Mari, a petite woman in her late fifties with waist-length dark hair, is standing at her threshold banging dust from a rug. ‘Buenas noches,’ she calls, as Lorna walks carefully across the courtyard so as not to slip on the rain-slicked terracotta tiles. Lorna smiles and waves back, aware that she must look like a drowned rat. She lets herself into her own front door. It leads straight into the dining-living area, with wooden stairs that go up to a mezzanine level where the en-suite bedroom is. The kitchen and cloakroom are at the rear of the apartment, looking out onto the backs of buildings where there is also a concrete basketball court covered with graffiti. Sometimes she can hear the local kids playing out there, or listening to music late at night. It’s comforting, makes her feel she’s not alone while Alberto is working.

She peels off her wet blazer and kicks off her shoes, bending over to examine her heel where a blister has formed. She pads into the galley kitchen to put the kettle on. She’s tempted by the bottle of white wine she has in the fridge but decides against it. Later she can let her hair down in a way she hasn’t for ages. She leans against the counter while she waits for the kettle to boil and checks her watch. It’s nearly six. She should have enough time to straighten her hair before Alberto gets home. He promised to be back by seven.

She notices two wine glasses in the sink. She was sure she washed up before she went to work this morning. She never leaves a mess – the kitchen’s too small for that. It would make her feel stressed to see it cluttered. She’d left Alberto in bed, one tanned arm flung across his face this morning. He wasn’t due at the bar until 4 p.m., he’d said. So what had he been doing all day and, more importantly, with whom? She picks up the wine glasses and examines them for lipstick marks. There is nothing and she replaces them in the sink. She’s being ridiculous, she decides. This is where madness lies. She’s not normally like this. She’s usually trusting. Too trusting as it turns out – her last boyfriend, Sven, had left her for someone else after eighteen months together. She’d been living in Amsterdam then, had left England when Saffy met Tom. After she broke up with Sven she didn’t want to stay, and had decided to find a place in Spain instead. Within months she’d met and fallen in love with Alberto. Tall, ripped, tanned Alberto, six years her junior. She’d thought she’d feel younger but it has the opposite effect.