A journey she never expected…

Kirsty is happy. Really, she is. After five years with her boyfriend, Harry, she’s ready to take things to the next step and turn that spare room into a little nursery. And she thought Harry was too.

Only, it turns out that Harry’s ‘big news’ is actually not that he wants to try for a baby, but that he wants to travel to South America – with Kirsty! She’ll just have to trust that after their trip of a lifetime, Harry will be ready to settle down for good.

Arriving in hot, steamy Ecuador it soon becomes clear that Harry is hiding something. Something that he’s been hiding for years. And as Kirsty’s dreams are at risk of shattering, she begins to pick up the pieces of the life that she’s put off for so long…

Don’t miss this uplifting debut from Rachel Dann, perfect for fans of Sara Alexander, Jules Wake and Isabelle Broom.

Pieces of My Life

Rachel Dann

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Endpages

Copyright

RACHEL DANN

was born in Sussex and grew up with her nose in a book, always dreaming of becoming an author. Her first finished work was a story about two rival horses which was read out to the class by her primary school teacher, much to her mortification.

Rachel feels very fortunate to have travelled the world from a young age, accompanying her father on many adventures in Europe, the USA and beyond. Her childhood travels fuelled Rachel’s interest in languages and she graduated from Durham University in Spanish and Italian. She has visited many parts of Latin America, and spent some time in the Yucatan, Mexico, teaching English to the local police.

Rachel was overjoyed to become a mother the same year she wrote this book and currently lives in Quito, Ecuador with her young family.

My heartfelt thanks go to Charlotte Mursell and all at HQ Digital who believed in this book based on just a few chapters, sent in a moment of crazy hope…and for their subsequent patience with me as I tried, and failed, to meet deadlines during late pregnancy and early motherhood. Thank you for all your guidance which helped shape a story into a novel.

Eternal thanks to my Mum and Dad, to whom I owe everything, for your love and support; and also to my bonus parents – David, Pauline, Pam, Victoria and Daniel, for all you do and have done for me.

Siempre gracias a mi querido Alex, for supporting me, for being nothing like Harry, and for all the long walks you took that enabled me to do this. And to our precious Sofia for your patience and good nature with us both…you are my daily inspiration and joy, and everything I do is for you.

Massive thanks to my two most valued critics – Janine Swann, for being my partner in crime (and writing) since we were small, and Debbie Carbin, a.k.a. Beth Thomas, for your ongoing feedback, ideas and insistence that I gave this a shot in the first place. You both inspired and encouraged me to keep going when I felt I couldn't.

Thank you to my dear Unc for your support and guidance, and for being a lifelong example of making dreams come true through writing.

Big thanks to all my wonderful friends, and other tenuously related people, in particular Zach, Beth, Amy, Roberta, Tam, Ania, Tania, Rory, MSL… Thank you also to Kirsty Mc for going on the original adventure with me, and for letting me borrow your name.

If it does not sound too strange to thank a country, I also feel an immense gratitude to Ecuador, especially Quito…the place that has become my second home, and whose vibrant beauty and diversity provide the perfect setting for anyone who wants to write.

Last but not least, this book owes so much to the women whose experiences I have heard about, and whom I have had the privilege to meet, in prison in South America. You gave me a new perspective on life, and I hope that through this I have gone a little way towards telling your stories.

For Sofia, with all my heart.

Chapter One

I miss the train by exactly fourteen seconds. I know this because the little digital clock on the Redhill station platform is actually working today, reading 17:30:14, and the dim red tail-lights of the train are still just visible in the distance. Resignedly I slow to a walk and slump down on to one of the metal platform benches, pulling my coat more tightly around me against the chilly late-autumn wind.

The next train isn’t for an hour.

But at least you’re not working in London, I tell myself firmly, beginning the timeworn conversation I have inside my own head every day at around this time. That terrible commute all your friends complain about. I settle back into the seat and shut my eyes, calling to mind the next item on my familiar list of the advantages of rural rail transport. All those people, getting pushed and jostled about on overcrowded city platforms… Then I momentarily draw a blank. What comes next?

At least on train connections here in the depths of Surrey you can always get a seat.

Yes! That’s it. The abundance of available seating.

And what was it Mum came out with the other day? The terrorist threat. Of course!

In more remote areas there is less of a terrorist threat. People passing through London Bridge or Victoria every day must be really scared. I nod fervently to myself. Really scared.

A crackling voice over a speaker jerks my mind back from determined visualisations of abandoned rucksacks and hordes of panicked travellers.

‘The eighteen-thirty has been cancelled, due to a fault on the line. Will all passengers travelling to Horsham, Southwater, Partridge Green, and… Fenbridge please make their way to the front of the station where an alternative bus service has been arranged.’

I wearily haul myself to my feet, rolling my eyes at my only other fellow traveller, an elderly woman smoking a cigarette on the next bench along.

‘What they really mean is someone’s topped themselves again,’ she tells me with a conspiratorial wink as we make our way over to the lone bus waiting for us at the station entrance.

I nod politely and take a seat at the back of the bus, rummaging in my handbag for my phone. The replacement bus service always takes ages, so I’d better drop Harry a message to let him know I’ll be late. Although by the time he reads it I might be home anyway.

To my surprise, there’s already a text waiting for me. I blink at it for a few moments, savouring the quick thrill of excitement at that little digital envelope. Unopened, full of potential. Of course, it might not even be from him.

U on way yet? Can’t wait to see you. Got wine. Love x x x

My heart rate quickens. Harry hasn’t used the word love in a text for… well… a while. Even as I’m staring at it, my phone vibrates and another message pops up below it.

I really want to talk to you… we may have reason to celebrate x x x

Excitement pulses through my veins and my hand actually starts to tremble as I type my reply. Oh my goodness, this could be it. It!

No, he won’t be proposing to me. Ever since I met Harry at university six years ago, he’s been very clear about his views on marriage. He sees it as a man-made societal structure designed to control and suppress. Or something like that. I don’t share his views, but Harry’s unique outlook on life was one of the things that drew me to him.

Is. Is one of the things that draws me to him.

Besides, what’s the point in feeling deprived of one thing in life, when we already have so much.

So I’ve accepted it won’t be marriage Harry wants to talk about tonight. But it might be… something even bigger.

The something that, if I’m honest, has been present in many conversations between Harry and me lately, without actually being said out loud.

Ever since a chain of events began that clearly only pointed at one thing. My job became permanent. After a year of living from month to month on a ‘temporary contract’ within the legal support team at Home from Home, a local housing charity, I came in one morning to find an envelope on my desk offering me a permanent contract. It was hardly the winning lottery numbers or Willy Wonka’s lucky golden ticket, but at least it meant financial stability. The following year Harry got promoted to Head of Art at the boys’ Academy (the youngest person ever to achieve this role, their annual newsletter told us proudly). The next year our mortgage rate went down by two per cent. Then, earlier this year, Harry’s Great-Aunt Mabel died, leaving him a decent lump sum. Everything was coming together perfectly.

We have the space. Okay, so our second bedroom may not be very large and Harry is currently using it as a study. (When I say study, I really mean part art-studio and part man-den, where oil paints and sketch pads and X-box chairs with inbuilt speakers all coexist in a cornucopia of organised chaos. I’m not allowed in there.)

But we could easily convert it into a nursery.

I start imagining what it would feel like to go in there and give it a really good clean out. Resting my head against the cold, damp bus window, I allow myself to be absorbed by one of my favourite daydreams. I’d start with the magazines – they’re all going in the recycling. Terrible how the world’s forests are being depleted daily, and Harry probably owns half of them in the form of gaming magazines, dating back to 1998, stashed in untidy piles. Right, the magazines are gone. Mentally I dust my hands off and survey the rest of the room. The art stuff can stay, I suppose. I’ve always quite fancied Harry after he’s been working, when he re-emerges from that room after several hours of activity, all tousled blond hair and stubble and paint splatters. Admittedly, that hasn’t happened in a while… but just in case, I imagine carefully packing away the paint cartridges, only throwing away the empty, dried-out ones, and maybe a few of the more sludgy colours I don’t like.

Now that just leaves the X-box, and of course that chair…

Caught up in a fantasy of hauling the X-box chair roughly by its arms into the garage, I almost miss my stop.

‘This is Fenbridge, love,’ the driver announces helpfully, and I realise the bus has stopped moving and I’m the only person still on board.

***

By the time my key is turning in the lock ten minutes later, I’m absolutely certain Harry wants to talk about starting a family.

We’ve discussed it before, of course. Ever since I was a teenager I’ve known it was one of the top criteria for my future life partner – like being in steady employment and having decent table manners. They must want children.

Yes, we had talked about it, but Harry and I met when we were so young that at first any conversations about children were hypothetical: one day, it would be nice to, when we’re older, etc…

It had come up again when we bought the house, naturally. I’d wanted to go straight in with a three-bed, but Harry convinced me it was more sensible to start off smaller, not to stretch ourselves or be ‘tied down’ to a really big mortgage, so that ‘one day’ (there it was again), when the first child came along, we wouldn’t be struggling financially. He hadn’t actually said when the first child came along, but I knew that was what he meant. That was three years ago and I had been starting to wonder when ‘one day’ might be, but I didn’t say too much because it always seemed to be me who brought the subject up and I didn’t want to come across as one of those barmy women who only thinks about having babies.

But deep down Harry knows I’m ready. Over the last few years I’ve managed to keep the balance between making it clear what I want and actually turning into a living, breathing fireball of oestrogen. He knows it’s down to him now to decide when he’s ‘ready’, and all the signs are pointing to the fact that today is the day.

It would explain the wine – we hardly ever drink, can often go weeks without a drop – but it would make perfect sense for Harry to want to treat me to a nice bottle of wine tonight. One last night of getting tipsy together, before going upstairs to… create a new life.

I’m grinning from ear to ear as I burst into the house and sling my handbag down. Harry is in the kitchen leaning against the worktop, watching the door, and when he sees me he also breaks into a huge smile. Wow, when he looks this happy he’s really sexy. How could I have forgotten that?

Had I forgotten it?

‘Hello, gorgeous.’ He beams at me, and comes over to give me a big kiss. ‘You took ages.’

‘I missed the train by fourteen seconds, and there was a replacement bus service.’ My transport issues already feel like they happened a thousand years ago. ‘Get that wine open then.’

Harry gives me a cheeky look out of the corner of his eye as he turns to uncork the wine, as if to say ‘all good things come to those who wait’, or something equally corny and innuendo-laden. I know him so well he doesn’t have to say it. I know what he’s thinking.

‘So, you’re probably wondering what I want to talk to you about?’ Harry twinkles at me, handing me a large glass of red then turning back to pour his own.

‘Actually, I—’

‘You see, I’ve been thinking a lot about the future lately,’ Harry continues regardless, pausing only to chink his glass against mine with a self-satisfied smile, then take a slurp. ‘Since that money came in from old Aunt Mabel, it’s really helped me re-evaluate things.’

‘Yes…’ I breathe, gazing up at him. I can hardly bear it any longer.

‘We’re not getting any younger, we’re doing okay financially, and I´ve realised life is just too short not to strive for your dreams.’

‘Yes, oh, Harry…’ This is the part where he grabs me by the waist, lifts me effortlessly and carries me into the bedroom, growling sexily in my ear, ‘Let’s make a baby.’

‘So…’ Harry puts his glass of wine down purposefully on the kitchen side, obviously gearing up for his grand finale…

‘…I think we should take some time out and go to South America.’

***

At university, society was divided into two groups: those who had taken a ‘gap year’ in a far-off country, and those who were left at the gate by their mum on the first day of term, contemplating life alone for the first time. I fell into the latter category.

Members of the Gap Year Gang were easily recognisable: a colourful chakra pendant, the flash of a Mayan symbol tattooed on an arm, or the swing of a hand-woven alpaca wool handbag gave them away.

Not to mention their subtle air of intellectual superiority. After all, these were people who had seen the world.

The rest of us wore clothes from Primark and felt homesick and lost for the whole first term. At least.

