Kane’s hands slip down to the base of my spine and his fingers wrap around my hips then slide over my waist, and I gasp as he strokes the sides of my breasts as his hands travel back to my shoulders. Suddenly I am hyperaware, my body prickling, anticipating where his fingers will go next.

“Sssssh.” His hands move to my shoulders and, as his thumbs rub at the tight knots above my shoulder bones, I force myself to relax again. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do that. I’m being oversensitive.

His hands slide back down my sides, pausing as they reach the curve of my breasts, and his fingers brush my nipples.

“Kane!” I flip over onto my side, one hand covering my breasts, but Kane isn’t the man massaging me.

“You okay, Emma?” Isaac sits back on his heels and smiles down at me.

“No.” I reach for my clothes. “No, I’m not. Where’s Kane?”

“Kane was needed elsewhere. You looked so relaxed, I didn’t think you’d mind if I took over.”

Mind? Of course I mind. I haven’t had many massages, but even I know professional masseurs don’t just change over without informing the client, never mind the inappropriate touching. I should have requested a woman to massage me; I should have trusted my instincts.

“I have to go.” The smile doesn’t leave Isaac’s face as I wriggle out from beneath him and shuffle backwards, towards the door, my clothes pressed to my chest. “I … I have to go.”

Someone grabs me the second I slam the hut door shut behind me.

“Hear that?” Al clutches my arm and points further down the river, towards the third hut in the row.

Still pressing my clothes against me, I grab her hand and pull her away, towards the orchard, before she can say another word. She looks confused but willingly follows me as I run, the barren soil scratching the soles of my bare feet. When we reach our favourite hammock, I turn my back to her and pull on my bra, T-shirt and shorts, my eyes never leaving the closed door of hut number one.

“Daisy’s having sex,” Al says, pointing towards the third hut as I turn back towards her, “with Johan, that long-haired Swede – listen.”

All I can hear is cicadas chirping, birds singing and my heart pounding in my ears, but as I stare across the orchard, another sound reaches me. A man grunting and a woman shrieking and moaning in pleasure. I’ve heard the sound before. I heard it when Daisy and Al drunkenly slept together in my flat seven years ago (a one-off event none of us ever talk about). I heard it after I passed out on the sofa after a night of heavy drinking a few weeks ago, and discovered Daisy on the living room floor with the man I’d brought back.