Charlotte smiled. Her fiancé was the sort of man who believed that survival depended upon red meat at every meal and he looked upon vegetarians – much less vegans – as utter lunatics.

‘I’m going to have to ring off. I’m just coming up to the steps and you know what they’re like with technology in there. My phone will be on silent so unless it’s an emergency . . .’

‘It’s fine. Go see Charlie – feed him up – and I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Have fun over there. Cheerio.’

Cheerio. It was another of his quirks that had made her smile when they first met, an attempt at levity instilled into him by his own mother. ‘Love you, darling.’

‘Yes, yes, love you too.’

The line went dead, London transposed for Madrid again, and she sat a few minutes longer, her toes waggling in time to the beat, her gaze flighty and restless as she looked from one rooftop to the next, from the street to the sky, tracking birds, pedestrians, cars, nothing at all. This was relaxing, right?

She watched the sun set for a few minutes more – as if proving a point – before turning back into the apartment. It was immaculate save for the orange net bag puddled on the table; she had bought just enough provisions to get her through tonight and tomorrow morning: coffee pods, milk, a bottle of rosé and a box of cereal that looked to be three parts sugar to one part grain.

Frankly, she was tempted to have the cereal for supper. In spite of playing it down to Stephen – last night’s conversation with him and her mother still rankling – hers had been a long day. After the face-to- face with Lucy Santos, she had headed straight over to the regional office for a four-hour meeting with the head of HR. Food and drink had been brought in at regular intervals but to all intents and purposes, they hadn’t lifted their heads as they went through the Mendoza file with a nit comb. It was vital she understood the background of the family and how they had built up their fortune to become the dynasty they were today.

Marina Quincy, though. A nobody. A line in a phone book. Charlotte had done her own brief internet search, finding nothing on Google, Facebook or Instagram; it only piqued her interest further; the name had been lodged in her mind since the initial meeting. It was distinctive. Curious, even.

She turned her head to the right and caught sight of the file sticking out of her tote. Rosie had sent it over as she was leaving the office this evening – the preliminary investigative report Mateo Mendoza had commissioned on his father’s mistress, as she was now commonly assumed to be. Charlotte, despite her better judgement, had printed it out to take home with her. She knew she ought to leave it till the morning. This was now her time. She was supposed to be relaxing, getting ready for the wedding: she still had to make final decisions on the napkin colour and her mother would not rest until they had a verdict on the buttonholes. The wedding was coming round at a gallop and Rosie was right – she did need to switch off from work and give it some attention.