They had seen the retired doctor’s house from the road below, from where they could just make out the top of its roof. On impulse, Georgina, at the wheel of the old Volkswagen, had turned up the narrow, potholed track that led up the hillside.

‘You never know,’ she said. ‘When we get to the top we might see a For Sale sign.’

‘And?’ asked Marcus.

‘And then we buy it and turn it into a hotel,’ said Georgina abruptly. ‘What else?’

Georgina had a vaguely angry way of talking, as if challenging the person to whom she was speaking to argue with her. This manner, Marcus had discovered, did not conceal a sweet personality – in fact, she was by nature irritable. But he was smitten, and would hear nothing against her. ‘My ever-so-slightly angry Georgina,’ he said to her. Georgina snapped back, ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

They had to drive slowly up the track, and at one point Marcus had to get out of the car and attempt to move a tree branch that had fallen and blocked the road. Georgina remained in the car, tapping the steering wheel with her fingers as she watched her friend’s futile efforts. Eventually, after several fruitless minutes, she got out of the car, lifted up the branch and shifted it to the side of the road.

‘You’re truly magnificent,’ said Marcus.

‘And you’re truly weak,’ said Georgina, getting back into the car.

They drove on. There, on the rusted ironwork gate at the foot of the drive that led to Marlin House, was a sign that said ‘For Sale’. They parked the Volkswagen and walked up the drive. A pair of birds of prey circled overhead on the currents of wind from the headland; the fronds of great coconut palms moved like fans against the sky.

‘Our hotel,’ said Georgina.

The hotel opened its doors three months later. The house, rescued from ruin just in time, had been renewed from floor to ceiling. Georgina oversaw all of the work, criticising the carpenters, scolding the upholsterers, snapping at the electrician. Marcus looked after the kitchen: ordering pots and pans and catering ovens, planning recipes, and contacting suppliers of eggs and vegetables.

‘That bossy woman,’ complained one of the carpenters to a friend. ‘She too much trouble, man. One day a coconut go fall on her head!’

‘Even the Lord, he frighten’ of her,’ said another. ‘People come stay in that place, they see her, they run fast, jump in sea.’

When everything was ready, or slightly before, the guests started to arrive. They were generally enchanted with their lodgings. The view from the terrace, over the treetops to a sea of an impossible blue, took their breath away. Guests sat there, their feet up on the terrace parapet, the warm breeze in their hair, sipping at the rum cocktails which the barman brought on a silver tray. They walked down to the beach and swam in the breakers; they watched the highly coloured fishing boats, painted in bright blues and greens, nose out into the waves and then, in the evenings, Marcus’s carefully planned dinners rounded off the day. Everything seemed perfect, from the guests’ point of view, except for the management.