Now it was the down season, and Maddy’s parents had pushed off on holiday to Florida, leaving her to manage the place so she could ‘learn the ropes, my girl’. She didn’t want to learn the ropes. Running an English pub in Spain was not high up her life goals. Of course, she wasn’t clear on what was, but definitely not that. It was hardly worth being open in December anyway; no one came in, except a few alcoholic locals who’d been banned from the other bars in town, or some of the ex-pats craving their chips and battered sausage. Even after years in Spain, they barely spoke a word of Spanish, and wouldn’t have eaten a squid tentacle if you’d paid them. Maddy had heard one couple complaining about the local food having ‘too many eyes’.

But today, someone interesting had come in, as Maddy idled by the bar in her pocketed apron, watching the Sky Sports that played non-stop. Her dad said that was as much of a draw as the home food.

‘Are you open?’

The man who’d come in fixed her with deep blue eyes, the kind you never saw in Spain. She stood up straighter, causing a breeze that wafted the cheap tinsel her mum had stapled round the bar. Still twenty degrees outside, it was hard to imagine it was nearly Christmas.

‘Oh! Yeah. It’s quiet though.’

‘That suits me.’ He took a seat at the bar, inviting conversation. ‘I saw the sign for chips and couldn’t resist. It’s the one thing I’ve been craving.’

‘On holiday here or . . . ?’ she fished.

He played with a rugby-themed bar mat. ‘More of a permanent thing, I think. Just checking it out.’

‘It’s a great place,’ she said, moving behind the taps, selling the town though she hated it herself, and was only there because finding a flat and job in England had seemed impossible. ‘The beach is lovely when it’s warm, nice people, good food.’

‘Fish and chips?’ He raised an eyebrow at her. He was older than she was, in his forties maybe. Dark hair silvered with grey, an expensive-looking polo shirt and well-fitting jeans. Maddy liked older guys. Boys her age – and they were boys – were all broke and awkward, their jeans falling down over their pants.

She leaned over the bar, showing her cleavage. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I actually like the local food. The seafood is amazing here.’

‘I know. I just felt like a little taste of home, don’t judge.’ He smiled at her.

‘I won’t. How about an English pint to go with?’

He ordered a Newcastle Brown Ale, and sipped it with enjoyment. ‘This is great. I could be back home. Newkie in my mouth, pretty English girl across the bar.’