Until then, travelling hadn’t really appealed to me; maybe because I’d always known it wasn’t an option. Mum could only just afford for me to go to university, so I could hardly ask her to help me fund a voyage of self-discovery and intellectual growth in some distant land.

Only when confronted with the Gap Year Gang in all their exotic glory did I start to feel like I might be missing out on something.

Their stories of hitchhiking across South East Asia or getting wasted and waking up on a beach in Bali, or escaping an armed robbery on a night bus to Cape Town, fascinated and frustrated me in equal measure.

Compared to them I felt inexperienced and twee. I once asked a girl in my law and social change seminar where she got her lovely woven bag from as I fancied buying one. She looked me in the eye and said witheringly, ‘Thailand.’

Harry, of course, was in a category all of his own. He had enjoyed his first gap year (inter-railing in Europe) so much that he decided to take another one (hiking and backpacking across South America), then another half-one after that (six months fruit-picking on a working holiday visa in Australia). When he finally made it to university, aged twenty-two, he pretty much got straight off a plane from Sydney and strolled into his first art history lecture, both on the same morning. He was the eldest in each of his classes by several years and was revered among the Gap Year Gang as some kind of prophet, the Wise Man of Travellers or similar nonsense.

We couldn’t have been more different, and I could barely believe it when he asked me out.

Although we were studying for different degrees, both Harry and I took an extra module of Spanish language. I did it because I’d read on careers websites that having a second language would give a law graduate a competitive edge in the careers market. I think Harry did it just because he could.

It was hard not to notice him in the classroom, partly due to his tall, blond handsomeness and tendency to turn up to lectures in tatty leather flip-flops, regardless of the weather conditions – but also because he already spoke excellent Spanish. Needless to say, a product of seven months spent meandering around Latin America.

There’s nothing more attractive than real talent or skill. I could overlook Harry’s unusual dress sense and messy hair – this man spoke Spanish like a native. He might not always have bothered with correct grammar, but he could make the perfect, tongue-rolling ‘rrrrrr’ sound. It was sexy. Infuriating as well, of course, as he just rocked up to our first class and started chatting away at the speed of a Mexican football commentator. Meanwhile I clawed my way up to his level through three years of hard study and sticking vocabulary post-its all over the house, much to my flatmates’ annoyance.

But it was still sexy.

I spent the first year of university lusting after him discreetly from a few rows back, and impatiently plodding through the week until our Friday afternoon Spanish lecture. I don’t think we exchanged a single word in all that time, even though there were only ten people in the class, so he must have at least known my name.

Then one day Harry sidled up to me in the Student Union bar, set his beer down on the table in front of me, and asked what I was doing that night.

From then on, it was a whirlwind. Harry himself was a whirlwind. When we graduated, he took me to Rome. I never admitted to him it was the first time I had ever left the UK.

I also never got round to telling him he was my first proper boyfriend. I hadn’t been the most popular girl at school, nor the most unpopular, I had just kept myself to myself. A few boys had asked me out, but they always seemed so immature and boring. I was happier studying, going to the cinema with my friends and working at the café round the corner to help out my mum with the bills. I’d never seen any point in having a boyfriend until Harry.

As our university days passed, I got to know the man behind the traveller’s legend. To my surprise, and – if I’m honest – slight dismay, Harry was actually from a middle-class, prosperous family. Their renovated oast house in Kent was worlds apart from Mum’s little terraced property in the part of Essex that gives the whole county its reputation.

His family were very refined. My first dinner at his parents’ house was like that scene from Titanic where Leo sits down at the table and has no idea which set of cutlery to use first. Ashamed, I found myself wishing my mum spoke Italian or my dad could discuss my university essays with me, like Harry’s parents. In fact, I would have been happy for my dad to want to discuss anything with me, but that´s another story.

It was Harry’s parents who generously gave us half the deposit for the house, and I still remember with a pang that Dad didn’t even come with us on the morning we collected the keys.

‘You know what he’s like, love.’ Mum had tried to sound kind as she patted my shoulder, standing awkwardly removed from Harry and his family as we all waited for the estate agent to finish scrabbling around in drawers and find our keys. It hadn’t been much comfort, though. She had been able to separate from him years ago and rebuild her life at an amicable distance. It was different for me – you can hardly divorce your father.

Anyway, from the moment we finished uni it was as if life picked up speed. I landed a place at a London university to study for a year-long legal practice course – something I’d need to do before I could actually use the law degree I’d worked so hard for. Harry got a job as an art tutor at a prestigious private boys’ Academy, stopped wearing flip-flops and took out life insurance. I deferred my place at the university to move with Harry to the middle of nowhere in the South Downs, near the Academy. We both scrimped and saved and lived on pot noodles for two years, then stumped up the deposit on our little house in Fenbridge, the nearest village to the school and the very last stop on the southbound rail line offered by the southernmost railway service in the country.

It wasn’t all bad. Fenbridge was the kind of place where everyone knows and greets each other by name, and where there is no supermarket, just ‘Terry’s’ (the butcher’s), Raj’s (the newsagent’s) and ‘round Brenda’s’ (the pub). Within just a few weeks ‘Harry and Kirsty’ were welcomed unconditionally into the local village fold, and soon became regulars at the pub, coffee shop, and even sometimes the biweekly car-boot sale on the football green.

In many ways it made a nice change from the part of Essex where I spent my childhood, where you had to keep an eye not only on your lunch money but also your shoes, coat and scarf when running the danger-filled gauntlet between home and school. Here, you could literally leave the front door wide open and go out to do your week’s shopping, get the car washed, swing by the garden centre and stop off for a free coffee at Waitrose on the way back, and nothing would have happened. Plus the fact it was only one short, winding, country lane away from Harry’s school. It was important to live close by, we soon realised, as the school’s location at the bottom of a valley made it completely inaccessible by car after heavy rain or the slightest hint of snow. And it would be no good for a whole class to be cancelled just because the art teacher couldn’t make it in.

It just wasn’t the kind of place where very much happened. At all. It certainly wasn’t the kind of place where people regularly left their jobs and took off to go exploring South America.

So, for ‘Harry and Kirsty’, every day was pretty much the same, our daily routine overlapping with my growing ache to become a mother.

Every day except this one.

I’m distantly aware Harry has been talking the whole time I’ve been standing here, wine glass in suspended animation halfway to my mouth, watching the last six years of our life together flash before my eyes. Snippets of what he’s saying filter through, like the words ‘sabbatical’ and ‘mortgage holiday’ and ‘new horizons’. He seems to be pacing the kitchen and waving his arms around.

Finally, Harry remembers I’m here and stands still, flushed and bright-eyed, smiling expectantly at me. ‘Well, what do you think then, babe?’

Of all the things I want to say, everything I’ve kept inside, waiting for a moment like this when I have Harry’s undivided attention, what I actually say, in a small voice that doesn’t sound like my own, is:

‘I’ve forgotten all my Spanish.’

Harry’s laughing. Wrapping his arms around me. Spilling the wine.

‘Come on, Kirst, that’s rubbish! You were the hardest worker in our whole class – you used to memorise a new verb every night, remember?’

‘I did not! You make me sound like the most boring—’

‘Sure, you always got top marks in those vocabulary tests, too – photographic memory!’

‘Liar! I didn’t ever get top—’

‘Okay, okay! We’ll prove it. I bet you can recite ten Spanish verbs in the past tense, right here, right now.’ He’s frowning down at me now, arms crossed.

I slam my wine glass down on the counter, anger and pain and disappointment boiling over.

‘I fucking well CAN’T, actually! I can hardly remember the present tense for most of them! You’re so WRONG!’

I hurl myself out of the room, hot tears flowing, distantly aware of how ludicrous it is to argue over something like Spanish verbs when the things that really matter remain unspoken.

I feel Harry’s eyes boring into my back as I run upstairs, and don’t need to turn round to see the shocked expression on his face. I never, ever shout at him. And rarely cry. But right now, the grating disappointment of his Big Surprise and frustration at his comments about my Spanish combine to make my tears overflow. He’s right – maybe I did do well at university – but he should know better than anyone that there is more to me than that. I went through school being known as part of the nerdy crowd, and if the other kids noticed me at all, all they knew about me was that I was quiet and got good grades. They didn’t actually know me. They didn’t know, for example, that in the summer holidays before the end of upper sixth, I dragged my cousin halfway across the county to do a skydive – we took a weekend course and everything, then threw ourselves right out of a plane above the Essex countryside. I’d been so terrified on the way up that I almost threw myself out two stops early. But I still did it.

At university, I didn’t care what anyone thought except a few close friends who really knew me. A few close friends… and Harry. He should know better than to use my grades at university against me at a time like this. Just to convince me to go along with something he wants. Again…

I shut myself in the man-den. I know if I go into the bedroom he’ll follow me straight in to try and make up. We’ll sort it out before going to sleep, of course, we always do. But right now I just need a few moments alone.

Sitting down on the floor among the gaming magazines, I wipe my tears away on my sleeve and pull myself together. Then, wedged on a shelf between an art textbook and a box of CDs, something catches my eye.

Lonely Planet Travel Guide to Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru, 2003.

Sniffing, I yank it open at a random page.

Riding the Devil’s Nose railcar in Ecuador is an experience that will stay in your memory for ever. Negotiating a series of heart-stoppingly deep ravines and spindly bridges, the train will take you over 1,000 metres down the Andean mountainside and show you truly spectacular views of the Ecuadorian landscape and distant volcanoes.

I slam it shut again, trying not to hear the voices of all my friends, reacting in disbelief when I told them I was buying the house with Harry: A mortgage? Aren’t we a bit young for all that… what about your training course? Not to mention all the holidays? Are you sure you want to do this before you’ve seen anything of the world? And then, inevitably, Why are you in such a hurry to settle down? That last question was one I had been asked many times by various friends and never felt able to answer out loud. I have my reasons, I would say, and tolerate with good humour the subsequent teasing about ‘Kirsty the serious one’ and the jokes about old married couples. I did have my reasons, and couldn’t expect any of my friends, with their happily married parents and stable home lives, to possibly understand.

Feeling a presence behind me I look over my shoulder to see Harry standing in the doorway, a stricken expression on his face, wordlessly holding his hands out to pull me to my feet. I reach up and take them. As I stand, he pulls me into his arms and my head tucks under his chin. Despite my residual anger I welcome the feeling of things sliding back into place, the universe aligning again. We haven’t had a row like that in a long time. I hug Harry back tightly and try to squeeze away the uncomfortable realisation that we haven’t actually talked to each other as much as that for a long time, either.

‘Kirsty, I’m so sorry,’ he murmurs into the top of my head. To my dismay I hear his voice crack with emotion.

I pull back to look at his face, and don’t recognise the pale, serious man staring intensely back at me.

‘Er… it’s okay. I’m sorry I reacted like that,’ I mutter, feeling increasingly alarmed by the fierce way he is staring into my eyes.

‘Please be patient with me,’ he whispers, holding on to my arms more tightly. ‘I know you want… more. And I want us to have that…’

This sudden outpouring of emotion is so unlike Harry, so unlike us, that all I can do is stare back at him with my breath held, waiting for whatever will come next.

‘…But I really need to do this. Just one more trip. We can see it as the last adventure before…’ His voice wavers alarmingly again. ‘Then, after this, Kirsty, I promise – I’ll be ready to move on to the next level with you.’

Somewhere on the outskirts of my surprise and alarm, it strikes me that even in a moment like this Harry can talk about our lives as if they were a game on his X-box.

‘It’s fine.’ I find the words springing from my mouth before my head has fully made its mind up. ‘Let’s do it.’ I try to smile convincingly. ‘Let’s have your adventure. But just a few months, okay? If we can get the time off work, that is—’ My voice is swallowed up in Harry’s jumper as he hugs me back so tightly I’m practically lifted off my feet.

‘Babe, you’re so amazing – I love you!’ His face is transformed, so lit up with relief and joy that I feel twinges of guilt for ever reacting so negatively. He leans down and plants a kiss on my mouth then turns to hurry out of the room. ‘Just gotta write an email quickly, then I’ll bring the rest of the wine up!’ he calls over his shoulder, and I can hear him thundering back downstairs, full of boyish energy, the Harry I met at university suddenly returned with full force. I sigh and slump back against the wall, looking down at the travel book still in my hands.

