‘Say you’re going,’ he whispered, finding her with a look so naked her cheek prickled. ‘Don’t take me for a joke, that’s why you won’t look at me, isn’t it?’

She snatched her eyes from the tablecloth. Their usual waiter – a sweet young man no more than nineteen, vivid white eyes, willing expression, cirrus beard and a scattered pattern of shaving bumps on his neck – stood poised, unwilling to move his stringy limbs forward even though he’d been trained, fingers writhing like anemones. She feigned a tight smile. He stepped back.

‘I haven’t even decided—’

‘Bullshit!’ he spat, throwing his napkin at Ray. It hit her in the chest. She gasped, shocked more than upset. ‘That’s bullshit, Eraynor, and you know it.’

He got up and left.

Ray took the napkin from her lap, placed it carefully next to her plate. She sat at the table until her heart calmed, her temples cooled. She rose, twitching a smile in the general direction of anyone who might look, aware all the attention in the dining room was on her. She wondered what stories they’d created. Left them behind for their room.

Outside their door, Ray stopped. She steeled herself, even when she thought she’d heard him, dismissed the sounds, maybe callously at that point, about to insert her key card when she saw a stern-faced, pig-tailed maid two doors away, alert. When the woman realised she’d been seen, she ducked her head and entered the room she’d been cleaning. Ray second-guessed, pressing her ear against the door. Fari’s cries were loud, unrestrained. They clawed at her heart. He was beating something, it sounded like the wall.

Ray backed away, leaving the hotel and going to the beach. Where she belonged.

She stayed past dark, looking out to sea. Couples took moonlit walks past her, saying goodnight. She nodded, smiling with plastic rigidity. She wrapped her arms around her knees and flexed her bare toes, savouring the rub of granules against her skin, listening to the water. It spoke to her. Always had. Part of her was sorry, mostly she wasn’t. She was happy and it had nothing to do with Fari. For the first time.

On the main road, walking back, a car horn repeated, disturbing her peace. First she ignored it, but when the vehicle pulled up a few yards away she felt a twinge of fear, gazing at the oncoming traffic. When she next looked back, a hand waved from the parked driver’s side, a head leant out. Richie. She sighed, throwing a desperate look at the glowing hotel sign, the room lights and warmth of her own bed. Her island oasis. But it was no good. She walked to the passenger-side door, let herself in.