Michael looked away, smiling again, and made for the café. He walked past the waiting room and saw that it was full of chairs.

6

Inside, he thought of Spain, where it had been so hot.

Elizabeth saw the advertisement in a shop window, with a photograph of the house – this was after two nights in a hotel, and they had both agreed that what they wanted most was a cottage to call their own. They wanted to cook for themselves, and buy bottles of cheap local wine – not because they needed to save money, but because even the most friendly hotel imposed a formality.

Casa Elouisa was named after its owner. Michael phoned her from the lobby, and thankfully her English was excellent. His Spanish was poor, so ‘Habla Ingelzi, senorita, por favour…?’

That was about all he said.

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied. ‘How are you?’

The house was available the very next day, and for the whole fortnight, which meant it was bound to be unsuitable and disappointing. They prepared themselves for the difficulty of saying, ‘Well, we’ll think about it. We have one more place to see.’

‘It will be next to a noisy quarry,’ said Elizabeth.

‘A slaughterhouse.’

‘A power station. In the slums. By a brothel.’

‘She said she hadn’t really got round to advertising it yet. Just a few photos here and there – she hasn’t got onto the books of any… you know, tourist offices or big brochures.’

‘Maybe we’ll be lucky.’

They had been lucky all through the holiday, and they were to be yet luckier. The flight to Malaga had been simple, and the hire car was waiting. Michael drove, then Elizabeth took over, and they squealed at every roundabout because it felt so strange to be turning right. He was twenty-six. She was two years younger, and he could still remember the disbelief when one thing led to another and they found themselves going to the cinema, to a pizza house and then to meet her parents. Suddenly, they were on holiday together.

The hotel in Granada was expensive, and it turned out to be a secret jewel behind high walls – an ex-convent with twisting corridors and sudden gardens. They moved on sadly, shaking the hands of the staff who wished them well because love was a blessing, and they had blessed the whole place.

They blessed the car, and blessed the white villages they drove to – villages that were strewn down the sides of high, dry mountains like bleached rubble. Every restaurant they visited blessed them, for they were discovering the wonders of Spanish food: their tongues came to life in their mouths. They were discovering how life changes in the sun, so Casa Elouisa had to be the anticlimax two shy English tourists surely deserved.

It wasn’t, though.