Taking two or three months out of our daily lives won’t make much difference, will it? We’ll get back older, wiser, the wanderlust well and truly out of our systems. Well, out of Harry’s system… I’m still not entirely sure it’s even in mine. After this, Kirsty, I promise… Harry’s words ring in my ears and I imagine him stepping gratefully back over the threshold of our home, scooping me into his arms and saying ‘That was crazy and fun, but this is where I want our family to grow up’.

As we get older, our travels will give us an edge; we’ll be cooler, more interesting, sophisticated.

Better parents.

In fact, there is no reason we can’t start trying for a family while travelling, right? I lose myself briefly in a daydream of falling asleep in Harry’s arms in a beach hammock, his hand resting contentedly on my newly rounded tummy as the sun sets behind us. We could even name our future son or daughter something exotic to forever remind ourselves of the moment. Something like… Rio. Or Havana.

No, that’s a ridiculous idea. Too… Posh Spice.

But maybe Harry really does have a point. If we’re going to see anything of the world, our time is now. Two years ago we didn’t have the money, and in two years’ time we’ll be stumbling around like the walking dead on three hours’ sleep a night with perma-vom splattered across our baggy, unfashionable sweaters, having conversations about poo consistency and bedtime routines. Well, I hope we will.

I tuck the travel book inside my jumper, planning to have a good read later. Something has to change… and if we’re not going to have a baby yet, then maybe we should have an adventure.

Chapter Two

The news that we’ve decided to go travelling is met with varying degrees of enthusiasm by our respective families.

Harry’s parents think it’s all marvellously exciting and jolly good fun. They’ve travelled all over the place, of course, and even lived in New York for a year when they first got married. A long Sunday afternoon passes with Harry and his dad hunched over a map of South America spread out on the kitchen table, saying things like ‘You could catch a direct flight to Cusco then hike south along the Inca trail’ and ‘If you can stay on the road until February you could make it to Rio for carnival season’, while Harry’s mum and I sit and make polite conversation over the Marks & Spencer biscuit selection.

I know my own family will have rather more realistic concerns, such as what will happen with our jobs and the house and whether we’ll come back alive. I don’t relish the thought of telling them at all, but after a fortnight has gone by and we’ve practically finished packing up our belongings, had all our travel injections and even persuaded our mortgage company to let us off the hook for three months (I don’t know what Harry told them, but decided the fewer questions asked, the better), I know I can’t put it off any longer. Before our scheduled Sunday dinner at my mother’s house, I phone my sister, Chloe, to test the waters.

‘Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of thing?’ she squeals indignantly, making the eight-year age gap between us sound like a whole generation. Chloe is in her final year studying drama at uni in London, but goes home almost every weekend to our mother and her father Steve’s house, to consume the entire contents of their fridge, do her laundry, and help herself to any clothes lingering in my old bedroom. I have deliberately timed our visit to coincide with one of these weekends, in the hope that her chaotic presence might somehow distract Mum from the bombshell Harry and I plan to drop.

‘If by that sort of thing you mean broadening our minds, experiencing new cultures and possibly even discovering career opportunities in the international field, then I would tell you age knows no boundaries,’ I reply smugly. I’m quite pleased with that one. Harry would be proud of me.

‘But… I thought you were desperate to get up the duff?’ Chloe sounds confused, as if she is trying to process some kind of new and unwelcome reality. ‘Knitting tiny woollen socks, swallowing tons of folic acid, keeping a spreadsheet of your ovulatory cycle…’ She trails off, sounding desolate.

I don’t know what to say.

‘It’s not actually a spreadsheet… just a notebook. And I don’t even know how to knit.’

The silence extends on the line between us.

‘Mum’s going to go totally mad, you know.’

‘Yeah. How’s she been lately?’

Chloe breathes an exaggerated sigh down the phone. ‘Worse than ever. She’s just watched some documentary about this kid in America who hacked the Pentagon computer system from his basement – you know, one of those nerd types – anyway, she’s going round making us all change our laptop passwords and close our internet banking accounts and amend our Facebook privacy settings. Driving everyone fucking potty, even Dad.’

I try to imagine patient, docile Steven losing his temper with Mum. Of everyone in the family, he is undoubtedly the most tolerant of her incessant anxiety.

‘Oh dear, it must be pretty bad this time.’

‘Yep. So good luck telling her you’re going backpacking. You’re basically dead.’

‘Well, let’s see about that, shall we?’ Just imagining my mother’s reaction floods me with annoyance and a new, perverse determination to plough on with our travel plans whatever the cost.

‘Sis?’ Chloe sounds unexpectedly serious. Well, more serious than usual. I notice the sudden absence of TV noise in the background, too.

‘What?’

‘Are you… do you really want to do this? Go off travelling? It’s just…’ She trails off awkwardly, not sounding at all like my carefree little sister. ‘Well, I’m guessing Harry’s behind it all, right? It must have been his idea.’

I feel myself bristle defensively at this. Must have been his idea. What does my whole family think I am, some kind of sheep? I realise I’m gritting my teeth and clasping the phone tightly. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, sis, sorry, I just meant… well, you should do what you want to do, you know?’

I feel a further flush of defensiveness zip through me. ‘Of course I want to go. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it, would I?’ The phone receiver is already halfway towards its base. ‘See you at six.’

Maybe it had been Harry’s idea. And admittedly, grabbing a backpack and trotting off to see ancient Inca ruins had hardly been on my top-ten list of things-to-do-before-you’re-thirty. But, as much as Harry’s impulsive plan had taken me by surprise, almost as soon as I’d agreed to it I began to feel a little spark of excitement ignite inside me. Hadn’t I always, secretly, felt a little like I was missing out when I heard others talk about their travel experiences? And it was only three months… why not make the most of it, see some more of the world, safe in the knowledge that my dream of starting a family would still be possible when I come back?

It might not have been my idea, but if we were going to do this, I was going to make it my trip, too.

So I started researching destinations on the internet. It began with a casual google on my phone during the long train journey home, but I got increasingly drawn in to reviews, blogs and stories of exotic creatures, jungle hikes, mountaintop camp fires and tantalising local cuisine.

I bought an updated version of the Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia travel book, and found myself staying up later and later each night, underlining and folding down corners and writing in margins. A scribbled wish list began to take shape on the final page, with places I’d never heard of until a few weeks ago gradually coming to life and clamouring for my attention as I jotted down place names, addresses and ideas.

Yet, even as my excitement and anticipation about the trip had gained momentum, Harry seemed increasingly distracted as the countdown to our departure began. Distracted… and, if I’m honest, downright grumpy and difficult.

‘I want to try humitas,’ I told him one night as he climbed into bed beside me. ‘There’s this café in the old town in Quito, Ecuador – it had the best reviews in your old guidebook, and it’s still here in the new version I bought – look.’

Harry had been quite insistent that we begin our voyage in Ecuador. Something about it being nice and central with easy overland connections to the rest of the region. I hadn’t minded, as it was all uncharted territory for me – like choosing between Mars or Saturn or Jupiter for your first space voyage. But after reading more about each place on our sketchy itinerary, I felt I actually had something to contribute to our plans.

‘They’re like steamed corn cakes with a cheese filling – apparently really traditional in Quito and the highlands,’ I persevered, still holding the guidebook aloft across the bed, where Harry hadn’t taken it from me. ‘And this café has its own unique recipe, passed down through generations, along with other typical Ecuadorian food and live music… I’d really like to go there.’

‘Christ, you sound like some sort of tour guide,’ Harry muttered, slumping back on the pillows and reaching for his phone. ‘Can’t you give the planning a break for a bit?’

Smarting, I turned to stare at him, letting the guidebook flop closed on top of the duvet beside me. With the light already out, only Harry’s profile was visible, illuminated in the light from his phone, suspended above his face.

‘Harry… what the—? Why are you being like this?’ I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, determined not to have an argument at a time like this, when we should be pulling together to plan the adventure of a lifetime… shouldn’t we?

‘Can you at least look at me?’ I persevered, my irritation swelling as the flickering light across Harry’s face told me he hadn’t even stopped scrolling through his news feed when I spoke.

A tense silence filled the space between us for a few seconds. Then the light disappeared as Harry dropped his phone and rolled over to embrace me.

‘God, babe, I’m sorry,’ he muttered into my hair. ‘Really sorry. I didn’t mean to be horrible. I don’t know what’s come over me the last few days. I… I’m glad you’re looking forward to the trip so much.’

I felt his arm wrap around me tightly, and listened to his breathing gradually change as he drifted off to sleep. It was so unlike Harry to snap at me like that, I had no problem forgiving him. But another, deeper sense of unease stayed with me as I stared into the darkness… yes, I was looking forward to the trip, more than I had initially ever expected I would. But why was it starting to seem like Harry wasn’t?

The next morning, in the light of day, I reminded myself again that Harry was just really busy. We had so much to sort out before leaving the country, it was understandable he was preoccupied. It’s a big step, I told myself as I took my first sip of coffee and booted up my laptop. I must be patient with him. He’s probably just nervous about leaving his job, and everything else, behind.

Funnily enough, my own feelings of apprehension and nervousness about the journey had seemed to subside with every passing day, as I did more research and had more ideas. One idea in particular had started taking shape in my mind, one that I decided not to even share with Harry. At least, not yet. Almost every travel blog and expat website I came across told stories of volunteer opportunities, some with links to charities and organisations, offering foreign travellers the chance to work with the local community in a colourful variety of ways. I fleetingly recalled the Gap Year Gang at university, and at last began to see their tales of teaching street children or renovating school buildings in a completely different light. For what better way to experience another country than from the inside, living alongside its people, and by giving something back?

So I also began noting down information about volunteer work. There was a women’s refuge in Peru that welcomed foreigners to visit them for the day and give a lesson in English or another language. A children’s charity in Venezuela offering free city tours in exchange for volunteers’ time at their day school.

Could I really do something like that? Even as I scrolled through their websites, I got cold shivers at the thought of standing up in front of a room full of women, or – even worse – an entire class of children.

But, even so, I printed out the information, wrote down the phone numbers, and filed them away in my ever-growing folder of travel ideas. I didn’t have to actually contact them, I consoled myself. But simply having the information to hand made it feel a little less like ‘Harry’s idea’.

As we arrive at Mum and Steve’s that evening, Mum flings open the front door before we’ve even turned the engine off.

‘Sweetie!’ she cries, loud enough for the rest of the street to hear, smothering me in a hug right there on the driveway. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Come inside, I’ve got those chocolate crispy cakes you like!’

I feel a pang of guilt then, thinking of all the weekends over the past few months when Harry and I have chosen to do something else instead of make the two-hour trip up to Essex to see Mum. Whatever Harry says, it’s only really an hour and a half if you leave early on a Saturday morning. As Mum herds us inside the house I tell myself firmly that, once we’re back from our travels, I really will insist on making time to visit her more often.

My remorse is short-lived, however.

‘Do you have internet banking?’ I hear Mum asking Harry as he follows her into the kitchen. ‘If so, you should cancel it, love. It’s dodgy. I’ve been reading about this man who—’

‘Hacked the Pentagon computer systems… yes, I know,’ I snap, more impatiently than I’d intended, as I almost go flying in an attempt to avoid standing on her large black-and-white cat, Chester, spread out inconveniently in the middle of the hallway carpet.

‘I’m serious, Kirsty, it’s not safe. I’ve been reading about it.’

‘Right, Mum, I’m just going to use your toilet…’ I step past her and lock myself gratefully in the sanctuary of her downstairs loo.

What is it about being back in the company of your parents that can turn the most articulate and sensible twenty-something into a stroppy, monosyllabic thirteen-year-old? However much I tell myself before each visit to my mother’s house that this time I really will make an effort to be more patient with her… it’s bizarre how, within five minutes of being in her company, that all goes out of the window and I seem to be propelled back a decade into door-slamming adolescence. I sit on the turned-down toilet lid and stare at the faded, flowery wallpaper, realising glumly that it has happened again – I’ve lost my temper with her before the kettle has even boiled.

