The rest of Tuesday evening dragged until bedtime. I read the full article in the Clarion. ‘Paul Felix (34) and his partner Stephanie Reid (25) have moved from Croydon to run their joint project, Sea Brew Café. They live on the premises and will build their reputation on Paul’s culinary expertise.’

I threw the paper aside and let Elvis out for one last mooch around the garden. Then he followed me upstairs and watched me get changed before flopping down onto the furry rug beside the bed. I pulled back the duvet and found one of my missing socks.

“Night, Elvis.” I switched off the lamp, heard his sigh and then there was silence, apart from the odd snuffle and, once, a full-blown snore. It felt much the same as sleeping beside Jeff.

When I woke, just after seven, I was alone. “Elvis?” Panic settled in. Where was he – and what might he have chewed during the night? I grabbed my dressing gown, charged downstairs, and found my dog flat out on the living room settee, head on a cushion. He raised one eyebrow, glanced my way, and closed his eyes again. “Okay, well, glad to see you’ve settled in.”

I showered, dressed, and came back downstairs. Elvis appeared in the kitchen as I found the tub of birdseed, and, not thinking, I opened the back door. My dog leapt out with an excited bark, there was loud, frantic squawking, and the Kray Pigeons took off in six different directions.

“I’m sorry, guys.” I stared up at the roof as the affronted pigeons assembled on the gutter. “I’ll put Elvis back inside, then feed you.” Guilt overcame me. “And I’ll give you some extra seed to make up for the shock.”

Yup. Definitely Mad Bird Woman.

I was exhausted by the time I’d placated the Krays, organised Elvis’s breakfast, and then my own. I slumped at the table, and Sue returned my call. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I had to switch my phone off in the hospital.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Turns out Colin’s ankle is broken, made worse by the fact he hobbled around on it. He’s getting an operation today to put a pin in it.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. I feel bad for giving him a hard time about it in London.”

“You weren’t to know. How is he in himself?”

“Gutted he missed the funeral, says you and I jinxed it. We were ages in the waiting room, and we almost got thrown out.”

“Why?”

“I told him you’d adopted the vicar-mugger and were starring on the front page of the Clarion after choking on cheese. He laughed so hard he terrified a child in the row behind, and a nurse came out and asked him to stop.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s keeping his spirits up.” I hesitated. “I read the whole article in the paper.”

I could almost hear Sue’s grimace over the phone, so I rushed on, “Had no idea those two were an item. Still, the café’s dog-friendly, so I can go in now and again for a look and a cream cake.”

“Hmmm…it may be dog-friendly, but is it Elvis-friendly?”

I laughed. “I can see another front-page story right there.”

“We’ll go when Colin’s more settled, and I can have a look, too.”

“Us and half the female population. Well, give Colin my love and keep me posted.”

We said our goodbyes, and I slumped again, then berated myself for acting like a teenager, even if Paul had made me feel sixteen. “Unrequited love,” I said to Elvis. “Is there anything more painful?”

How about your husband of fourteen years cheating you out of money and running off with another woman?

To my surprise, I discovered this didn’t feel nearly as bad – in fact, the Paul situation was more painful. I examined how I really felt about Jeff’s betrayal and its consequences:

Relief.

I straightened. The feeling intensified, and I laughed out loud. “Sod Jeff. He’s done me a favour.” I jumped up and danced around the kitchen with Elvis until he leapt at me and sent me reeling into the fridge. “Okay, no doggie-dancing on Britain’s Got Talent, then. Want to go for a run in the car?”

Elvis decided this was the best news he’d heard. He followed me around the cottage as I gathered jacket, keys, bag, purse, phone, and canine accoutrements and then I took him outside and put him in the back of the Golf. Elvis sat up straight, like an elderly lady on her way to church. I smiled, started the car and checked the rear-view mirror, and all I could see was fur. I drove down to the promenade, turned left and headed out of Dexter Bay.

The village sits in a horseshoe-shaped cove beneath a rocky moorland decorated with acres of gorse and the occasional farm. Cliff Road winds from the prom to the main road above, and, as I negotiated this, my thoughts strayed to the café-owner - Paul was only four years younger.

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Stop it, stop torturing yourself.

Paul and Steph had argued the previous evening.

Yeah, but then they made up.

Maybe they argue a lot.

This cheered me. I began singing and managed one verse and half a chorus of ‘Satisfaction’ before Elvis leaned forward and booped me with his (considerable) nose. Finally, I took the hint and shut up. We sailed into Lufton, I parked on the main street, and we hit the pavement, Elvis jumping excitedly and threatening to drag the leash from my hands.

“This way, c’mon.” I led him down a side street to the only gents’ outfitters for miles around. Lufton Tailors looked like it had beamed down in 1955, liked it, and stayed. A bell jangled as I opened the door, and then Elvis hauled me to the polished wooden counter and jumped onto his hind legs. I stopped him from eating a measuring tape and then beaded curtains parted, and a man emerged from the rear of the shop.

“Good morning, Madam.” He turned to Elvis. “Sir.”

He had tousled brown hair, a great tan and the bluest eyes this side of Paul Newman. I guessed his age as late thirties, but then I’d been wrong about Paul Felix, so who knew?

“Socks,” I blurted. “Cashmere socks.” I swallowed and added, “Please.”

