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day,’ I said.
    The man patted the dog’s tan and white rump as it skittered around his ankles. He leaned forward, his eyes wandering around the cottage as if he was on a reconnaissance mission. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you,’ he said. ‘It’s just that there hasn’t been anyone here for such a long time and I wanted to make sure things were…you know…’ – he trailed off and stared directly at me – ‘…OK.’
    ‘I understand.’ I stood primly before him, trying to suppress a laugh as the dog spun in circles.
    ‘Lewis,’ he replied and stood up briefly, extending a hand.
    I took it and said, surprisingly easily, ‘Ailey.’ There was no way I was revealing my surname.
    ‘Nog.’ He gestured to the silly creature and grinned, his teeth too white for a man with stubble, a dirty parka and worn-out boots. ‘The dog.’
    ‘Nog the dog,’ I repeated because there wasn’t much else to say.
    ‘Are you on holiday?’ I could tell that his question was laced with hidden meaning. What are you doing here? was what he meant to say.
    ‘Kind of.’
    ‘Not the best time of year to be exploring the island.’ Nog finally became still and sat between Lewis’s legs.
    ‘The scenery’s dramatic,’ I said. ‘How I like it.’
    ‘Been here long?’
    ‘Just got here actually. It’s my uncle’s cottage.’ No response. ‘Great-uncle?’ I added for no particular reason, except perhaps to confuse him.
    Lewis stared at me, his experienced eyes scanning my body, trying to assess if what he saw concurred with what I was saying. They were pale-grey eyes soaked in something dangerous, marinated in years of salty island living that had given him a weathered look and made him appear older than he probably was. My best guess was forty-two. It was at that point that I realised his undeniable attractiveness, despite our age gap.
    ‘So you’re a relation of Ethan Kinrade’s.’ It was a statement rather than a question although his intonation did slow considerably on ‘Kinrade’.
    I closed my eyes and tried to swim because I was fast sinking below the surface. I needed to be vague. Getting Lewis and his silly dog out of my cottage was a priority but I found myself engaging him – or was it him engaging me? – in an exchange of information about my great-uncle Ethan. Whoever he was.
    ‘He seems very young to have a great-niece.’
    ‘Oh yes, he is, isn’t he?’ It was agonising. ‘But here I am!’ I held out my hands in a kind of personal fanfare and twisted my legs awkwardly. My shuffling feet did something to Nog, however, and the dog leapt at the over-sized socks that had dropped to my ankles. Although painful, the distraction was welcome.
    ‘Nog, leave!’ Lewis finally persuaded the terrier that my socks weren’t black rabbits. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a clean, unsuitable grin, his eyes lingering on my breasts. ‘You were saying, about Ethan.’
    ‘I was?’
    Think, woman, think. Lewis waited patiently for my response. His black jeans stretched across his thighs and his parka falling open to reveal a grey, oil-stained sweatshirt. A large, veined hand with surprisingly neat nails rubbed at the stubble on his chin while he sized me up, waiting for my reply.
    ‘There’s nothing to say really. I haven’t seen him in years. We have this’ – I thought frantically – ‘…arrangement. I’m allowed to use the cottage when I visit.’
    ‘So, you stay here,’ Lewis asked, gesturing around the dilapidated room, ‘and not in Creg-ny-Varn Manor?’
    ‘I like the tranquillity,’ I said, surprising myself. I was beginning to believe my own story. ‘Being so close to the sea, nature, the elements – I love it.’ I held my breath, waiting for him to accept my lies.
    ‘I’m going fishing later,’ he said unexpectedly. We both stared out of the window at the blue-green chop of a December morning.
    ‘Really,’ I said croakily, thankful for the digression.
    ‘I can guess what you’re