In the end, I needn’t have worried about how to break the news. I step out of the bathroom, fixing a determined smile on my face, to find Harry, Steve, Chloe and my mother all gathered in the middle of the kitchen. One glance at my mother’s face tells me the bombshell has already been dropped.

‘But… South America?’ She looks up at me imploringly, as if pleading for it not to be true. ‘Isn’t that where that man escaped from recently – you know, the drugs one, what was his name, Steve? The famous one. Isn’t he on the loose now?’

Steve and Chloe exchange confused glances. I glare at Harry, asking him with my eyes, ‘What happened to telling her over dinner?’

Harry shrugs at me and turns back to Mum. ‘We’ll be very careful, Rosemary,’ he says in his most polite, Responsible Adult tone of voice.

‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, love.’ Mum rubs her hands over her face in a weary gesture. ‘It’s everyone else out there I’m worried about… and they all drive like nutters in places like that. There must be so many traffic accidents.’

‘Come on now, Rosie, let’s get some tea on and then Chloe will lay the table,’ Steve murmurs, simultaneously steering my mother into her armchair and casting a pointed expression at Chloe, who until then has done little but lean against the breakfast bar and watch events unfold with an expression of mild amusement.

Dinner involves a volley of questions about travel insurance, health insurance, emergency contact details, severe weather warnings and earthquake safety protocols.

What feels like a hundred years later, I hug Mum goodbye on the doorstep.

‘Just be careful, love,’ she mutters into my hair.

‘Mum, we’re not even leaving for two more weeks…’ I start to gently pull away from the hug, conscious that Harry is already behind me in the car with the engine running. ‘I’ll see you before then.’

‘I know, but I want to take every chance to tell you to be careful between now and when you leave,’ Mum says, her voice wobbling.

I scowl at Chloe making faces behind us in the hallway, and allow Mum to continue hugging me, patting her on the back and wondering when would be an appropriate time to begin to extricate myself. Finally, with another two or three promises to be careful and to phone her soon, I make my escape.

That just leaves one person.

‘So, how interested do you think he’ll be in our plans, on a scale of totally indifferent to completely uninterested?’ Harry crunches the car to a halt on the little gravel driveway leading up to my father’s cottage.

‘Harry, that doesn’t help.’ I climb wearily out of the car. ‘I need your support here, not sarcasm.’

‘Sorry, babe.’ He squeezes my arm and indicates for me to go first and ring the doorbell. Then, almost to himself, he mutters, ‘I just don’t know why you still care so much what he thinks.’

I don’t really know why I still care either. It would be so much easier not to bother any more. Stop ringing. Just send him a postcard when we get there. But he’s my father… I’m his only daughter. Trying to get him to take an interest in my life is programmed into my DNA. Harry couldn’t possibly understand, with parents who have supported and encouraged him unconditionally in every venture since his first school sports day.

To my surprise, the door swings open almost immediately before my finger has even left the bell.

‘Hi, Dad.’ I step into the hallway and let him pull me into a stiff, awkward half-hug, then move aside to let him shake Harry’s hand. Only then do I notice he is wearing a dark navy suit, his usual reading glasses absent and presumably replaced with contacts, and it strikes me how smart he looks.

Has Dad dressed like that for us? I feel surprisingly touched. I had told him we had some important news, but he didn’t have to go to the trouble of…

‘I’ve got the theatre at seven,’ he informs us, indicating for us to go through to the living room. ‘So, shall we…’ His tone is pleasant enough, but his meaning is clear.

Stupid me. Thinking he’d dressed up for my visit.

The theatre. Of course. I just don’t learn, do I?

Swallowing back my irrational disappointment, I take a seat next to Harry on the plain, brownish-coloured sofa taking up one whole side of the living room, and look up at my father. Other than the suit, he looks exactly as I remember him from the last time we met, however many months ago that was. Tall, imposing, and wearing his habitual slight frown beneath a thick head of pewter-grey hair.

‘Tea?’ he asks, still in the doorway.

‘I don’t drink tea, Dad.’

‘Oh, no, of course… coffee then?’

Both Harry and I nod. Dad disappears into the kitchen, leaving Harry and me sitting in clumsy silence in the living room. I gaze around at the neutral wallpaper and carpet, the nondescript furniture and bare walls, realising that this house could belong to anyone, of any age. Dad has lived here God knows how long yet there is still nothing personal about it, no character, not a single picture or ornament…

Harry turns to me, eyebrows raised. ‘Wait for it.’

I frown at him. ‘Not helping.’

Then Dad’s voice rings out from the kitchen. ‘Kirsty? Harry? Do you take milk? Sugar?’

‘Told you.’

‘Stop it,’ I hiss, then raise my voice. ‘Yes, please – just milk for both!’

I glare furiously at Harry as Dad reappears, bearing two steaming mugs. It’s painful enough to see how little my father knows me, without Harry drawing my attention to that fact even more. I know it’s only because Harry feels defensive on my behalf – he’s often commented he thinks it’s awful how Dad doesn’t make more effort to stay in contact – but even so, I don’t need to be reminded of it.

‘When you phoned, I would have said to come over at the weekend, for dinner, but…’ Dad perches on the armchair opposite me and trails off, obviously realising he doesn’t have a suitable excuse ready before beginning to speak.

‘It’s fine, Dad.’

Coffee can be agonising enough, without dinner as well.

‘So, the reason we’re here…’ Harry says, shifting forward and thankfully taking charge. ‘We’ve actually got something big to tell you.’

‘You’re getting engaged,’ my father says flatly, his eyes trained on the coffee mug in Harry’s hands.

‘What! No!’ I actually jump a little, causing hot coffee to splash on to my hands. ‘We don’t… we’re not getting engaged. I mean, we don’t need to, we’ve got a house and a car and…’ I flail around for something to say, then turn imploringly to Harry, who, to my irritation, is grinning. ‘We’re going travelling for three months to South America,’ I blurt finally. ‘We’ve taken sabbaticals from work, it’s all organised and planned out, we’re going to start in Ecuador then go on to Peru and…’ I stop, realising my father is not even looking at me anymore, his gaze having drifted off to somewhere just above the granite mock-flame fireplace.

‘Dad?’

‘South America?’ He addresses the fireplace. ‘That’s really interesting. Very interesting indeed.’

Harry and I exchange baffled glances.

‘Yes, Dee has been talking about South America a lot – only the other night, in fact, she was looking up tours of the Amazon rainforest – although that was Brazil, if I remember rightly. Fantastic wildlife, unique photographic opportunities, perfect for her career. What a coincidence, eh, Kirsty?’

I haven’t heard anything past ‘Dee’.

‘Who’s Dee, Dad?’

Dad finally seems to snap out of his reverie and see me properly again. ‘You haven’t met her? Oh no… I suppose you haven’t.’ He stops and rubs his hand over the back of his head, looking suddenly a bit embarrassed. ‘I really will make that dinner invitation. Introduce you properly. How about that?’ Then he adds, somewhat randomly, ‘She’s a wildlife photographer.’

It takes me several seconds to force my voice into some sort of coherent reply. ‘Thanks, Dad, that would be nice, but—’

‘But we’re going to be travelling,’ Harry interjects, a noticeable edge in his voice. ‘Which was the reason we came here. To tell you about it before we leave. In two weeks.’

Harry’s tone being impossible to miss, even for Dad, he starts nodding enthusiastically, visibly wrenching his consciousness back to the topic at hand.

‘Ah, yes, of course, well – that’s fantastic. Really good for you. Do it while you’re young, I say…’ He casts his eyes uncomfortably around the room, until they finally come to land on his watch.

Dad was the assistant manager of a big, London-based advertising agency until he retired a couple of years ago, and sometimes I think he needs reminding that an afternoon with his daughter cannot be handled in the same way as a time-critical business meeting.

‘Well, we’ll get going then,’ I say with forced cheerfulness, unable to bear leaving it any longer until Dad actually asks us to leave.

‘Oh! Are you sure?’ Dad pretends to half get up from the armchair. ‘You wouldn’t like another—’

‘No, we’re fine,’ I say firmly, standing up and handing him my half-finished, still-warm mug of coffee, and wiggling my eyebrows at Harry to get up, too. ‘Best to leave early and avoid the traffic. Plus, you’ve got the theatre.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I…’ Dad trails off and follows us out into the hall. ‘Well, good luck with your trip,’ he offers, helping me back into my coat.

‘Thanks, I’ll phone you before we go.’ I smile politely.

We both know I won’t.

‘Yes, and you never know – maybe we’ll come out there and visit you!’ Dad calls after us.

Again, we both know he won’t.

I’ve got one foot out of the front door when Dad’s voice behind me makes me stop.

‘Kirsty?’

I turn back and see him in the hallway, frowning at the floor somewhere near my feet.

‘What, Dad?’

With a visible effort he drags his gaze up to meet mine head-on.

‘I can tell you really want to do this,’ he mutters, looking briefly over my shoulder, presumably to check Harry is not within earshot. He needn’t have worried – Harry’s already got the engine running again, just like at Mum’s. I raise my eyebrows at him, wondering where on earth this is going.

‘But, going abroad isn’t going to solve anything, you know?’

He says it mildly enough, but irritation pulses through me. What does he know about me? How dare he even imply there is anything that needs solving?

‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, Dad,’ I reply icily, then jump as Harry impatiently hoots the car horn behind me, ‘but I’ve got to go now.’

***

‘God knows how your Dad has so much luck with the ladies,’ Harry chuckles as we arrive home. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

I go into the living room and flop exhaustedly on to the sofa. Harry knows I don’t like him joking about my Dad’s love life. Ever since my parents split up – so as far back as I can remember – my father has had a succession of ‘lady companions’ with whom he can go to the cinema, dine at nice restaurants, and even, if last year is anything to go by, take off on a mini-cruise of the Canary Islands without telling anyone. I only found out because Harry saw his photos on Facebook.

I suppose to anyone else my father would seem quite a catch – tall, athletic, still handsome in a gruff sort of way. Good company in any social situation, always the first to get a round of drinks in or tell a joke. I know this because I’ve met the mutual friends of my parents, old neighbours or friends asking after ‘good ol’ David’; I’ve seen the photos of a younger Mum and Dad, laughing together with drinks in hand at some party. I know he actually has a personality. It’s only around me, apparently, that it checks out and goes into hibernation.

You’d think getting a first-class law degree would go some way towards rustling up a little paternal pride – or even interest. When I first graduated, I went through a naïve, optimistic phase of trying to get him to take an interest in my new job at Home from Home.

‘It isn’t just any old admin role,’ I would insist to him, when I first got the job. ‘They were looking for someone with legal knowledge and experience, preferably a graduate. I’m actually lucky to have found a job where my university degree is relevant at all.’

Dad didn’t seem convinced, but I did have a point. The team of solicitors we supported might be the ones actually working face-to-face with our clients – vulnerable people who were often homeless or about to become so, needing legal representation to protect them. But the solicitors couldn’t do that job without us. It might be a legal support job, but in order to do the work you needed a good understanding of legal practice. And even though I rarely got the chance to actually meet our clients in person, it gave me a feeling of fulfilment to know my work was helping people who really needed it. Indirectly, maybe, but it still helped.

‘My point is there are no rules – you don’t have to follow the fixed career path you imagined when you were eighteen and chose a university course,’ I had insisted to my father, the last time we had spoken about the subject properly. That was early last year, and I’d just been promoted to Senior Legal Support. It wasn’t exactly a promotion, partly because I didn’t even have to apply for it, but it did mean a better job title and a slight pay rise. Dad had got my hopes up by actually phoning and inviting me out for a meal that night, after months of silence. But instead of being happy for me he’d spent the evening asking me all sorts of strange, searching questions about my future career plans and goals.

‘Helen Matthews from my final year Commercial Law module ended up opening a dog-grooming parlour and kennels with her boyfriend,’ I told him over dessert, in a last-ditch attempt to get him to see my point of view. ‘And if her Facebook posts are to be believed, business has never been better.’