“Certainly.” He studied Elvis’s paws. “They are quite large, so I’d suggest a size six to nine.”

“What? They’re not for…you’re winding me up, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He grinned, showing even white teeth. “Sorry, there’s not much call for humour in gents’ clothing, but I can’t help myself.”

“Well…don’t give up the day job.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his heart. “I’m wounded.”

“They’re for my neighbour. Elvis here chewed a light brown pair, and I want to replace them.”

“That wouldn’t be a Mr Simpkins, would it?”

I gaped. “Are you psychic?”

He laughed. “No, he’s one of our best customers, plus, he and my old man were in the army together. I can give you the exact pair Reg would choose.”

“Deal.”

“Tim Benedict.”

“Sorry?”

“My name.”

“Oh, right, er, Marnie Hope.” I watched as he turned to a computer and began typing. “Mrs…no, make that Ms.”

“Mizz.” He glanced at me. “You’re unsure if you’re married or not?”

I held up my left hand and studied the ring. “This is coming off as soon as I get home.”

God, Marnie, you see a good-looking guy, and you’re spilling the gory details of your failed marriage again. Get a grip.

“Sorry.” I gave a tight smile, paid for my purchase, and dragged Elvis out of the shop before Tim Benedict could react to my odd behaviour - although, if he read the Clarion, he’d know I couldn’t be trusted to eat cheese safely.

I hurried back to the car before someone thought I’d stolen old Bert Hawkins’ dog or recognised Elvis from Tuesday’s burial debacle. Then I drove back to Dexter Bay and parked outside my cottage. Mine. Not ‘ours’ anymore, though I’d have to check with Emma about that.

I took Elvis indoors, dumped my bag, grabbed the socks, dog leash, poo bags and treats, and we left again and went next door, where I rang the bell.

No one was home.

“Sod it.” I posted the socks through the letterbox and turned to my companion. “Beach?”

Elvis demonstrated his agreement by dragging me down to the promenade at warp speed. We crossed the street, passed Sea Brew – I didn’t look – and walked to the first ramp as Emma and Bertie came up from the sand. “Hello again.” I smiled as Elvis and Bertie bumped noses. “Didn’t expect to see you at this time of day - I thought you’d be at work.”

“I’ve been part-time since we moved here. My husband Ian’s in the office today.” Emma patted Elvis and nodded towards the café. “C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch…no goat’s cheese, though.”

“Oh, God, you read the paper.”

“Seems like the whole place did: everyone I meet tells me about it.”

“Great…” I followed Emma and Bertie, wondering how long before I lived this down - if I ever did. Finally, we reached Sea Brew, I steeled myself, and we went inside.

The café was packed. We stood inside the doorway; I glanced to my left and blinked in surprise. “Mr Simpkins, Mrs Darrow, hello.”

“Hello, Mrs Hope.” Mrs Darrow smiled with teeth like tombstones, and I thought, Wait ‘til I tell Jeff, and then I remembered and had a tiny wobble inside. I was alone, now. Emma had her solicitor husband. Sue had Colin. Paul had that sulky waitress with the attitude problem – and now The Major had Widow Twankey. “We came for lunch. It’s very nice.”

“Yes,” Mr Simpkins said. “We had soup. Very nice.”

“And a toasted sandwich. It was nice, too.”

“Yes.” Mr Simpkins nodded. “It was adequate for our needs.”

“Lovely.” I sighed with relief as a table became available. “Well, bye for now.”

Emma and I sat down and reined in Elvis and Bertie. Steph approached with her usual lack of enthusiasm and then saw the dogs. “Ooh, you’re gorgeous.” She crouched beside Elvis and petted him.

“This is Elvis,” I said, warming to her, despite myself. “And that’s Bertie.”

“You’re so cute.” Steph tickled Bertie behind the ears. “Hey, this is the dog you rescued, isn’t it?” She looked up at me. “I saw you.”

“Yes.” I cast my mind back and couldn’t remember the waitress among the enthusiastic throng outside the café. “Actually, Elvis saw Bertie first.”

“Clever boy.” Steph stood up and handed us menus. “Here you go; I’ll come back and take your order.”

“I’m hungry.” Emma studied the meal deals. “All of this looks good.”

I glanced at my menu, decided on soup as the safest option, and then heard two women at the table behind us mention Reverend Thorpe. I tuned into their conversation:

“…and he fell into the grave and knocked himself out.”

“Falling into a grave knocked him unconscious?”

“Well, there was a coffin in it already. Solid oak, lovely finish, polished brass you could see your face in. And then Reverend Thorpe had a conversion.”

“Like…a loft conversion?”

“No, that’s the wrong word. What is it…a piffy? Something like that. Revelation, that’s a better word. Anyway, when he was unconscious, he saw God.”

“He never.”

“He did. Apparently, God looked like Kenny Rogers and told the Reverend to take up bowls….”

I tuned out again, Steph arrived back, and we ordered our food. Mr Simpkins and Mrs Darrow left. Then Paul appeared from the kitchen and stood behind the counter, looking around the café with a contented smile. His eyes met mine, the smile widened to a grin, and his whole face lit up. My face did the same.

“Are you okay?” Emma asked. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I said as the café door opened. “Ohno.”

“What?” Emma looked at me and then jumped as a shadow fell across our table.

“I’m Mark Cooper of the Dexter Bay Clarion. I gather your dog had a near-death experience?”