Victoria brought two glasses and a plate with slices of fresh mango laid out in a crescent. She gave Milton one of the glasses and put the plate down on the table.

“You won’t taste fresher than this,” she said, taking a slice and holding it up. “On the tree thirty minutes ago. Unbelievably juicy.”

They were on a sun deck in front of the restaurant. The deck was large, with a series of tables and chairs that had been arranged to take advantage of its chief virtue: a stupendous view of the ocean. The sun was just starting to set, and the sky was coloured with kaleidoscopic reds and oranges and yellows. Tiny sparks of light caught against the gentle waves that lapped onto the white sand of the beach that curved away from them in a lazy crescent.

Victoria had put Milton up in one of the small beach-side villas that belonged to the resort that the restaurant served. He had freshened up with a shower, and now he had the benefit of the clean clothes that Victoria had delivered. She explained that they belonged to her husband, Jean-Michel: a linen jacket, a crumpled linen shirt, and a pair of linen shorts. Milton thought they made him look like a middle-aged beach bum trying too hard to hold onto what was left of his youth, but, not wishing to insult Jean-Michel’s taste, he said nothing.

“The villa’s nice?”

“Too nice. I really don’t need anything as grand as that.”

“It’s off season,” Victoria said, waving off his objections. “It’s empty anyway, and the manager’s fine about you staying as long as Jean-Michel and I clean it afterwards.”

“I’m still getting my head around the fact that you’re married,” Milton said.

“Three years. You’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I will.”