‘I agree, Kirsty, that it’s fine to change career paths completely to follow a long-standing dream, or try out something new that really appeals to you,’ Dad ruminated, setting down his empty coffee cup and waving immediately for the bill. ‘But I would like you to ask yourself, Kirsty, is that really what you are doing?’

I mean, honestly. What would it have cost him just to say congratulations and crack open a bottle of wine?

After that I gave up. On the rare occasions I saw my father I made sure to steer well clear of the subject of my job, or any detail of my life in general, unless strictly necessary. And he seemed to get the message, because he hadn’t tried to ask me a single thing about my career or future plans since that night. He must have realised this was the best way – limiting our relationship to the superficial, and keeping contact to a minimum.

If I ever think back to that night, I tell myself – what does he know, anyway? He doesn’t know me. He would never remember that the whole reason I chose to study law in the first place was because I wanted to help people.

It had all started with a work-experience placement in my last year of secondary school. We didn’t get much say in where we went, and – to us, then – the teachers’ allocations seemed cruelly random. The girl who got sent to an industrial pet-food factory actually made her mum go in and complain to the Head. Meanwhile, some of my friends hit the jackpot and went to cool places like a newspaper office or the local zoo.

I ended up shadowing a paralegal in a solicitor’s office.

I arrived on my first day fully anticipating the most boring two weeks of my life, stuck in a dusty office with a bunch of middle-aged men talking over my head in legalese while I made them endless cups of tea.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The job did involve some photocopying and filing, of course. But Terry, the flamboyantly camp and surprisingly young legal assistant to the family law team, actually let me shadow him in everything he did and explained it all to me with infinite patience and enthusiasm. The most fascinating parts were the client interviews. I would never have imagined the variety of waifs and strays that pass through a family solicitor’s waiting room every day. People in the most heartbreaking, desperate situations. Fathers separated from their children, daughters searching for their mothers, men facing homelessness after unfair dismissal from work, women battling discrimination or abuse.

I spent an open-mouthed two weeks watching Terry deftly interview each applicant, simultaneously cheering them up and extracting all the necessary information with a series of sensitive yet probing questions, establishing whether or not the solicitors would be able to represent them. I think on more than one occasion he exaggerated the facts to ensure they would.

One man really stuck in my memory. Joel. His surname is long forgotten, but I can still recall every detail of his face, and the desperation written all over it when he first came to Bourne & Bond. He’d just been released from prison after a two-year sentence for drink-driving. He had lost everything – his house, his job, custody of his children. He was appealing for legal support in a court hearing against the local housing authority, who had repeatedly sent his application to the back of the list. And without a stable address – he argued in near-tears during his interview with Terry – he could not secure a job, reopen his bank account, or even take out a mobile phone contract. His life was literally on pause.

Joel was probably only in his early thirties, which seemed really old to me at the time, although on all the subsequent occasions I’ve thought about him, I’ve been conscious of that age looming nearer and nearer in my own future, and its being really very young indeed to lose everything and have to start your life all over again.

He wasn’t the most tragic or desperate case I watched Terry interview during my two-week work experience, nor the most complicated. But something about Joel cemented him in my mind from that moment on. I looked at his face as he begged Terry to take on his case, and I saw an underdog. And, for some reason that I couldn’t quite place, I identified with that.

Joel’s court hearing came up on the penultimate day of my work experience, and I was allowed to attend, albeit under strict instructions not to move from my seat next to Terry in his note-taking role, and not to speak under any circumstances.

He was represented by Tracey, the only female solicitor in the family law team and someone I’d only brushed past a couple of times. Until that day she’d seemed like an unremarkable, greying, forty-something woman with photos of cats surrounding her desk. Not someone I would have remembered after leaving. But that day in court she became my idol. I watched in awe as she tore apart the prosecution’s arguments about Joel being an unreliable candidate for a housing contract, and firmly and eloquently, yet fiercely, presented an array of evidence proving that Joel had got his life back on track, conquered his alcohol problem and deserved a chance to change his future. By the end of her discourse everyone in the room was wholeheartedly convinced by Tracey, including – perhaps most importantly – Joel himself, who sat with tears of gratitude streaming down his face as he was awarded a housing contract then and there. As I watched him shaking Tracey’s hand ecstatically and telling everyone in the room how he was going to change and turn his life around, a realisation about my own future began to take shape.

Nobody paid any attention to the wide-eyed seventeen-year-old sitting in the stands watching events unfold in rapt fascination; but it was that day that really convinced me to pursue a career in law. The next month we had to make our A-level choices and, a year later, university applications.

Of course, with time I realised I was being a little idealistic. A law degree wasn’t all standing up in front of your classmates and reciting passionate arguments to save innocent people from death row. In fact, it involved memorising a lot of obscure clauses and articles in areas that didn’t hold my interest so much, like commercial rights. But I threw myself into it, keeping in mind my reasons for doing it all in the first place. I wanted to defend people. I probably earned myself a reputation for being boring and nerdy all over again, but I told myself all the work would be worth it.

But then, of course, it’s not like you graduate and are immediately out there fighting for people’s rights on international television. There’s the bloody Law Practice Course, obviously, then you need to get years of experience before you can be out there on the front line. So that’s why the job at Home from Home, when it came up, at least seemed like a step towards my ambitions. Relevant experience to be gained in the meantime, until Harry’s and my circumstances changed.

Of course, sometimes I can’t help longing to be part of the team of solicitors directly helping the people who apply for assistance. At times, I find myself loitering by the case files at the end of the day, leafing through the most recent applicant’s papers and reading the arguments put together by the solicitor to defend their case. When I hear of a positive outcome, someone winning an appeal against a landlord and being allowed to stay in their home, even now I still think of Joel.

On a good day, I go home from work feeling I’ve contributed to something important, something that benefits humanity.

Not to mention that a smaller charity like Home from Home is inclined to be far more understanding about maternity leave.

Or a four-month unpaid sabbatical.

After getting my request provisionally approved by my line manager, I had to get it signed off by Angela, Head of Legal and a formidable woman who terrified even the solicitors.

‘South America, eh?’ She peered at me over her dramatic, gold-rimmed glasses, doing her best Devil Wears Prada impression. ‘Backpacking, is it? Or are you more of a – what do they call it – glamping type?’

I blinked at her, not sure what glamping was but not feeling able to admit it.

‘We’re going to do the Inca trail,’ I ended up mumbling, suddenly wondering if this was a terrible mistake and she was going to sack me for my impertinence. And then wondering, to my own surprise, whether that would actually be such a bad thing. ‘The Inca trail and the Andean region. Peru, Ecuador, Venez…’

‘You know, Kirsty,’ Angela interrupted me, obliviously, ‘I have to say that when you asked for this meeting, I was expecting you to talk to me about the Team Leader vacancy.’

The… what?

I remembered seeing something advertised on the internal monthly email bulletin, but it hadn’t really drawn my attention. There didn’t seem much point applying for a minor promotion within Home from Home when I was only going to be there temporarily anyway.

‘In fact, I would even go as far as to say I was hoping you were going to talk to me about it.’ Angela settled back in her chair and observed me over her glasses, arms folded. ‘As one of our most qualified – no, the most qualified member of the support team – it seemed an obvious choice for you.’

‘Er, thank you – that’s a great compli—’

Angela waved one hand at me, cutting me off again.

‘But, if a four-month sabbatical is what’s on your agenda right now, then fair enough – you know our open-door policy on staff extracurricular development. And in some respects it is actually good to see you making a decision.’ Angela suddenly seemed to lose interest in the conversation. ‘Good luck, Kirsty – and enjoy the old mundo latino.’ She flicked me a cringe-worthy wink as if waiting for me to say something.

There was a long pause.

‘I did GCSE Spanish.’

‘Ah, right.’

As I thanked Angela and started backing away gratefully towards the door, she suddenly looked up again from her paperwork and called me back.

‘Kirsty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not everyone achieves their goals by following their expected path, you know.’

What on earth she meant by that I had no idea, but I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. I finished work just a week later, after which only an awkward weekend spent sleeping in Harry’s parents’ spare room, surrounded by luggage, stood between us and the unknown.

Chapter Three

‘Did you know Quito is one of the most dangerous places in the world for an aeroplane to land?’ the large American man in the next seat informs me cheerfully, as the fasten seatbelt sign comes on and my ears begin to pop.

We’ve been flying for nearly eleven hours and I haven’t slept a wink. Any form of relaxation has been rendered impossible by the buzz of excitement and trepidation at the thought of finally beginning our adventure.

Harry, in the window seat beside me, has been very quiet ever since we took off – at first I thought he was asleep, but several times, towards the end of the flight, I catch his reflection in the window, staring out, away from me, his eyes wide and serious, looking down across the blackness of ocean and sky below us. I tell myself he’s probably just uncomfortable, his six-foot frame meaning he’s even more restricted than me by the limited leg room. And we can hardly engage in conversation, as the cabin crew turned the lights out not long after take-off, and everyone else around us promptly tucked themselves up under the flimsy aircraft blankets and proceeded to snore their way across the Atlantic.

So I switched on the little reading light over my seat and spent the flight eagerly leafing through my various guidebooks for the hundredth time. I may not have slept, but I’ve learnt that Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is the second-highest capital city in the world, at 2,800 metres above sea level. It is surpassed only by La Paz in Bolivia – at 3,200 metres – where the locals use a special brew of coca leaves to alleviate symptoms of altitude sickness. I’ve discovered that some parts of the Peruvian rainforest have more species of plants and animals per square mile than anywhere else on the planet. I have read about Canaima national park in Venezuela, the same size as Belgium and home to the famous Angel Falls, considered by many the most beautiful place in the world.

I’ve also been rereading my notes and ideas for this trip, all compiled into a folder and organised by country. I hold the folder on my lap now and leaf through the neatly labelled plastic wallets inside, even though I already know their contents by heart. Ecuador, Peru and Venezuela. Three months, three countries and a checklist of unmissable attractions in each.

My travel folder became a bit of a secret from Harry in the weeks leading up to our departure. His attitude to my planning hadn’t improved as our trip drew closer. In fact, it became a source of tension between us to the extent I ended up preferring not to share all my ideas with him, to avoid any more irritable reactions. It’s just the way he is, I kept telling myself. He’s not a planner. He doesn’t see the point. Mum and my sister had been known to call him lazy – no, what’s that silly word Mum was always using? Lackadaisical. But I know he just prefers to be spontaneous. At a time like this, however, planning is crucial. For example, Isabela Island in the Galápagos must be visited during a specific two-week period in January if you want to see its native tortoise eggs hatching on the beach. Imagine missing an experience like that just because you didn’t plan properly! Rocking up a week too late and finding only the remnants of empty egg shells strewn across the sand, the locals shaking their heads sadly at you and saying ‘sorry love, you’d better come back next year’. That would be awful!

I’m finally forced to put down the guidebooks when the plane starts shimmying from side to side like it’s dancing to a Beyoncé song. I look down and notice my knuckles have gone white holding on to the armrests.

‘Please, keep your seatbelts fastened. We are traversing an area of turbulence on our descent into Quito Mariscal Sucre airport,’ an air hostess announces over the speaker in a bored voice.

Oblivious to my nerves, my American friend goes on to explain that Quito’s brand-new airport is situated in what is basically one giant wind tunnel. Built only recently to replace the old airport right in the city centre, it is now located in a small valley surrounded by Andean mountain peaks. ‘It’s a whole cocktail of dangerous weather down there,’ he tells me with a delighted smile. ‘Changing winds through the valley, fog every morning and rainstorms most afternoons…’ He explains that, when landing the plane, the pilot must actually gain height to avoid the treacherous mountains, before plunging rapidly downwards to land almost vertically on the runway.

But when I lean over Harry to look out of the window, my apprehension disappears. Dawn is just breaking as our pilot begins his valiant descent, allowing me a proper view for the first time in hours. Piercing the bluish mist below us is a scattering of emerald-green peaks tipped with snow, at first looking like nothing more than the white crests of waves on the surface of the sea, but rapidly growing in size and magnificence as they come up to meet our descending plane.

Feeling childish, I realise these are the first real mountains I have ever seen in my life. And we seem about to land directly on top of them.

