“Years ago. I’ve settled in England now.”

“Do you like it?”

“It takes getting used to.”

“That could be a good thing. Maybe you need to feel like a refugee.”

“What about you?”

She grimaced through the smoke, a gleam of American teeth. “I keep waiting … there aren’t too many stars in the east these days. Sometimes I think that everywhere is pretty much the same. Miriam says you want to buy some pot?”

“Only if you have any to spare. She feels we’re getting too bourgeois.”

“It’s good for sex…” Sally was lying on her side, her breast touching the bottle of beer in my hand. I could see the tender nipple magnified through the pale green glass. She passed her cigarette and watched as I took a draw on the loosely packed hemp and tobacco. The children were hidden behind the headland, Miriam was working on the patio, and the empty beach would give us all the warning we needed as we lay within the dune grass. Sally took another olive from my palm, her lips briefly sucking my thumb. She was waiting for me, but I felt curiously gauche, as if I were effectively a virgin with no experience of women. During the eight years of our marriage I had been faithful to Miriam and knew her body far more closely than I knew my own. Another woman’s body was an unfathomed mystery, let alone another woman’s emotions and needs.

“Well, back to the monsters.” Sally stood up, brushing the sand from her thighs. She smiled quickly, erasing the offer of herself without any resentment, and strode down to the beach.

I followed fifty yards behind her, pausing to wash the guilty sweat from my face. I was surprised to find that I was shaking with irritation at myself—I was loyal to Miriam, though a little less loyal than I had realised.

When I reached the cabin the Jouberts were stepping from their Citroën, loaves of bread in their arms, more tapas and cheap wine from the bodega. Lykiard was holding a biology class for the children, who stood in a line, gazing fixedly at the lizard in his hand as Sally pulled a face over his shoulder.

The bow wave of the Estartit ferry struck the beach. Miriam strode across the patio, about to rinse the swimsuits in the sea. She skipped down the steps, stumbled, and missed her footing on the polished stones. Her right leg skewed sideways, and she fell heavily on the staircase.

The crack of her head against the stone made everyone turn. When I reached the steps she was lying half-stunned, eyes staring at my face as if she no longer recognised me. Her leg was twisted under her hips, blood running from a deep graze on the ankle.