My planned exit from Sea Brew – angry yet dignified - failed dramatically when I tried to walk, and my numb foot gave way. I lurched against Tim, who caught me and set me upright. “What was in that coffee?”

“Elvis squashed my foot,” I muttered while the culprit danced by my side, oblivious to my distress. I shrugged Tim off and hobbled to the door while Sue went to pay, and Emma and Bertie followed us outside.

I stood shuffling from foot to foot, trying to control Elvis and wishing Tim would leave – but he stayed by my side, grinning at my discomfort and shaking his head. Emma pretended to fuss over Bertie until Sue emerged.

“Well, Tim,” I said, “We’re going back to Sue’s –”

“Great, I’ll come with you,” Tim said.

“No.” I looked at him and came to a decision – and my senses. “Come over here a moment. Sue, hold Elvis for me, would you?” I beckoned to Tim, we walked a few paces, stood at the railing, and I took a deep breath. “This isn’t working. You and I. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Oh.” Tim looked surprised and then pulled a mock anguished face. “And now you say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”

“No, it is you, Tim. You’re crowding me and being a complete pain.” The new Marnie was taking no prisoners. I felt a weight drop from my shoulders. “I don’t want this.”

“You’re driving me mad.”

“What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. I know I’m behaving like a madman.”

“Oh.” Now it was my turn to look surprised, while my inner voice said, wtf?.

“I normally date beautiful models, women who watch what they eat and have toned bodies and perfect make-up and hair, and you’re so different from all of them.”

“I assume there’s a compliment in there somewhere?”

“I don’t know how to act around you.”

“You’ve been acting like a jerk.” I stopped short: now, I could feel the weight resettling. A surge of panic drove me on. “You shouldn’t need to be told how to act, but this is irrelevant. It’s not working. Us. It’s a mistake, and I don’t want to see you again.”

“I’ll be in London for the next few days. My agent wants me to stay for the launch of a modelling campaign I did a few weeks back - I’m going to be on bus shelters and hoardings.”

“Nice. I’m happy for you. Well, goodbye, Tim.”

Suddenly, he bent towards me, catching me unaware, and kissed me on the lips. Tthen he strolled away along the promenade, turning several female heads as he went by. I drifted back to join Sue and Emma. “I just broke up with him…I think. I hope.” We began walking back to Sue’s, and I repeated the conversation.

“He’s something else.” Sue shook her head. “What do you think, Emma?”

“I think Tim’s good-looking and charming and, because of that, he usually gets his own way. Women agree with him, go along with his plans, and want to be seen with him. You, Marnie, are independent and very confident being you. I can see how he’d struggle with that.” Emma shook her head. “That waitress was all over him like a cheap suit, which he’s used to.”

I enjoyed Emma’s description of me and was basking in my independent, confident glow when the Land Rover drove by, and Tim tooted the horn, waved, and blew me a kiss.

Sue arched an eyebrow. “I could be wrong, but that didn’t look like a man who’s just been dumped.”

“Oh, God.” I sighed. “Look, he’s off to London, so I’m shot of him for a while. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Your meeting with Alf,” Emma said. “Come over about ten. We’re next to the travel agents on the High Street, and Loren, our receptionist, will buzz you through.”

“Can I bring Elvis?”

“Of course. I take Bertie in with me, and he relaxes the clients.” Emma looked fondly at her dog. “Except the ones who are scared. Or allergic.”

“I can’t wait,” I said. “This is so exciting.”

We walked to Sue’s house with Emma relating tales of TP and his work: tracking down missing people, finding hidden bank accounts, discovering instances of fraud, and unmasking con artists. “He works from home with his wife Noreen as his PA.”

“Where does he live?” Sue asked.

“Lufton. A bungalow in Edmond Drive, past the bowling club.”

This wasn’t how I’d imagined a private eye’s place of work - I’d pictured a seedy office down a backstreet with a blind on the door and a jaded blonde secretary filing her nails as you entered. And I’d be the junior partner: a young Jessica Fletcher, keen and observant, but without people dropping like flies around me.

“Earth to Marnie.” Sue nudged me with her shoulder.

“Hmmm…? What?”

