Charlotte nodded. She already knew it was going to be a long day.

Marina was sitting in one of the red velvet carver chairs, nervously reading a magazine and looking like she was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room when Charlotte hobbled into the room. She had managed to shower and change into a draped mocha silk dress, the elegant look rather undermined when one of the staff caught sight of her coming down the stairs on her bottom, leg outstretched.

Mayra appeared at the door. ‘An aperitif, Señora Fairfax?’

She saw that Marina was drinking beer. ‘Thank you. A negroni, please.’ She needed something strong and swift. Nathan’s continued absence was making her edgy. Where was he? They had to at least talk about what had happened between them at the bullring, didn’t they? That kiss had been real, true. There had been no lies between them then. Was he just going to avoid her? Stay out all night? Stay somewhere else instead? She felt desperate to just see him. Even just seeing him would suffice. But she knew in her heart it wouldn’t stop there. Over and over she had replayed the look he had given her at Marina’s words, we don’t get to choose who we fall in love with.

Mayra nodded and left again.

‘How are you feeling?’ Marina asked, setting aside the magazine as Charlotte settled herself on the sofa; it was so low she wondered if she would ever be able to get up again.

‘I had a quick nap. I don’t know what it is about flying. I always need to sleep afterwards. How was your grandmother?’

‘She had gone out for some air when I got in. She’s resting now, though. She’s going to skip dinner tonight.’

‘Right,’ Charlotte said, feeling a stab of guilt that she had pushed the old woman so hard.

She gazed around the room. It was all shadows and dark corners, mahogany timbers along the ceilings, console tables draped with heavily fringed damasks, the furniture hard and lean. It wasn’t a room for slouching in; it demanded a straight back and shoes on, manners and a sharp wit – she had grown up in rooms such as this. On one wall, between the windows, flashed a set of matador’s knives and above the fireplace was draped an opulent cape, silver and gold thread woven through carnation-pink silk.

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Marina asked, looking around too. She was wearing tight black trousers, heeled ankle-boots and a strappy, shiny camisole with a trim of sequins along the top, kohl heavily inked around her eyes. She looked more like she was ready for a big night out than a quiet private dinner and Charlotte felt another stab of concern for how much she had coming her way in the future months. It wasn’t just the right bank balance that would make her a Mendoza, it was the right manners too, knowing the right people, drinking the right wine, telling the right jokes. ‘I can’t believe this is . . . me,’ she murmured, her eyes alighting on a portrait on the far wall. She frowned, getting up and walking over.