However, suddenly a runway seems to appear out of nowhere, and before I know it the mountains are around and above us, the tiny plane taxiing to a halt in their shadow.

Staggering off the plane a few moments later, I decide Harry made a good choice by insisting we start our travel in Ecuador. Bright sunshine is already blazing through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the footbridge we cross into the airport. After leaving behind an English February, it feels fantastic.

We are easily the tallest and blondest people in a sea of dark heads, and as we queue for passport control I expect some kind of interrogation. At the very least: what are you doing here, what about your jobs, what do your parents say about this? But the immigration official simply stifles a yawn, smiles, says what I think is ‘welcome to Ecuador’ and thumps our passports with his big stamp. We’re in!

Full of trepidation, excitement and curiosity, I follow Harry through the sliding airport doors and into the new world waiting for us on the other side.

Outside, it’s chaos. Bright-yellow taxis clamour past each other, practically mounting the curb trying to reach the entrance, honking their horns, drivers leaning out of the windows and shouting.

It’s a million miles away from the orderly lines of Vauxhalls and Peugeots queuing outside Heathrow. Amid the honking of horns and cries of ‘Taxi! Taxi!’ tourists and locals bustle past, tripping over each other, jostling for the nearest cab and leaving baggage trolleys stranded and freewheeling in the middle of the road.

Then, rising up out of the early-morning mist ahead are the mountains, a breathtaking expanse of purple and green, so close it’s as if they’ve grouped around to peer down serenely on the chaos below. I gaze up at them, totally awestruck, their beauty momentarily distracting me from the twinge of nerves that zipped through me as the airport doors closed behind us.

‘Good call on the hotel booking,’ Harry says quietly beside me, and I glance up at his face to see he looks as overwhelmed as I feel. Together we unscramble the piece of paper from his pocket, containing the precious information about our hotel reservation, printed off last night (was it really only twenty-four hours ago?), and cling to it as if it is the last ticket to Mars in the middle of the apocalypse.

Then Harry steps protectively in front of me, one arm around my shoulders and the other holding out the piece of paper like a peace offering to the nearest cab driver. ‘Can you take us… here… please?’ he asks, his voice sounding strangely unfamiliar as I hear him speak Spanish for the first time in years.

Seeing Harry take charge like this makes me feel a bit funny. My legs suddenly go all wobbly and black dots dance before my eyes, so I sit down heavily on my backpack.

Actually, I don’t think it’s Harry. I actually am going to faint.

‘Altura!’ the taxi driver says affably, bending down to pull me to my feet. Harry has my other arm and they haul me towards the car. ‘It’s just the altitude. Come on, get in the car.’ He must be at least sixty but he effortlessly swings both our massive backpacks into the boot of a knackered Hyundai that looks older than he does.

Comfortingly, taxi drivers in Ecuador seem exactly the same as those in the UK: they love to talk. Harry and I half-listen to ours – Rodrigo, apparently – tell us about his wife’s kidney stones and eldest daughter’s graduation, while we stare out of the window in awe. At every turn there is something new assaulting our senses.

On the corner of the road, right there outside the airport car park, an elderly woman is bent over a small rickety grill, totally absorbed in her task of turning over the various unidentifiable pieces of meat sizzling away alongside what look like giant corn cobs and monster-sized bananas. Two young boys in school uniform shove spare change into the old lady’s hand and scamper off holding their grilled sweetcorn, the smoky concoction of smells hitting my nostrils through the open car window.

We whizz past faded murals painted on a long wall enclosing a school, the smiling painted faces of children and animals strangely at odds with the barbed wire and vicious shards of broken glass topping the wall’s perimeter. Clusters of box-like, pastel-painted concrete buildings seem to tumble over each other almost into the road ahead, some shiny and new, bearing embossed signs like ‘Internet Café’ and ‘Travel Agency’, while others are shabbier, with rusty metal grilles covering the windows and paint peeling from doorframes. The almost continuous car hooting doesn’t die down as we leave the airport behind us, and I find myself gripping the door handle with white knuckles as Rodrigo calmly performs a series of dangerous manoeuvres through the zigzagging morning-rush-hour traffic, the little plastic rosary and crucifix hanging from his rear-view mirror dancing and bobbing at every sharp turn.

Rodrigo flicks a switch on the dashboard and the sound of Lionel Ritchie’s crooning voice fills the car. ‘… I can see it in your eyes…. I can see it in your smile…’ the inimitable voice warbles.

‘Nearly there!’ Rodrigo shouts at us over the noise. ‘This is the historic town centre of Quito – first ever World Heritage site, you know!’ His voice bursts with pride, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for this little old Ecuadorian man we’ve only just met. ‘Don’t you just love eighties music?’ He turns all the way around in his seat to beam at us, before twisting back to look at the road again. ‘My granddaughter got me this tape for my sixtieth.’ I realise it is in fact a tape deck in Rodrigo’s old car.

The roads are getting steeper, from slight incline to dizzying climb, and Rodrigo clunks his old car from third, to second, to first gear. I can see the city opening out below and behind us, spread as far as I can see, the sun glinting off distant widows and windscreens. It’s incredibly beautiful.

‘Harry – look!’ I nudge him impatiently, ‘You’re missing everything!’ Incredulously I realise Harry is peering at his mobile phone, a look of anguish on his face, muttering something that sounds distinctly like ‘fucking quad band’. ‘Harry – what’s the matter?’

He jumps as if he’d forgotten I was there, and shoves the phone back into his pocket. ‘Oh, nothing, sorry, just can’t believe there’s no signal.’ I stare at him. I don’t even know where my phone is or whether it made it off the plane. ‘Sorry, babe, what were you saying?’

I feel annoyance surge inside me. I had managed – just – to overlook the numerous moments Harry spent engrossed in his phone, or simply staring off into space, while we were back in Fenbridge. However frustrating his distractedness had been as my own excitement about the trip slowly grew, I had told myself he was just preoccupied with all the arrangements we had to make before leaving. But now we were here, in the midst of this beautiful country he chose to come to – and he’s worried about phone signals? I bite my lip and force myself not to say anything, telling myself it would be awful to get cross with each other on our first day here.

Rodrigo’s tape is playing George Michael now. ‘Though it’s easy to pretend… I know you’re not a foo-oool.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Nothing, Harry, just… Look. For heaven’s sake, look where we are!’

We’re obviously getting nearer the heart of the city as there are people everywhere now. Street vendors balance tall racks of magazines, newspapers and cigarettes on the corner of every street, looking just about ready to tumble into the oncoming traffic. Tall colonial buildings lean in on both sides, their peeling paintwork and intricate masonry granting them what my mother would probably describe as ‘faded grandeur’.

We have to slam on the brakes as a huge bus lumbers around the corner ahead, occupying both sides of the road, belching out black smoke as it continues on up the steep street to our right, creaking and groaning.

As we pull away again cautiously, pedestrians bustle past, brushing right up against the car. Smart men and women dressed in suits striding to the office, lines of schoolchildren in identical and beautifully starched red-and-white school uniforms, and plump, squat women wrapped in brightly coloured shawls, wearing what look like shiny bowler hats over their long, plaited, black hair.

‘Look at the indigenous ladies’, says Rodrigo, thankfully turning the music down. ‘The Quichua. They were here before the Spanish… but now they’re almost foreigners like you.’ He gives a sad little chuckle. ‘Some of them don’t even speak Spanish – just their language – Quichua. My Grandma spoke it. They live their own way. Many of them are very poor.’

As we crawl through traffic, one of a group of Quichua women approaching us looks up from talking animatedly to her companions and meets my eye for a second. I note her beautiful, Pocahontas-like features and slanted dark eyes, and wonder what she makes of the face staring back at her. I notice my reflection in the car window and suddenly see my mousy blonde hair, pale skin and uneven sprinkling of freckles in a new light. Here, I am the foreigner. Fascinated by the women, I twist round to stare after them out of the back window and take in the heavy-looking bundles tied in place across their backs by what looks like just a piece of cloth, containing a variety of carrots, corn cobs, potatoes and, in one case, a peacefully sleeping baby.

The day is already promising to be a scorcher as the equatorial sun beats down on the car roof, and I marvel at two young policewomen of about my own age, dressed in impossibly hot-looking long-sleeved khaki uniforms, standing in the centre of a crossroads blowing into whistles and flailing their arms to direct the traffic.

‘Here we are!’ announces Rodrigo proudly, as if he’s just safely delivered Frodo and Sam to the gates of Mordor. ‘Casa Hamaca. Hammock House. Your hotel.’

We’ve mounted the kerb outside a three-storey building, in the same restored colonial style as the rest of the street. Except, it’s painted bright turquoise. A wooden plaque over the door says ‘Casa Hamaca – hotel and restaurant’ and there are flags flying in the breeze from the first-floor balcony. Ecuador, United States, Spain, Italy, Union Jack, Scotland… and several I should probably recognise, but don’t. All in all, despite the garish colour, it looks like a proper hotel. Thank goodness for that booking website.

We give Rodrigo a hug and a tip, then find ourselves on the pavement in the middle of a city where we know absolutely no one.

Suddenly a voice, in what sounds like a Scottish accent, calls down from somewhere above our heads, ‘Harry and Kirsty?’

We look up to see a scruffy dark-haired man of about our own age leaning over the second-floor balcony, grinning down at us. ‘We have been awaiting your arrival. I call myself Ray!’

He disappears briefly, and there is just enough time for a frightening Norman Bates image to flash into my mind before ‘Ray’ materialises in front of us, swinging the front door open. ‘Come in, come in, welcome to my casita, my little house in Quito!’ He’s still grinning, as if he’s never been so happy to see two bedraggled, confused backpackers in his life.

As we enter the hotel we realise it is much more than a ‘casita’. Opening out tardis-like around us is a bustling restaurant and bar, filled with tourists of varying ages and nationalities enjoying breakfast. The tantalising smell of brewing coffee wafts past, and as we follow Ray towards a steep, wooden, spiral staircase at the back, we hear German, Italian, Spanish, and several unrecognisable languages being spoken at the tables around us.

Ray leads us up the stairs and flings open the door to one of the rooms. ‘This, mis amigos, will be your habitation! Please make yourselves comfortable, then perhaps later come downstairs for some lunch and a cold beer, on the house?’

The room, or ‘habitation’, as Ray bizarrely put it, looks wonderful. Blue-and-green silk drapes billow in the breeze from the open balcony doors opposite us, and a string hammock in the same colours sways gently in the corner. The walls are white and fresh, and a huge bed with multicoloured patchwork covers spreads out before us invitingly. A voice in the corner is talking loudly in Spanish about the release of three thousand drugs mules in Ecuador.

Wait – what?

‘Sorry! I must have left the television on when I was cleaning the room.’ Ray picks up a remote from the side and points it towards the flatscreen TV on the wall opposite the bed.

‘No! Wait… I want to listen to this.’ I hold up my hands to stop him, and sink down on to the edge of the bed without taking my eyes off the TV.

‘Ecuador’s president confirms that a new and controversial law, coming into force next week, will mean the reduction of almost every sentence given in the last ten years for drugs crimes. This will lead to many of the worst narcotics criminals in the continent being immediately released from prisons around the country.’

Woah – even in my sleep-deprived state I realise this is very big news. Still not allowing my eyes to leave the screen, I tug the remote control from Ray’s hands and turn up the volume. I’m dimly aware of Ray and Harry drifting out on to the corridor and talking about Wi-Fi passwords.

‘This news comes at a time when the government is focusing on the quality of penitentiary conditions for the first time in decades, with the construction of two brand-new prisons in the north and south of Ecuador. This investment in living conditions and the release of so many detainees at once is a bold move never made before by any Latin American government, aimed at drastically reducing overcrowding. However, public safety concerns are rife and protests took place today outside parliament.’

The television cuts to a scene of an angry crowd pushing and shouting outside a beautiful white colonial-style building, presumably the presidential palace. Next, it split-screens to a map of Ecuador, two flashing red dots showing the locations of the new prisons, then finally a picture of a huge, sprawling building complex – presumably one of the new jails, still empty. Then, suddenly, the newsreader’s calm, smiling face is back on the screen, talking about the football results.