“I said why don’t you come back, and we’ll have an early dinner, all of us.”

“Sounds great,” Emma said. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, brilliant,” I said, still distracted by my vision of TP Investigations, which, for some reason, appeared to be in downtown Chicago during the Depression. I would drink straight bourbon, smoke French cigarettes from a holder, wear pencil skirts and killer heels, and sashay around town with a pistol tucked into my stocking.

Except I didn’t smoke, couldn’t walk in a pencil skirt, never mind the heels, and I’d accidentally shoot myself in the leg or somewhere unmentionable and have to explain all that to a junior doctor in A&E. The straight bourbon sounded like a goer, though.

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We reached Sue’s house, and soon Elvis and Bertie were tearing around, play-fighting and stealing shoes, slippers, and anything that wasn’t nailed down. Ian and Colin watched a Bond film on TV while Emma and I helped Sue peel potatoes, chop veg and concoct a trifle. The conversation revolved around their children and education and how expensive everything was, and I began to feel like a spare part. The feeling intensified as we sat around the table for dinner, Colin with his broken ankle propped on a stool and Elvis and Bertie hovering in the background, hoping for share.

I told myself I could have brought Tim and been part of a couple…but I didn’t use people as social props. Plus, I’d end up shoving his face in the trifle. For the first time since I’d known Sue, I couldn’t wait to leave her house and made my excuses after dinner when Ian offered to do the washing up, and Colin said he would stay and supervise.

“I want to go and prepare,” I told Sue. “Think up some intelligent questions to ask Alf.”

“I’m so excited for you,” she said. “Let me know when you get back, and I’ll come round.”

I said goodbye to everyone, and then Elvis and I walked to Lilac Cottage. I gave him his dinner, made myself cheese on toast, retired to the settee, and researched my interview by re-reading Murder on the Orient Express.

♦♦♦

I was too hyped-up to sleep, finally managed a few hours and then woke before dawn and knew it was useless to stay in bed. I showered, dressed and crept downstairs where Elvis was snoring on the settee. This seemed the perfect time to feed the Krays, but they were nowhere in sight when I opened the back door. Still in bed, presumably, where any sane person would be.

The weather had forgotten it was almost June and provided clouds and a stiff breeze. I crammed a beanie hat on my damp hair, shrugged into an old anorak and grabbed Elvis’s leash. My dog appeared, yawning, and I told him we were going beachcombing.

We left Lilac Cottage into a sleepy village with deserted streets and a few solitary birds having a half-hearted go at a chorus. When we approached the prom, Elvis leapt about like a kangaroo, so I unleashed him at the top of the ramp and followed him down to the sand.

Immediately, I saw another figure, tall and menacing, hidden in the folds of a parka, walking in the same direction. Elvis spotted the stranger and galloped towards him, and, heart in mouth, I made to call him back – like that would work, but still - and then hesitated as the figure crouched, and Elvis ran up to him.

The man was wearing his hood closed like Kenny from South Park, so I couldn’t see his face, but then he stood, unzipped it and shouted, “Hi, Marnie.”

Heat surged through me. “Hey, Paul.” I raised an arm high in greeting, then realised it looked like a Nazi salute and turned it into a slow wave, the kind drowning swimmers use to signal for help. Then I walked towards him, my inner agony aunt springing into action:

Now’s your chance to tell Paul you’ve binned Tim and gauge his reaction. Be subtle. Also, be sexy and alluring. Why didn’t you put on makeup? And that hat makes you look like Benny from Crossroads. Jesus.

I reached Paul, he resumed walking, and I fell into step beside him, and then, to break the silence, I said, “I’m not usually up at this time, but I have an interview, and I couldn’t sleep. I suppose you have to be an early riser for the café?”

“Yeah.” Paul sounded like he was returning from somewhere far away. “I like to get out here first thing whenever I can.” Then he glanced my way. “What’s this place like in winter?”

“Cold, obviously, and sometimes the sea can be wild, but I love it. It’s quieter and feels more like it belongs to the villagers.” He fell silent again, and I wondered how to introduce the topic of Tim’s departure. And then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed my dog squatting by the sea wall. “Oh, er, excuse me a moment. I have to….”

