‘And what’s the problem for those that gain it?’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Well that usually leads to what’s known as SWS – sudden wealth syndrome.’

‘It has a name?’

‘I’m afraid so. A bit like PTSD, the shock can be overwhelming. It’s a pretty toxic blend of all the worst elements of the other ways of becoming rich: inheritors’ guilt, plus earners’ emotional expectation gap. People might crave money, they might dream of never having to worry about a bill again, but when it happens, particularly if it’s sudden and they haven’t had time to work towards their goals – say they have a lottery win – they’re just not prepared; not for the admin and business side of it, nor the emotional vacuum, nor the sudden lack of shape to their days or any kind of impetus to do things. Believe it or not, and I do know how patronizing this sounds, but struggle builds character – it fosters determination, grit, perseverance, and money takes that all away. Seriously, it’s tough.’ She looked back at Marina levelly.

‘And that’s why people need you.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘People hear the title wealth counsellor and think it’s some fluffy job. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Where there’s money, there’s often crisis.’ She held the older woman’s gaze, yesterday’s conversation vibrating like an invisible thread between them.

‘Excuse me, waitress?’

Marina looked up. A couple had sat down at a nearby table and one was tapping her wrist impatiently. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she murmured, looking frustrated.

‘Sure. But I have to ask you one last time, before you go. Before I go –’ Charlotte looked at her meaningfully – ‘you’re quite sure you don’t know Carlos Mendoza?’

Marina tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. She swallowed nervously. ‘. . . Yes, I’m sure.’

Her hesitation had been louder than the reply. ‘But you are Marina Quincy?’

‘. . . Yes.’

‘And you live at Apartment 8, 94 Calle del General Garcia de la Herran, Carabanchel?’

Marina gasped. ‘How do you know that?’

‘The same way I knew you worked here.’ She didn’t need to articulate that money could buy things other than cars and clothes. Charlotte sat back with a shrug and a sigh, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘But if you’re really telling me you don’t know him, then I’ll have to take you at your word.’

They stared at one another and Charlotte could see she wasn’t the only one holding back, that Marina was telling her only half-truths. There was more. She knew more. ‘. . . What if I did know him? What would it mean?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid. Unless you can confirm you are the person I’m looking for, then I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the situation.’

‘Waitress!’

‘Fuck,’ Marina hissed in Spanish, staring down at the tabletop. ‘I have to go.’

‘What time do you finish?’ Charlotte asked, trying not to sound desperate.

‘Not till later. I’m doing a double shift.’