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sorry,’ said Zanna.
    He shrugged again, but didn’t reply.
    ‘That picture you painted,’ he said suddenly. ‘Have you got any more? I take it you’re not an amateur.’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘Goldsmiths. Fine Art.’
    ‘Who do you sell through?’
    ‘Myself, at the moment,’ she said. ‘Not very successfully, though.’
    ‘Do you have a website?’ he said. ‘Can I see?’
    She took out her phone and brought it up on the screen for him, and watched him curiously as he flicked through her work, frowning. He looked up unexpectedly and she felt herself going pink, but he didn’t seem to notice, and merely seemed to be assessing her.
    ‘These ones,’ he said, indicating four or five of her more recent works. ‘You were unhappy when you painted them.’
    It was not a question, and she was glad he didn’t seem to require an answer. He turned his attention back to the screen and scrolled down to her older paintings.
    ‘Have you won any prizes?’ he said at last.
    ‘Yes, but nothing famous. One or two awards for up-and-coming artists just after I graduated. Why?’
    ‘It’s a good selling point,’ he said. ‘I part-own a gallery in Edinburgh. If you like I can show your site to my partner. She’s the one with the business brain. I just do what she says.’
    He glanced at her, and there was the merest glint of humour in his eye.
    ‘Are you sure?’ said Zanna. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
    ‘It’s not kind, it’s business,’ he said.
    Well, that was clear enough. Zanna tried not to feel deflated.
    ‘I’ll send her the link, see what she says,’ said Will, and handed back the phone. ‘Where are you going now?’
    ‘To do some more painting,’ she said. ‘I’d like to get a view of the town from the beach.’
    ‘It’s a popular subject,’ he said. ‘I look forward to seeing what you make of it. See you later.’
    And with that he turned and went back into the house.

T HE BRIGHT, late-morning sunlight had bleached all the colour out of the buildings of the town, so Zanna gave up any thoughts of putting down anything useful in paint at that time of day. Instead, she went back to the Coach and Horses and fetched her sketchbook, then sat down on a soft patch of sand on the beach and let her mind and her pencil roam free. She remained there, engrossed in her task, until she became aware of someone standing over her, and looked up to find a man there, wearing an amused and half-exasperated look.
    ‘They said you’d gone to the beach,’ he said. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be sunbathing like normal people.’
    ‘Garrett!’ said Zanna. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
    Garrett Price threw himself down on the sand next to her.
    ‘Looking for you,’ he said. ‘I was up in Newcastle on a very boring corruption-in-local-government story, and Adam said he’d heard you were in this neck of the woods, so I thought I’d better come and make sure you weren’t getting into trouble. I gather you’re looking for this long-lost granny of yours.’
    ‘She’s my aunt,’ said Zanna. ‘But yes, I thought it was about time I did something about it, and I had a few days free, so here I am.’
    ‘A few days free,’ he repeated, eyebrows raised in sympathy. ‘I heard about that. I’m sorry you lost your job.’
    ‘Thanks. They cancelled the course at the last minute. Budget cuts, they said. Nobody can afford to offer adult art classes any more.’
    This was a lie, but there was no need for Garrett to know that, no need for him to know that her contract at the college had not been renewed because of her erratic attendance and behaviour last year. It was just lucky that her father had left her enough to live on for a little while. London was far too expensive for an unemployed young woman with a costly paint habit, and she would have to find a job soon if her pictures didn’t start selling.
    ‘Who’s that?’ said Garrett, looking at her sketch.
    ‘No-one,’ said Zanna, in