Genia Ortiz regained her breath. She was preparing to cross the square, to do battle with the man from Algeciras when her attention was drawn to Senator Zamora and Pablo. They were taking their leave of her neighbour, Señor Wavery. There was no way of avoiding the three of them if she wished to exchange the picture in her bag. If she continued towards the fountain, it would be bound to come out that Tromso was not going to be in Abyla for Christmas.

Genia Ortiz ducked instead into Marie Amaral’s flowerstall.

She drank the air. “What lovely smells!”

“Can you be helped, Señora Ortiz?”

Marie Amaral emerged, smiling, from behind her bucket of bouvardia. “Or are you trying to avoid your neighbour?”

“My neighbour?” Genia Ortiz bent forward, to see if she could see him outside. “No, it’s not that. I didn’t want to . . . ”

“I like him, I must say. Don’t you like him?”

Genia Ortiz tracked Wavery to the fountain. He was thanking Zamora for something and patting Pablo’s head.

“Madame Amaral, I have never found in myself an affinity for single men.”

Now when she thought of the British Consul General, Genia Ortiz realised for the first time how disappointed she had become in her neighbour. When he first arrived, she had been willing to treat him as her ideal son, which was why this morning she had privileged him with the most intimate and precious parts of her life. She had selected him fom the whole of Abyla to share Balnasharki – and afterwards, what had been his immediate reaction? To make a beeline for that hussy’s library!

“You know what they say, madame. A bachelor is a dangerous man.”

“But he’s not single, is he?”

“Even so. Perhaps he’s like the General, not entirely committed to women.”

“Perhaps he is not well?” said Marie Amaral, who didn’t believe he was another gay Englishman. She had become fascinated by Wavery. She could see his lightest veins were drying up. He was scarred by loneliness.

“That could be it, I suppose.” Genia Ortiz attempted a wise cluck. “But then to be ill today. You look at someone who’s ill today and you feel awfully suspicious.”

“Some flowers, then?” suggested Marie Amaral.

Genia Ortiz rested her bag on the counter. “Well, I’ll tell you,” she confided. “I didn’t want to have to share my sad news with the Senator.”

“Oh, forgive me, señora. What is your sad news?”

Genia Ortiz told her about Tromso. “But I have some good news too! I haven’t told anyone else.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Marie Amaral, responding to the contents of Genia Ortiz’ letter from the Ukraine.

“Yes, Marie Amaral. I was wondering . . . ” Through the open door, she could see Pablo riding the horse. “I thought I would celebrate with a new dress.”

Carefully, Marie Amaral wiped her florist’s scissors. The blades could cut through bone. “You would like me to make you a dress?” she said.