Just as I wondered if any kids lived here, we came upon a playground filled with them, climbing, jumping, calling to each other. Watching children was always bitter-sweet but the balance had greatly tipped in favour of joy.

I’m happy now, so is Luke, everything is fine.

‘You sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I asked Quin. ‘You’ve seen it all before. We could do something else.’

‘All good.’

After lunch in a low, pokey traditional restaurant—‘a Barcelona secret’, according to Quin—we went back to the hotel for a quick rest before hitting the beach but we accidentally slept all afternoon.

I awoke, without a clue where I was. I lay, staring at nothing, trying to get it together, when a memory ambushed me. It had been a morning in New York. Early. Too early to start living through another day where my baby was still dead, so I’d slipped some magic tablets into my mouth and got relieved of the feelings for a little longer.

Some hours later, groggy and confused, I’d woken again. This time, I’d got out of bed. Beneath me, the floor felt unsteady. I stood, waiting for it to become more solid, when Luke appeared in the doorway.

Suddenly wary, I’d said, ‘I thought you were at work.’

‘I know you did.’ He watched me, the way he always watched me then—analytically. Detached.

It was three weeks, maybe four, since he’d discovered my hidden pills. Since then I’d done a good job of taking them in secret.

Moving into the bedroom, he pulled me against his chest and held me tight. I relaxed against him, suddenly grateful for the hard heat of his body. Then, very quietly, he whispered into my hair, ‘You have to stop.’

Back in the now, in Barcelona, sadness rushed in, different layers of it. You relapsed. It was your fault.

Every time that thought arrived, a bolt of fear shot through me and every time it went a little deeper.

I shifted, looking for Quin. Stretched across the bed, he was still conked out. I put a hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open.

‘We fell asleep.’ He sounded stunned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Ten to eight.’

‘Okay…I need coffee.’ He stumbled around the room, then into the shower. When he came back, he was awake. ‘So tonight? Food? We can pick up something casual out there.’ He nodded towards the sea. ‘Or.’ He paused. ‘I’ve booked two places at a pop-up in a villa belonging to a Catalan nobleman, a comte.’

I’d have quite happily gone back to the boardwalk and some unscary, touristy place, but it was obvious Quin was lobbying for the nobleman’s apartment. ‘The pop-up sounds interesting.’