I feel like an ice bucket of reality about our first holiday destination has just been thrown over me.

A noise in the doorway makes me jump.

‘Ray just told me the weirdest thing.’ Harry reappears in the doorway holding his phone and a sheet of paper. ‘All that stuff about prisoners in the news… well, his wife actually visits the prisons. Some kind of volunteering, apparently.’

I turn to stare at him, feeling a fizz of interest, despite the tiredness almost overwhelming me.

‘Crazy, huh? Rather her than me…’ Harry shakes his head and goes to sit down on the end of the bed, still staring at his phone.

‘Yeah… definitely,’ I mutter, but already my mind is whirring. Just the mention of prisoners has revived my memory of Joel, all those years ago during my work experience at the solicitor’s office. For the thousandth time in the interceding years since I met him, I wonder what he is doing now and whether he managed to rebuild his life as he had promised the courts. Then my mind turns to the news I’ve just witnessed and, if it is to be believed, the thousands of men and women about to be released into the real world after years of confinement, faced with the daunting and possibly terrifying task of starting all over again…

Some kind of volunteering… As I climb exhaustedly into bed, Harry’s words echo in my mind, and behind them a tentative question starts to form. Could I do that? I’d already been researching volunteer opportunities, although admittedly none of them had been in such a hazardous location as a prison… a tingle of excitement, tinged with fear, darts through me at the idea. Actually, I think I could do that. As I finally surrender to sleep my head spins with thoughts of Joel, Ecuadorian prisons, volunteer opportunities and my folder of travel ideas, and my ears are filled with the repeated pinging noise of two days’ worth of emails flooding through to Harry’s phone.

***

I wake up from scrambled dreams about being chased through a busy airport by a throng of angry men in prison uniform shouting at me in Scottish accents. The first thing I see is a vividly coloured wall hanging, depicting in graphic tapestry an Inca warrior cutting the head off a bearded white man on a horse. A shiver runs down my spine. Gradually the events of the past day come flooding back and I remember where I am. I scramble for my phone on the bedside table and see that it is nearly six p.m.

What the…?

It feels like first thing in the morning.

Harry is nowhere to be seen. I sit up, feeling disoriented. The doors to the balcony are open and a lovely warm breeze brushes my face, bringing with it the sounds of traffic and cars hooting and children calling in the street outside… and Harry’s voice, unmistakable and shouting, filled with anguish.

I stagger out of bed and tiptoe towards the balcony, teeth clenched in sudden fear. Who could he be shouting at? What if something is happening to him – maybe he’s being mugged, or kidnapped? Could this be the last time I see my boyfriend before he’s bundled into a waiting car and driven away as a hostage, and all this time I’ve been here in the hotel room sleeping. Suddenly my mother’s voice bursts uninvited into my consciousness. ‘Dangerous part of the world… drugs everywhere…’ I physically shake my head and tell myself I’m being silly. But, even so, I edge towards the balcony, keeping my back flat against the wall while craning my head as far forward as I dare to see out over the wrought-iron bars.

Harry is standing about three metres away in the street below, his back to me, mobile phone pressed to his ear. His raised voice reaches me again over the background noise of cars passing and distant salsa music playing from a café at the end of the road. Although I can’t make out any actual words from so far up here, his body language emanates anger and frustration. Still with his back to me, he raises his free arm and seems to shake it at the street in general, then brings it to his face and runs his hand through his hair in an all-too-familiar gesture of exasperation.

There are no gangsters, hostage takers or drug pushers anywhere near him, just a few bemused pedestrians who all turn to look back at Harry as they pass. He seems to be really shouting, but from up here all I can make out is the anguished tone of his voice. Relief floods through me that he is in no apparent danger, but is then immediately followed by troubled curiosity. Who the hell could he be talking to?

I edge forward on the balcony and strain to hear more, just as Harry starts to swing round and pace back towards me. I hurl myself backwards into the hotel room and out of sight, as snatched words from his conversation drift up to me, clear as crystal – in Spanish.

‘Por favor! No entiendes!’ is all I hear him shout before the balcony curtain swishes back in place and Harry is once again drowned from earshot.

Please – you don’t understand.

I sit down heavily on the cool marble floor of the hotel room and lean back against the foot of the bed. What was all that about? Who would Harry be speaking to so forcefully, in Spanish? He had said something about making a complaint to the airline when our connecting flight in Madrid was delayed. But surely he wouldn’t do that on our very first day here? They had been really polite and apologetic, and served everyone orange juice while we waited at the departure gate. And he’s usually so laid-back… it’s very unlike Harry to get upset over something like that.

‘Jet lag?’ I’m suddenly aware he is standing in the doorway, smiling down at me warmly. I swallow back my irritated curiosity and silently watch him enter the room and start pulling clothes out of his backpack, slinging them over a chair. All traces of the anger and tension I saw in him just now have gone. He even starts to whistle to himself as he pulls out his razor and heads into the bathroom, turning the tap on.

‘Harry? Are you… okay?’ I call after him.

He turns to look at me through the open bathroom door, and his face breaks into a broad, gorgeous smile.

‘Of course, babe – why? I was going to ask you the same thing… you look a bit rough sitting there on the floor like that.’ He chuckles and turns back to the mirror.

‘Oh… just the jet lag, like you say,’ I mutter, feeling stupid, and haul myself to my feet. I potter about unpacking some clothes and the silence in the room grows.

Just ask him what the hell all that was about.

The question is on the tip of my tongue. But something about Harry’s overly cheerful demeanour feels like a kind of warning. He has to be faking it. There’s no way even someone as impulsive and spontaneous as Harry could go from shouty, hair-tuggingly anxious phone calls to bright and breezy unpacking in the space of two minutes. With a wrench, I’m reminded of Harry’s increasingly distant behaviour in the weeks before the trip. His irritability when I tried to ask him about it. It had seemed so unlike the laid-back bloke I was used to living with, and I’d put it down to the stress of planning such an ambitious voyage. But now we’re here, shouldn’t he be relaxing and embracing the adventure ahead? I stare at Harry’s back and admit to myself the uncomfortable truth that, at times, I feel like I have no idea what makes him tick.

Wasn’t this trip supposed to bring us closer together?

If his behaviour over the last few weeks is anything to go by, he’ll only get all defensive if I ask him what that phone call was about, I realise. I briefly imagine what it would be like if we fell out, now, today. He’s all I have in a strange country. Plus, I still feel like my body clock has been taken out, rewound and shoved back in upside down. It was probably nothing anyway, I almost manage to convince myself. It could have been the airline, or one of the hotels or tour companies we’ve looked at.

‘By the way, it’s because he’s been living here twelve years and Spanish and English have started to mix together in his head,’ Harry calls from the bathroom, patting his face off with a towel.

‘Eh?’

‘Ray. That’s why he speaks like that. He can’t really tell the difference between the two languages anymore, so he uses Spanish word order when speaking English, and vice versa. He came backpacking here after uni, met a girl and never left.’ He comes back into the room, produces a cold beer from somewhere and hands it to me. ‘I’ve been down in the bar all afternoon with him, waiting for you to wake up.’

‘Oh.’ Suddenly I’m hit by a wave of homesickness. But not for our house in Fenbridge… to my surprise, an image of my mum’s living room fills my mind. I’m in the armchair, drinking hot chocolate, with Steve in the corner behind his paper and Mum watching Strictly Come Dancing with the volume turned down. I wouldn’t need to worry, then, about who Harry has been shouting at, or whether he’s keeping some sort of secret from me. I could just slide back into my old routine and pretend none of this had ever happened. For the first time in weeks, I feel something other than excitement and eagerness about our forthcoming adventure. For if we’ve only just arrived and Harry is behaving like this… what do the next three months hold for me?

I don’t know what takes me more by surprise, the feeling of actually wanting to be at my mum’s house or the sudden pounding music that starts to blast out from somewhere below us.

‘That’s Ray getting the bar going – come on, Kirst, our first night in Quito has begun!’ Harry looks so happy and mischievous, I resolve to push my concerns to the back of my mind for now. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about whatever it was, but I’m sure it will all become clear in time, and I will have been worrying for nothing.

‘Drink up that beer and let’s go!’ Harry stops to kiss me on the cheek and cracks open another beer for himself.

After a brief effort to make myself look presentable, I follow him out of our hotel room for a night of wild partying.

‘Oh, wait.’ Harry stops dead in the corridor. ‘There are six missed calls, an email and about a hundred WhatsApp messages from your mother. You should call her first.’

Chapter Four

The hotel bar area is thronged with the same colourful assortment of tourists as it was this morning, except now they’re all knocking back pints of beer and gaudy cocktails instead of coffee and toast. Upbeat, tropical-sounding music is playing from a complicated stereo system in the corner. We spot Ray behind the bar performing several complicated manoeuvres with a cocktail shaker, then pouring a thick, bright-yellow liquid into two tall glasses, all the while chatting energetically to the other two barmen. As soon as he catches sight of us he gestures to one of his colleagues, and within seconds the two glasses of yellow liquid are placed on a table before us along with enormous plates of chicken, rice and what seem to be monster-sized fried bananas.

‘Mum sends her love,’ I tell Harry, sitting down beside him to tuck in hungrily. ‘I also had to assure her there are no volcanic eruptions, landslides or civil protests currently unfolding in Quito.’ Harry rolls his eyes in empathy at my mum’s typical fussing.

Ray pulls up a chair, too, with his own glass of the vivid yellow drink.

‘Sugar cane syrup,’ he explains happily. ‘They call it canelazo. Mixed with fruit from the jungle and canela – what do you call that? Cinnamon.’ He raises his glass. ‘Now Kirsty is finally awake, I can officially say – welcome to Ecuador!’

We stop stuffing our faces with the delicious fried banana long enough to chink glasses with Ray and take a gulp of the liquid. It’s spicy and sweet and throat-burningly strong.

‘So, any recommendations for a night out?’ Harry asks, already draining his glass. ‘I think it’s time for Kirsty and me to get smashed.’ Ray catches my eye with one eyebrow slightly raised.

‘Er, yes, definitely,’ I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. ‘Getting smashed it is.’

Ray’s gaze flicks between Harry and me, and for a brief second I self-consciously wonder what he is thinking.

‘Well, if you like, once the wife gets home shortly we can take you out to sample Quito’s nightlife? I’m sure these guys can hold the fort here.’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the bar staff. ‘Oh, and Barry always keeps an eye on things when we go out. He practically lives here.’ I notice the chubby man sitting in the far corner of the bar, in the shadows, silently watching us. Bizarrely, I’m reminded of Aragorn sitting in the tavern in Lord of the Rings, watching the hobbits cause chaos around him with a disapproving air. ‘She kicked you out again?’ Ray calls cheerfully to him. Barry responds by raising his glass, unsmiling, then taking a long drink from it.

‘Gabi’s eight months pregnant, so we won’t be joining you in getting smashed, but we can certainly show you some sights,’ Ray continues. ‘We were talking about meeting some friends in town tonight anyway, so how about we all go?’

‘Amazing!’ exclaims Harry, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. ‘How about it, Kirst?’

I nod and smile and thank Ray, but once he turns back to the bar I touch Harry’s arm.

‘Since when have we ever gone out and got smashed?’ I ask him under my breath, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘I mean, since uni, which feels like a hundred years ago. I’m up for going to a bar, but…’

‘Oh, come on!’ Harry interrupts me. ‘Uni wasn’t that long ago. We’re still young – well, reasonably young!’ He laughs and grins and gives my waist a squeeze, and it strikes me that there is something a little bit manic about his smile. Something a little… forced. ‘After all the preparation and such a long journey we’re finally here, and I don’t know about you but I think it’s time for a drink!’

I stare at Harry as he goes over to Ray and indicates for his glass to be filled up again. I haven’t really seen this side of him since uni, when he was always the life and soul of any party… the Harry I moved in with soon became more of a glass-of-wine-and-takeaway-on-a-Friday-night kind of guy. It felt like the natural transition from carefree student to sensible adult, to a life with responsibilities and early starts… now it feels a little like Harry is regressing back to our pre-employment days.

