She read through the profile more closely: Born and bred Madrilena. Divorced, ex-husband Miguel Hermoso, a carpenter, no kids. Two brothers, one now dead – testicular cancer. Aunt to three nephews and two nieces. Mother dead, father a mechanic, remarried and living in Bilbao. She had had multiple jobs – working at the laundromat, a hotel maid at a three-star hotel, dog walker, checkout clerk at supermarket. But . . . this was interesting; Charlotte peered closer: she had graduated with a hospitality qualification four years ago.

Charlotte mused on it. She would have been forty-one back then – that was pretty late in the day to decide to go for a professional qualification. Why the new direction? Was Mendoza trying to ‘better’ her, playing Professor Higgins to her Eliza Dolittle? And if he was the one encouraging her, paying for the course, then why was she still, four years later, waitressing in a tourists’ cafe?

She went back to the report, trying to rein in her questions: Marina owned an apartment in a down-at- heel pocket of town – it wasn’t rough as such, just not polished. She had credit card debt of 23,600 euros and had defaulted several times on her monthly credit card payments in the last year.

Charlotte let the papers fall in her lap as she tilted her head back and digested what she had read: so, her client was a beautiful divorcee with practically no assets, financially insolvent and insecurely employed; she had an extended family that may or may not need supporting; she was unmanicured and exhausted-looking – all of which suggested Mendoza wasn’t bankrolling her; her bank records also showed there was no drip-feed of payments, no top-ups or handouts.

But that made no sense. Why else would she be with him? This wasn’t a love story, clearly, how could it be? The man was ninety-eight! He might be infatuated with her but no one would believe that her interest in him could be anything more than financially motivated; a mutually beneficial arrangement. And yet she clearly wasn’t taking his money.

A theory occurred to her: if Marina was refusing to accept his help, living by her ‘principles’, making him watch on as she slaved long hours at the cafe and slept in an un-air- conditioned room at night . . . Charlotte nodded her head, seeing the game: she could well imagine that would be torture to an infatuated Mendoza – he was used to his money solving problems, sanitizing his landscape, buying things and people. But if she wouldn’t let him merely ‘help out’ then she was forcing him into something bigger, something bolder; he would have to give her everything to save her completely, rescue her from this plight.

It was one theory, anyway.

Her eyes flickered up to the windows: Madrid was glowing, the old stone buildings looking aflame in the sunset. Lights stippled the baroque facades, silhouettes beginning to pass in front of windows, the rush-hour roar settling into a background thrum. She felt the city fade away as she cradled the wine glass in her palm and thought back to how she too had tried to rescue someone once. And how someone had in turn tried to rescue her. How they had all failed. And how Life had beat on anyway, regardless . . .