‘So where is she sleeping then?’ I’d asked him, and Benjamín, turning a reddening face to the wall, admitted she was staying with him. Now every morning when she covers her pistachio shirt with a checked cotton apron and gets cracking at the stove, I worry about where she does her laundry and how she applies her red lipstick with only the reflection of the tin St Joseph to peer into. I wonder whether to offer her a change of clothes, a hot bath and some soothing Burt’s Honey Bath Milk to go in it, but I don’t because I’m guessing she’d be mortified. I’m guessing that Dolores still believes, despite Duval’s protestations that I am a friend and will not turn her in, that she is working in the lair of the she-devil. So, to date I have offered her no more than fatuous compliments about her food in my dire Spanglish, but in answer to Duval’s question, the stuff she makes is incredible. Tostadas, chilaquiles, albóndigas, and the children’s favourite, cajeta, a fudge sauce made of goat’s milk which they eat straight from the pan. The truth is, Dolores doesn’t seem to mind what she cooks as long as she gets to use the Magimix. No matter how small the quantity to be chopped, no matter that it takes her longer to wash the machine than to do it by hand, if something needs grating, slicing, or even hacking in two, into the Magimix it goes while Dolores stands, finger on the pulse button, a beatific smile playing about her full lips.

Duval looks amused. He takes the plates I hand him. ‘Well certainly this is a lot more elegant than we’re used to – isn’t it, Taco?’ He nudges the dog affectionately with the toe of his boot. ‘I usually eat straight out of a frying pan, and Taco, whose manners aren’t nearly as refined as mine, prefers to eat off the floor.’ At the mention of his name, Taco settles himself under the table with a wheezy yawn. ‘Although last night, as it happens, we ate like kings.’ Duval takes the matches from my hand and relights the spluttering wick of one of the candles. ‘We built a fire outside and grilled fresh fish.’

‘Fresh fish?’ Having lived on nothing but red meat since January I feel quite giddy at the thought. ‘There are nights I dream of fresh fish.’

‘Well, stick around long enough,’ Duval says casually, ‘and I’ll make sure you get some.’

He catches my eye and, self-conscious suddenly, I turn and busy myself with oven gloves, then hoist the skillet on to the table.

‘So how did you end up in Temerosa, you and Benjamín?’

‘Benjamín stumbled across it on one of his crossings. It was owned by an old man up in Bisbee.’

‘And he didn’t mind?’