A man is at the front door. I can see a sliver of him as I walk to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Who knows how long he’s been standing there? The dogs had not barked. They must have disappeared further down the beach to make trouble.

I’m in shorts and a singlet, unshowered, slightly muddy from a morning swim.

‘Yes?’ I say.

He has a wide, uneven face. There’s something scurrilous about the largeness of his mouth. A moustache creeps heavily over it, overshadowing his nose and eyes which are chiselled and keen. For a man he is wearing too much jewellery. Rings on five fingers and several gold chains that cut into the veins of his neck.

‘Madam, I hope I’m not disturbing you? I wanted to enquire about land in this area.’

‘Who are you? Haven’t you come here before?’

‘My name is Jiva,’ he said. ‘I’m a broker. I have clients who are interested in buying land here. Would you be interested in selling?’

He’s still standing outside the door, and I am facing him from inside the house, looking past him to the motorbike he has parked in the garage.

‘Who told you to come here?’

‘As I said, my clients are interested in buying fifty acres for a project. They will be able to offer very good prices.’

‘I’m not interested,’ I say. ‘I’ve already told you this. Please leave. And please don’t come back here. This is private property.’

He’s about to say something but I shout over him, ‘Mallika, Mallika!’ And he can obviously hear the fear in my voice because he says, ‘Sorry, madam, please don’t be misunderstanding.’

He turns to go, and I can see there are sweat stains on the back of his shirt. There is something graceful about the way his body moves. He slithers, and before Mallika can get to me, he is already halfway down the drive, the bike puttering and roaring.

‘Wait here,’ I shout at Mallika.

I go upstairs to check on Lucy. She’s sleeping on the bed and Golly has snuck up to lie at her feet. I go into my bedroom. Put on a bra and tunic, change from shorts into long pants. I grab a straw hat and my sunglasses, put on sandals.

‘Hundred fucking times I’ve said lock the bloody gate,’ I shout at Mallika, dragging her by the hand. ‘Why that’s so difficult for you to do, I don’t understand. Let’s go now.’

At her house, Mallika puts on slippers. She hitches up her sari and follows as I storm down the driveway.

‘Who was that man?’ she asks, jogging to keep pace with me.

‘Well, he wouldn’t fucking be inside here if you were locking the gate.’