi driver takes backstreets to avoid the snarl-ups. But it still seems an age until he pulls up outside the main entrance to Seawinds Hospital. The Victorian building has been added to over the years, with an ugly 1970s concrete extension and a more modern wing that’s mainly glass and huge yellow panels that glow like giant bananas in the sunshine. But the A&E department is located in the old part of the building that has high ceilings and tall, thin windows looking out onto a blue sky.

The windows, I realise, rushing along endless corridors, remind me of the six months I spent in my teens at a Victorian school in Islington. Before Mum insisted that we move again. We were always on the move from Mum’s demons, as though she could pack up and leave her mental health problems behind. If only it had been that easy.

Reaching A&E at last, I barrel in and spot Roger straight away. He’s leaning against the reception desk and Emily is standing next to him, biting her lip.

‘What’s going on? Where’s Alice?’ I puff.

‘There you are.’ Emily pushes her long, mousey-brown hair behind her ears and pulls me into a tight hug. ‘She’s OK, I think. They’ve taken her straight through and told us to have a seat until they call us. I’ve given reception your name as next of kin.’

‘Next of kin?’

‘Yeah, just standard stuff,’ Roger assures me, scratching at his belly which is bulging through his grey T-shirt. ‘So there’s nothing we can do except sit down and hope they won’t be too long. Bags I don’t sit next to the screaming kid.’

He leads us through the rows of blue metal chairs that are fixed to the floor, presumably to stop local drunks using them as weapons on Saturday nights. Roger, long-time landlord of the Whistling Wave, isn’t the most agile of people and I follow behind murmuring ‘sorry, sorry’ to the people whose feet he stands on. A seventeen-stone man squashing your toes when you’ve already had a run-in with a chainsaw or fallen headlong down the stairs isn’t ideal.

At last, he sinks onto a chair and gestures for me and Emily to take the seats next to him. Ugh, they’re as uncomfortable as they look – and sticky. There’s a puddle of what I can only hope is orange juice on the floor and I use a tissue to mop it up before someone slips – health and safety and all that.

On the wall in front of me, subtitles are scrolling across a soundless TV screen but everyone’s ignoring it and staring at their mobile phones instead. They’re probably tweeting about their day taking an unexpected turn. Or putting cryptic, attention-seeking posts on Facebook: Why is the wait in A&E always so long? (Passive-aggressive subtext: Ask why I’m here or I’ll de-friend you.)

‘Thanks so much for driving, Roger.’ I lean across Emily and pat his arm, which is covered in a film of dark hair. ‘It must be at least ten miles from Salt Bay. I’m surprised you got here before me.’

‘I’m not,’ mutters Emily. ‘Roger drove fast and often on the wrong side of the road.’ She gulps and wipes a hand across her forehead, which is beaded with sweat.

Roger shrugs. ‘No court in the land would convict me for straying over the centre line a few times. It was an emergency.’

‘What about driving the wrong way up a one-way street, blaring your horn? Or yelling at that bloke to get out of the effing way or you’d run him over? He had a white stick.’

‘He was dithering and it was a matter of life and death. I had to get here pronto for Alice’s sake.’ Roger folds his arms and pushes out his bottom lip as I get the feeling he quite enjoyed being Lewis Hamilton for half an hour.

‘Well, I’m just grateful that you brought Alice in. How was she when you got here?’

Emily pushes her glasses up her nose and shakes her head. ‘No worse, though she said she was feeling sick. Ooh, here’s Kayla. She looks a bit frazzled.’

‘Frazzled’ isn’t really the right word. ‘Demented’ is more like it. Kayla’s rust-red hair, usually in soft curls down her back, has turned to frizz in the sun and is sticking up. Her cheeks are glowing pillar-box scarlet and there are damp patches on the back of her yellow T-shirt. For an Australian, Kayla is totally rubbish in the heat.

‘There you are!’ Spotting us, she rushes over, treading on the toes of the same people who were Roger-d just a few moments ago. ‘How’s old Alice doing? I was shopping in Penzance and got a call from Florence to say she was here.’

