But in spite of the fact it was almost thirty-five degrees outside, her hands were wrapped around a cup of hot, almost-orange tea and she kept dipping her head every few moments to take a sip, losing her train of thought each time. She was distant and distracted, a pale imitation of the bubbly, excited young woman Charlotte had known in London a few months before. Back then, she’d been bursting with impatience to get over here and ‘be in the sun at last’.

This was the dream and certainly on paper the move had been seamless. The club had sold £67 million of Santos-branded merchandise, already recouping almost half their outlay on him, and he had settled in well, scoring seven goals in the last nine matches. And behind the scenes, the living was easy: the house was fresh from the pages of Architectural Digest – all modernist polished concrete floors, wrap-around windows and cedar cladding, a pale pristine pool with swallows swooping over the surface. In the middle of the kitchen, a copper island the size of an emperor bed was being buffed by another maid in a pale-grey dress. But the mistress of it all was floundering. Unhappy, isolated and resentful.

From her spot on the opposite sofa, Charlotte watched Lucy gazing out at her four-year-old son Leo, playing in the bespoke tree house, the nanny looking up at him from the ground and imploring him to come down.

‘D’you think she’s pretty?’ Lucy asked her, jerking her head towards the young woman outside. Charlotte glanced over. The nanny was wearing jean cutoffs and a white t-shirt with Déjà vu written on the front, her long dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. She was in trainers and wasn’t wearing any make-up that Charlotte could discern.

‘Sure,’ Charlotte shrugged. ‘Do you?’

‘I guess so . . . I mean, she’s not ugly.’

Charlotte watched Lucy watching her. ‘Do you think Roberto thinks she’s pretty?’

Lucy’s head whipped round, her attention back in the room. ‘Why would you ask that?’

‘Because it felt like there was subtext to your question.’ Charlotte tilted her head slightly and waited. ‘Was there?’

Lucy was quiet. ‘I dunno,’ she muttered finally. ‘. . . Maybe.’

Another silence settled, filling the room like an invisible expanding foam, filling in all the crevices. They both knew the injuncted stories that swirled around the players – they were always either cheating or secretly gay; no one could ever just be happily married. ‘How’s he settled here, do you think?’

‘Rob?’

Charlotte nodded.

‘Rob’s Rob. At home wherever he puts his boots.’

‘Still, it must be easier for him being here than you – the language barrier doesn’t exist, for one thing.’

‘Colombian Spanish is different from Spanish Spanish.’ ‘Yes, but there are more overlaps and parallels than not, surely?’

‘I guess.’

‘Whereas for you, even just buying a pint of milk is tricky.’

‘I have people to buy milk for me,’ Lucy shrugged.

‘And perhaps that’s part of the problem,’ Charlotte suggested.