‘We’re not going to Las Ramblas.’ Oh, such scorn from Quin. ‘It’d be as tragic as visiting London and going to Oxford Circus.’

You relapsed and ruined everything.

‘The boardwalk where we were last night’, I read from a blog, ‘is “a popular place for a romantic stroll”. C’mon, Quin, let’s stroll romantically.’

My phone pinged and Quin’s head jerked up. ‘Text from your ex-husband?’ His tone was acidic.

‘…From Claire.’

‘Well? How did the swinging go?’

It was a fucking disaster.

‘Oh God, no!’ I said. ‘Poor Claire.’

I was JEALOUS. Of Adam and Beatriz.

Then:

Adam was into it. I wasn’t!

Then:

I’ve gone too far this time.

‘This is what happens,’ Quin said obliquely.

And I had enough sense to not ask him what he meant.

There was a final message from Claire.

Mum invited Luke to her party. He said yes.

‘Quin? Mum’s invited Luke to her party, apparently he said yes.’

‘So we’re not going?’

‘That’s right. Come on, let’s see Barcelona.’

Outside the day was blue and yellow and all go. Tanned, muscular hotties were running at speed and visored cyclists, bent low over their bikes, came at us like attacking insects.

‘Exsqueeze me!’ I said as three roller-skaters whizzed by, whipping the air around us. ‘Trying to stroll romantically here!’ I smiled at Quin but at that exact moment, he was twisting his head away from me.

On the busy beach, golden young things were playing volleyball or doing slow, graceful movements that might have been t’ai chi.

On the other side of the boardwalk was real life—a quaint-looking neighbourhood of four- and five-storey apartment buildings, separated by dim, narrow streets. Laundry hung on tiny iron balconies or on lines strung between buildings, and squat, pretty palm trees—more like palm shrubs—sat at regular intervals.

An elderly woman was having a shouted, balcony-to-balcony conversation with another woman, who could have been her twin. Clusters of older men sat on rough chairs, talking energetically.

I asked, ‘Can we take a look?’

‘Rach. It’s not a theme park.’

Oh. Kay. ‘Quin…are you…?’

‘Fine. Just—locals live there, it’s their home.’

‘Sure.’ There were other people, obviously tourists, strolling through the narrow streets but no way was I risking an argument when we still had thirty-six hours trapped with each other.

He exhaled. ‘Sorry, Rach, of course we can. It’s why we’re here.’ He led me into the small streets. ‘Until the 1992 Olympics, it was just a poor fishing port, then they gussied it up. But it’s still a real community.’

Men sat at tiny zinc tables, playing a board game. ‘Dominos,’ Quin said.

Everyone seemed to know each other and the whole place was vibrant, teeming with life.