‘How did Florence know?’

‘She heard it from Jennifer who heard it from Gerald who heard it from Dan who’s holding the fort in the pub, seeing as Roger’s here.’

Not for the first time, it strikes me that things rarely stay secret in Salt Bay for long. Living in London, I didn’t know my neighbours’ names but here I know the ins and outs of Gerald’s brother’s prostate problems, and I’ve only ever met him twice.

‘Alice is with the doctors now and we’re waiting to hear, so you’d better take a seat.’

As Kayla drops onto the chair next to me, her Boots carrier bag clunks onto the floor and a jumbo box of tampons skids across the tiles. The screaming child, who’s being placated with a Curly Wurly, kicks it back towards us.

‘Cheers, mate.’ Kayla rams it back into the bag before clasping my arm and giving it a squeeze. ‘So tell me what’s been going on then.’

‘I haven’t seen Alice yet, but Emily rang and said she had a temperature and was confused. She didn’t look well when I left for work this morning. I really should have stayed home.’

Kayla’s frizzy hair shudders when she shakes her head. ‘There’s no point in beating yourself up. Alice is in the best place and all we can do is wait. At least there’s a telly.’

She stares at the screen, which is showing people bidding at auction on what looks like a chamber pot. It’s double-handled and huge with raised green vines picked out beneath the rim. ‘Unbelievable!’ she breathes when the winners hug one another, beaming with delight. ‘Why anyone would pay good money for something that’s been sat on by bare arses, is beyond me.’

In spite of feeling sick with worry, I grin. Kayla might not be the best person to count on in a crisis. She has a horrible habit of collapsing into giggles at inopportune moments. But you can always count on her to cheer you up.

As the minutes tick by, I check my phone, but there’s nothing from Josh. The phone signal at his mum’s house in Trecaldwith is pretty hit and miss, and both his mobile and her landline go straight to voicemail when I try calling again. So there’s nothing to do but wait for word of Alice – and one thing I’m really not good at is waiting. I don’t even realise my foot is tapping against my chair until the woman opposite gives me a glare. She’s nursing a bloodied hand and looks the sort of person who’d punch a wall on purpose, so I tone down the tapping and try to concentrate on the TV instead.

At last, after forty-five long minutes, a nurse calls my name and beckons for me to follow her. She gives me a beaming smile as she holds a door open for me, and asks in a broad Irish accent: ‘Are you with Alice Gowan? My name’s Siobhan.’ She wouldn’t look so jolly if it was bad news, would she? She wouldn’t be smiling if Alice was dead?

One of my favourite TV programmes ever is 24 Hours in A&E – I’m a sucker for medical reality shows that make me cry. So the scene in front of me when the door swings open looks familiar. A woman with a stethoscope slung round her neck is poring over a computer screen as nurses bustle past her. There’s a low hum of background noise and a shrill phone ringing nearby. It’s organised chaos and, in spite of why I’m here, a thrill of excitement tingles through me. Many jobs are nine to five, boring, repetitive, occasionally satisfying if you’re lucky. But here, it’s life and death every day.

I follow Siobhan past a row of bays, deliberately not looking at the patients lying on narrow beds, until we reach the final bay, which is shielded by a green curtain. The curtain catches as it’s pulled back and Siobhan curses under her breath before giving it a violent tug.

‘Someone to see you, Mrs Gowan,’ she says in a sing-song voice, cheeriness restored. ‘Give me a call if you need anything.’

‘Alice!’ I rush forward and grasp my great-aunt’s hand. She’s lying on her back, looking disgruntled and small. On the back of her other hand, a thin needle threads into a vein that’s blue and raised under her almost translucent skin. ‘I was so worried about you. Are you OK?’

‘Obviously not or I wouldn’t be in here. Though Emily and Roger overreacted.’ She gives my hand a tiny squeeze and clears her throat.

‘Do you need a bowl? Emily said you were feeling sick.’ I glance around the cubicle for anything that looks robust enough to hold vomit.

