At the western end of the island the dunes rose twenty feet above the beach. An old seawall had collapsed into the inlet, and the stones had been carried ashore. Standing on a makeshift patio was an ornately gabled cabin that had once been an Edwardian bathing machine and had probably served for years as a chicken coop in some Rosas back garden. A tattered parachute canopy hung from a trellis of wooden poles and formed a shaded verandah.

I pushed back the cabin door and glanced at the interior. There was a rudimentary kitchen with a stone sink, bottled-gas cooker, and chemical toilet. Sand covered the wooden floor, blown through the weatherboarding.

Miriam lay back in a wicker chair below the canopy, while Henry and I set out to explore the dunes. We found burnt-out fireworks, beer cans, and even, mysteriously, an old portable typewriter. When I carried it back to the patio Miriam nodded approvingly.

I sat beside her and blew through the sandy keys. “Well, I guess I’m ready to start work. It’s not quite the Villa Mauresque, but so what…”

“Good for you.” Miriam closed her eyes, listening to the waves. “It’s lovely here—who owns all this stuff?”

“Local beatniks? Nothing’s locked and everything’s broken.”

“That sounds more like Shepperton. I always thought we were Shepperton’s beatniks without realising it.”

“We still are.” I rested my feet on the typewriter, all notions of work already forgotten. “I hate to mention it, but the apartment is going to cost us a fortune in dilapidations.”

“I’ll talk to Señor Robles. He’ll understand.”

“So you always say. This time, put on your best show.”

“I will—I think he likes looking at my breasts.”

“It’s his sinister little secretary you’ll have to talk to. I hope she likes your breasts.”

“Maybe she does…” Miriam began to rub ointment into my blistered shoulders, her eyes turning towards Santa Margarita. Recently she had become intrigued by the admiring glances of other women. The admiration of her own sex existed on a higher and more intense plane than anything men could offer, like the romantic rivalries of sisters. Together, women formed a conspiracy of glances entirely exchanged behind the backs of their menfolk.

“We’ll bring the girls tomorrow,” Miriam said. “I want them to see this—it’s like something straight out of television.”

“Miriam? What a thing to say…”

“Tell me, why don’t we get our own place here? You’ve always said you wanted to live in Spain.”

“We will, one day.”

“Hemingway, Gaudí, Buñuel … you could work here, they’re more your world.” Miriam turned my face towards her and pressed a finger between my eyes. “Face it, dear, you’re never going to feel at home in England.”

“Is that true? I feel at home in Shepperton.”