‘Well I’ve had your mother on the phone. She can’t get hold of you either and she’s going ape wanting a decision on the bloody napkins: scalloped or . . . Christ, I’ve forgotten what the other thing was.’

She rolled her eyes. She’d wanted distraction, hadn’t she? ‘Can’t you deal with it? I’m busy.’

‘Right. Because I’ve got an opinion on napkins.’

‘And you think I have?’ she snapped, feeling fraught. ‘Look, I don’t care either. They’re napkins. Tell her to choose whichever she thinks looks best.’

‘You tell her. She’s your mother.’

‘Ugh, Stephen, I’m up against it right now. I’m not over here for fun. I’m trying to get things sorted quickly so I can get back in time. This is your wedding too. Just deal with it, can’t you?’ Her voice had risen an octave and she realized she had stopped walking, that her hands were pulled into little fists. She was ostensibly a toddler having a tantrum in the middle of the street. She covered her eyes with her hand. What was wrong with her at the moment?

There was a frustrated silence. ‘. . . Fine.’ They were both tetchy and irritable. Did he have a hangover too? Had he just been punched in the stomach by his own past? ‘So any idea yet when you are coming back?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, I’ve only been here a day and a half. I’ll be back by the weekend latest, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried. I just don’t want your mother on my case.’

‘You’re the one who invited her to stay for dinner on Monday night.’

‘I was being polite.’

She suppressed a sigh; they could do this all day. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’m at my next appointment. I’ll call you tonight.’

‘Fine.’

‘. . . Love you.’

‘Yes, yes. Speak later.’

He hung up without ceremony, and she stared into space momentarily, feeling her past, present and future all colliding around her. She felt strangely unrooted from the ground, off-balance and unsteady as though the world kept spinning first one way, then the other. She was getting married next week but suddenly fragments of her past were bubbling up like secrets sunken in a lake.

She tossed her head determinedly, banishing them from her mind again; she had a ‘strong mental game’ as Stephen had once said – one of his more romantic compliments – and she resumed walking, rounding the corner into a golden-glowing narrow street and catching sight of the distinctive green and gold doors of San Ginés, the red chocolatería sign already lit on the corner wall; there was a queue of people waiting to order through the hole-in- the-wall. It was just gone four but still too hot for her to sit outside, even in the shade, and she slipped into the cool interior, the scent of caramelized sugar acting as immediate anaesthetic on her raw emotions.

After scanning the space for a moment, she chose a small table in the corner, just near the kitchen door. She picked up the menu but the repertoire was both well known and justifiably restricted: churros and chocolate with a side order of espresso was the combination that had made this place famous, and frankly it was exactly what she needed. In the rush of oversleeping this morning and running straight to her meeting with Mateo Mendoza and then on to Lucy, she had straight-up forgotten to eat.