‘I wasn’t feeling sick until Roger started driving like an absolute lunatic. He mounted the pavement at one point and people had to jump for their lives. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I think I’ve been a bit confused.’ When Alice shakes her head, her snow-white hair spreads across the sheet she’s lying on. ‘But this is ridiculous. I’m perfectly fine now and want to go home. Everyone’s making a terrible fuss.’

She starts raising herself up on her elbows until I gently push her back down onto the bed. Her face still looks flushed and her eyes are bright. ‘You have to stay here, Alice. Until we know what’s wrong with you.’

‘I know exactly what’s wrong with me. I had a funny turn and now it’s gone. But they still insisted on poking me with needles and putting me in this awful gown thing. But they can’t make me stay here.’

‘I don’t suppose they can, but I’d like you to stay until we’re sure you’re well enough to come back to Tregavara House.’

‘If I ever come back,’ she mutters, squeezing my hand. ‘I know what happens when you get old and ill and go into hospital. They ship you off to some godawful care home or keep you in hospital until you die. Enid went in after breaking her hip and never saw Salt Bay again. Promise me, Annabella, that you won’t let me die in hospital.’

‘Of course, I promise,’ I say brightly, though inside I’m panicking. Should I make a promise I’m not sure I can keep? ‘You’re going to be fine and you’re coming back to Tregavara House. There’s no dying allowed today.’

‘Definitely not,’ says a deep voice behind me. A doctor has stepped into the cubicle and, even though my stomach is churning with anxiety, I register that he’s handsome. Film star, just-stepped-off-the-cover-of-a-magazine handsome with a chiselled jaw and perfect caramel skin. No wonder some of the younger nurses are so glammed up.

After giving me a cursory nod, he stands next to Alice’s bed and peers down at her. ‘Our tests indicate that you have a urinary tract infection, Mrs Gowan, which is why you’ve been feeling so unwell. But a course of antibiotics should do the trick. I’ll get that organised right away and it might be best if you stay in hospital for a day or two.’ Dr Delectable spots Alice’s scowl. ‘Or I suppose you can go home earlier if you have constant care.’

‘She does. Alice lives with us and we can look after her when she’s well enough to come home.’

‘We’ll administer some antibiotics and if there’s a rapid improvement, you might be able to go home quite soon. Is that all right, Mrs Gowan?’ he asks loudly, patting her hand like she’s a sandwich short of a picnic. Alice’s eyes narrow but she nods without saying a word. Blimey, she really is under the weather.

When the doctor sweeps out of the cubicle, I scurry after him. He sits down at the desk, starts studying an X-ray on screen and doesn’t look up until I speak.

‘Thank you for treating Alice. So she’ll definitely be OK, will she? She reckons she’s indestructible and I must admit I sometimes think she’ll live forever.’

Dr Delectable glances back at the screen, which shows thick white bones surrounded by a grey fuzz. ‘I’m afraid I can’t guarantee immortality. Antibiotics will clear her infection but your mother—’

‘Great-aunt,’ I correct him, wondering exactly how old I look right now. Jeez, stress must add decades to your face.

‘Your great-aunt is elderly and rather frail with some underlying chronic health conditions. People don’t last forever,’ he says with a frown.

‘Which I know all too well. My mum died of cancer almost five years ago and she was only in her early forties.’

Nope. Not a flicker of sympathy. He just stares at me as though I’m a particularly annoying patient.

‘Just so long as Alice will make it to Wednesday at least.’ I grin to show that I’m joking. ‘It’s her eighty-fourth birthday and she’ll be heartily peed off if she misses it.’

‘She should be on the mend by then.’

Dr Delectable goes straight back to studying his X-ray without even the hint of a smile. What a shame. Looks aren’t everything and his missing sense of humour will drive most women mad once they get past the tearing-his-clothes-off stage. Josh has a grumpy vibe going on sometimes, especially when his team loses at football, but he also makes me laugh more than anyone I know.