I veered away and crossed the sand as Elvis galloped off again, and then I performed my responsible owner duty, using my pick-it-up-and-try-not-to-gag method. When I returned to Paul’s side, I realised two things:

One: the chef was worried and preoccupied and highly unlikely to be interested in any news of Tim.

And two: it’s impossible to be sexy and alluring while carrying a bag of dog poo.

We walked in silence for some time, and then Paul stopped and looked at me. “Coming here was my dream, not Steph’s. She’s a city girl, a Londoner through and through.”

“Yes,” I said. “Steph was joking with Tim about taking her to London instead of me.” I wasn’t convinced the waitress had been joking, but I kept that to myself. I’d successfully introduced Tim into the conversation, but the atmosphere had heightened, and now I didn’t know how to proceed.

“She misses the city.” Paul looked down at the sand.

“She hasn’t given Dexter Bay much time.” I tried to sound reasonable while my heart leapt, and the thought of teaming Steph with Tim suddenly became more viable. “You’ve only just arrived.”

Paul began walking again, and I matched his pace, staying closer this time and realising anyone watching us would think we were a couple. I decided I couldn’t bring myself to ask about Steph – or even to care, truth be told – so, instead, I asked, “Is everything okay?”

“When we had the café to organise and the flat to furnish, time flew by. We had no chance to relax. But now we have our evenings pretty much to ourselves.”

Paul lapsed into silence again, and I read between the lines: they had nothing in common apart from work. It could be Jeff and me again, except we didn’t even have work in common. And he didn’t have the career I thought he had.

“How did you start as a chef?” I asked as we neared the far end of the beach.

Paul stared at the waves lapping over the rocks by the cliffside. “I trained as a sous chef, worked in hotels and restaurants, and specialised as a pastry chef. I loved it. But I also wanted my own place, so I saved up, then leased a takeaway in Croydon, where I met Steph five years ago. We ran it together.” He laughed. “It wasn’t my dream; it was frantic and full-on with too many late-night drunks and the police every weekend, but she loved it. Then this café came up for sale, and I leapt at it.”

“You’ve done wonders,” I said as we turned and walked towards Sea Brew. “It’s always busy.”

“Yeah, we just took on a part-timer for the summer.” Paul watched Elvis running in the sea and then turned to me. “Enough of my woes. How are you – did you say you had an interview?”

“Yes, this morning.”

“You could have been our new waitress.”

“I would be the world’s worst, believe me.”

“What’s the job?”

I hesitated. The idea still seemed slightly ridiculous; within the realms of fantasy, not reality. I thought briefly of the high heels and pencil skirt and then said, “It’s with a private detective as his assistant.”

“Get out of here.” Paul stared. “Really?”

“Really.” I shrugged.

“Wow. That’s so cool. If I didn’t love being a chef, a private eye would be my next career choice. What kind of work would you do?”

“I wouldn’t be carrying a .44 Magnum like Dirty Harry - more’s the pity. Finding missing persons, mostly. I’ve been doing that this past week, trying to find out where Jeff is.”

“Any luck?”

I filled Paul in on my progress so far, and he looked impressed. “This guy will hire you, no worries.”

“I hope so.” We walked up the ramp to the prom, and Paul held onto Elvis while I dumped the poo bag in the nearest bin. Then I clipped on my dog’s leash and smiled at the chef. “Thanks for the bracing walk.”

“You’re welcome. You'll find me here whenever you can’t sleep and fancy a pre-dawn slog along the sand.”

We were standing outside the darkened café, and I looked at Paul and decided this was the ideal moment to let him know I was single.

“I’ve told Tim –” I began as lights snapped on inside Sea Brew, and then Steph appeared at the nearest window with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. The devilish Marnie re-emerged, grinned and waved at her, deepening Steph’s scowl. I looked at Paul. “I must say, she has wonderful customer service skills.”

Paul’s mouth twitched, and he bent and buried his face in Elvis’s fur. “Bye, boy. Be good for your mum.”

I led my dog away. “Bye, Paul.”

“Bye, Marnie. Let me know how your interview goes.”

I gave a thumbs-up, crossed the road, and practically skipped back to Lilac Cottage.