Talk of the devil. Josh suddenly pokes his head around the door and starts beckoning furiously at me. Thick, dark hair flicks into his chocolate-brown eyes with every beckon and there’s a hint of stubble on his strong jaw. Wowzers! Eat your heart out, Dr Delectable, because my boyfriend is seriously stiff competition. And he tells jokes.

A young nurse, with golden-blonde hair pulled into a swinging ponytail, starts making a beeline for Josh but steps back when I get there first.

‘Is he with you?’ She laughs, revealing perfect pearly-white teeth, and I’m tempted to ask why she thinks that’s so amusing. Because she can’t believe you’ve managed to nab such a gorgeous boyfriend, whispers my inner bitch voice but I ignore it. My inner bitch is proving a bugger to shift, even though Josh and I have never been happier, but now isn’t the time to take it on.

‘I came as soon as I got your message, Annie. Is Alice all right? You sounded so worried on the phone,’ says Josh in a rush, his forehead creased with concern.

‘The doctor says she’s going to be fine. She’s got a urine infection and they’re treating her with antibiotics.’

‘Phew, that’s a relief! I thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.’

The door swings shut behind Josh, who pulls me into his arms and hugs me tight. I breathe in his familiar sandalwood smell as I wrap my arms around his waist and realise that my legs are feeling wobbly. It must be all the adrenaline that’s been whooshing through me for the last hour.

‘Why don’t I go and sit with her while you tell everyone outside that she’s going to be all right,’ murmurs Josh, stroking my hair. ‘It’s like a Salt Bay convention out there and the receptionist is getting antsy.’

Josh wasn’t joking. Seven people jump to their feet and look at me expectantly when I walk into the waiting area.

‘She’s not dead is she?’ blurts out Storm, whose hair, now faded to a soft mauve, gives her complexion an unearthly tinge.

‘No, she’s going to be fine. But how come you’re here?’

‘I was at Serena’s when Josh found out.’ She nods at Josh’s seventeen-year-old sister, standing next to her.

‘So we all came,’ butts in Josh’s mum, Marion, stepping forward and kissing me on the cheek. Her grey-streaked hair is pulled into a bun and she smells of freshly baked bread, like all mums should. ‘We were all worried about Alice and that’s great news she’s going to be all right. What’s wrong with her?’

‘It’s an infection and they can treat it,’ I say vaguely, not sure that Alice would approve of me discussing her urinary tract in public.

‘Well, I’m relieved my expert driving got her here in time, and it’s just as well she’s not dropping off the perch.’ Roger nudges Kayla, who’s looking even hotter than the last time I saw her. ‘Annie doesn’t want to lose Alice when she might be losing you too.’

‘Losing you too, you what?’

When I turn to Kayla, she frowns. ‘Roger is talking out of his backside, as usual. Ollie’s being interviewed for a promotion today.’ She puts ‘interview’ and ‘promotion’ in air quotes, though I’m not sure why. ‘And if he gets it, he reckons he’ll be moving to some awful place up North. Only he won’t ’cos Ollie will never leave his beloved Cornwall. I’m the adventurer in our relationship and he’s the stayer.’

Which is true enough. Intrepid traveller Kayla is nine thousand miles from home and has backpacked across much of Europe, while Ollie, her local boyfriend, thinks a day trip to Bodmin Moor is pushing it. But she’s been settled in Salt Bay for a while now and that’s largely due to Ollie, though she’d never admit it.

The thought of being tied down gives footloose Kayla nightmares and she totally freaked when Ollie proposed last year. They only got back together because he promised he’d never marry her in a month of Sundays. Ah, true love.

‘So there’s absolutely nothing to worry about,’ says Kayla, pushing damp strands of hair off her shiny forehead. ‘And, as a feminist, Roger, I resent the implication that if Ollie did move, I’d automatically go with him. Nothing is going to change.’

And she says it with such conviction, I want to believe her. But Kayla’s wrong. Everything changes, from the weather and people’s minds to Alice’s health. And however much I want my life in Salt Bay to stay the same forever, I know in my heart that it won’t.