But maybe this is no bad thing. Maybe a wild night out is just what we need to get this trip back on track. If it was ever off track. And wasn’t the whole idea for us to have one last adventure before… things change? We won’t get much time for partying once we have a baby, I remind myself. I’m sure that’s just what Harry means – we must make the most of this trip, and our current freedom, right from the first day. Also, I can’t help feeling a little relieved that at least Harry’s irritability of the last few weeks seems to have abandoned him.

My train of thought is interrupted as Ray’s wife, Gabriela, comes home amid a flurry of wavy dark hair, dazzling white smile and enormous pregnancy bump. Ray drops everything he is doing (lazily polishing glasses and eating nachos, I think) to rush round the bar and give her a long smooch, then tell her to put her coat back on as ‘Harry and Kirsty want us to take them out and get smashed’.

Gabriela greets us with warm hugs and cheek-kisses. It’s far more physical contact that I would usually feel comfortable with when first meeting someone, but something about this beautiful, smiling girl makes me want to return her hug with just as much warmth.

I start to understand why twenty-one-year-old Ray arrived here as a backpacker, then within five years found himself the owner of a bar, happily married to Gabriela. Who, it seems, speaks far better English than him.

‘I found him sitting with his backpack and a hangover in some dodgy café in town,’ Gabriela beams at Ray, ‘and decided I didn’t want to let him leave.’

I find myself watching this petite, delicate woman in amazement and wondering whether it can be true that she actually goes inside the prisons in Ecuador. But even as Gabi chats openly to us, I somehow lack the courage to ask.

After a few more canelazos we pile into a taxi and head towards what Ray and Gabriela describe as the ‘Mariscal district’, apparently a must-see part of Quito for any newly arrived traveller.

We pull up amid neon lights, throngs of people and a cacophony of thumping, Spanish-language R&B music. The taxi deposits us in the middle of Plaza Foch, a square surrounded by bars, some small and grungy-looking, others several storeys high with bright flashing signs and palm trees outside. The square is filled with groups of smiling and laughing locals, tourists wearing skimpy clothes and colourful bandanas, embracing couples and cigarette-smoking teenagers who don’t look old enough to be here. Ray half-heartedly argues with the taxi driver over the fare, then we throw ourselves into the crowd.

I take Harry’s hand and follow Ray and Gabriela into the queue forming outside one of the fancier-looking bars, determined to enjoy tonight… even though this isn’t exactly what I’d expected our first night in Quito to pan out like.

What had I expected?

As we wait in line, I allow myself to daydream briefly. Perhaps the two of us would have gone out for a nice meal somewhere, a balcony overlooking the city, and sat tucked away in a corner discussing the places we’re going to visit this week, making a plan over a bottle of wine and some typical Ecuadorian food. I feel my brows start to knit together as I realise I can’t remember the last time we went out for a romantic dinner. There’ll be time for that, we’ve got three months, I tell myself. Just go with the flow tonight. It’s obviously what Harry wants, and there will be time.

A tugging feeling at my sleeve interrupts my train of thought and makes me jump in the air and let go of Harry’s hand with a jolt. A tiny elderly woman is standing below me, coming up no further than my chest, tugging lightly at my sleeve. She’s wearing an apron and has a cardboard box slung around her neck, loaded with cigarettes, chewing gum and chocolate bars.

‘Por favor… Señorita…’ She continues to nudge me and proffer her cardboard box with an imploring expression.

Close up, she looks well over seventy and has no teeth. I immediately start fumbling in my bag for some change, and within a few seconds have bought three chocolate bars and five cigarettes from her. Harry turns around just in time to see her beaming, toothless face looming in on his, obviously excited about the commercial opportunities presented by our group.

‘Kirsty – what are you doing?’ he cries, recoiling in horror from the woman and stumbling unevenly several steps backwards.

Gabriela intervenes and says something quickly to the woman in Spanish, smiling kindly at her but at the same time firmly steering her away by the arm.

Harry is still gaping at me, weaving a little on the spot, his brows furrowed together in almost comic exaggeration. ‘What are you doing giving her your money? You don’t even smoke!’

I look down at the chocolate and cigarettes in my hands, suddenly feeling ridiculous.

‘She could have been dangerous!’ Harry continues, oblivious of the uncomfortable glances from other people in the queue around us.

At this, I can’t help but snort with laughter. ‘Oh, come on, Harry… she was about four feet tall and old enough to be my grandmother! I just felt bad for her, okay? And—’

‘That’s not the point!’ Harry’s voice is getting louder. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Gabriela making panicked throat-cutting gestures to Ray. ‘You know some people here hand out flyers or free gifts in the street, then try to drug you and rob you! Maybe she was trying to catch you unawares, maybe she…’ Harry trails off, puffing, as Ray pats him gently on the shoulder.

‘Pal… relax. Our table’s ready. Time to get out of here.’

To my immense relief, the bouncer is gesturing for us to go inside. It takes us considerable time to get across the bar as Ray and Gabi seem to know everyone there, so our progress across the room is halted by their stopping at every table for an elaborate routine of cheek-kissing, hand-pumping, back-clapping, hugging and fist-bumping.

‘Harry,’ I hiss to him as we follow on behind. ‘What was all that about?’ I jerk my head back in the direction of the bar entrance.

He frowns down at me, swaying slightly. ‘What was what about?’

I roll my eyes at him. ‘You, getting all freaked out by a ninety-year-old grandmother!’

Harry takes an unsteady step towards me, and puts both hands on my shoulders.

‘Babe, look, I’ve been here before… I know what Latin America is like. You can’t trust anyone. Anyone. Okay?’

I can feel my eyebrows rising further towards my hairline with every word.

‘I’m being serious… you have to trust me and take my lead out here, okay?’

‘Harry, we’re hardly in the Wild West, it’s—’

I don’t get the chance to finish, as Ray has turned back to us and is indicating for us to join them at a table next to the dance floor, already half filled with a group of their friends. I glance back at Harry as he follows Ray off to the bar, and decide to let it go for now. He’s had a few drinks, we’ve only just got here and everything is new and unfamiliar. It’s been a decade since he came here, so maybe culture shock is just hitting him harder than he expected it to. Even so, I can’t help feeling a growing sense of unease, a feeling that tentatively began while we were still at home and only increased with every irritable or distracted comment from Harry in the weeks leading up to our trip. And what if his overreaction now is somehow related to that weird phone call earlier? Shouldn’t Harry be feeling relaxed and excited that our great South American adventure has finally begun?

Give him a chance, I tell myself. Maybe the enormity of what we’ve done has only just hit him… maybe older, wiser Harry is finding it harder to be out of his comfort zone than he thought he would… I decide all I can do about it for now is try to enjoy the night, while still watching Harry closely.

As I sit down at the table beside Gabriela, I realise why the ground is so soft underfoot – it is real sand lining the bar from the door to the dance floor. Mini palm trees sprout from the floor in the seating area, giving an illusion of privacy and luxury at each table. A widescreen TV is pumping out J-Lo music videos on the far wall over a small dance floor where some couples are already twirling each other around in extravagant salsa moves. Everything looks new, shiny and luxurious.

Gabi introduces me to the group already at the table – Luke from Birmingham, resident in Ecuador for twenty years, proprietor of an English-language centre and extremely long red dreadlocks. Then a scruffy-looking blonde couple called Emma and Dave (or was it Gemma and Dan?), who barely look old enough to be out on their own and tell us joyfully they are on their gap year before university. To my surprise, despite the variations in age and lifestyle, everyone is British. They all seem to have been drinking for some time already, judging by the collection of empty glasses strewn across the table, ice melting, bright cocktail umbrellas wilting.

Looking around, most of the bar’s clientele seem to be either obvious foreigners – blonde, sunburnt and inebriated – or very well-dressed, elegant locals. At the table next to ours an impossibly beautiful young woman with waist-length hair is sitting opposite a man of at least twice her age, feeding him mini empanadas from her fork. I only realise I’m staring when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder, and turn round with a jump as Ray hands me the cocktail menu.

I feel a bit sick looking through the elaborately named concoctions, such as the vivid green ‘Drowning Mermaid’ or layered purple and pink ‘Miami Vice’. The prices could rival any London bar, and I can’t help but think of the toothless lady’s sheer joy at the handful of change I gave her outside.

In the end I opt for a glass of wine.

Harry’s back from the bar and is already engaged in an animated conversation with Luke, and I notice with relief he has accepted the bottle of water Ray slid across the table to him, while throwing a wink at me. For a moment, I had started to worry he was taking the idea of getting ‘smashed’ way too literally and that we would end up having to carry him back to Casa Hamaca. But now, talking to Luke, he looks completely animated and engaged with whatever Luke is saying. As I watch, he leans forward in his seat, nodding avidly, his face lighting up in a smile. He’s so engrossed in the conversation, he wouldn’t even notice if…

As if with a mind of their own, my eyes come to rest on Harry’s phone, alone and abandoned in the middle of the table among the empty glasses. My itchy curiosity about his earlier phone call immediately floods back.

Could I?

I look around at our group. Gabriela is just drinking orange juice but seems to be having the best time of us all, laughing at Ray’s every word and snuggling into his shoulder as he whispers something in her ear, his arm draped across the back of her chair. The young couple are engaged in a complicated drink-downing move, arms interlaced as they hold their glasses to each other’s lips. Harry is totally absorbed in his conversation with Luke. No one is paying any attention to me.

I casually rest my arm on the table then slowly slide the phone towards me and up my sleeve, feeling ridiculously like a petty criminal.

‘Just going to the bathroom,’ I mutter to the table in general, and I’m gone.

In the ladies, I lock myself in a cubicle and pull out the phone, hating myself for the excited adrenaline flooding my veins.

I open the call log and scroll guiltily through all the missed calls from my mum, until I find it. The only number in the list that isn’t a recognised contact in Harry’s phone.

+593 2 279331. I recognise the Ecuador country code, and I know that the ‘2’ preceding the number means it is a landline within Quito. One outgoing call, made at five-forty-eight p.m. It had to be the one.

I press the green ‘dial’ icon next to the number, and hold the phone to my ear, heart pounding.

It’s answered on the second ring, and a muffled, sleepy-sounding man’s voice says in Spanish, ‘Hello, Fernandez family?’

I take the phone away from my ear and stare at it in horror, imagining a strange man somewhere else in the city scrambling to answer the phone by the bed. It’s nearly midnight, what was I thinking?

‘Hello?’ I hear the tinny voice ask again, and quickly press the hang-up button.

‘Are you alive in there?’ an angry American accent is calling as someone bangs on my cubicle door. Muttering an apology I fumble my way out of the bathroom in a daze of confusion. Who the hell are the Fernandez family? We don’t know anyone in Quito, except the people we are in this bar with. Harry said all the people he met travelling the first time had long ago dispersed back to their countries, and lost touch. Why would he be calling someone on a landline in Quito and shouting at them?

‘Kirsty! There you are.’ Ray is smiling at me and grabs my arm to pull me down into the seat next to him, then immediately turns back to his energetic conversation with the others. I quickly deposit Harry’s phone back out of my sleeve and on to the table.

The male half of the young couple – Dan or Dave – seems to be telling a long and complicated story about the process of exchanging his British driving licence for an Ecuadorian one. I notice Gabi’s eyes start to glaze over, then her gaze drift away across the bar. I realise now would be a perfect time to ask her about her volunteer work in the prisons. As if reading my mind, she catches my eye and smiles at me.

Do it, I tell myself firmly. What are you waiting for?

‘So then they told me the office was closed, and I had to go back on a Wednesday, but only in the afternoon, and I needed a copy of my birth certificate, but that was in the UK so I had to call Gemma’s mum and ask her to fax it…’ The story continues unrelentingly, and Gabi flashes me an almost imperceptible eye-roll.

Do it now. Just ask her.

‘…and then they insisted I got a special signature from a lawyer, can you believe it? So I phoned round about ten people, and there weren’t any appointments for two weeks…’

But what if she thinks I’m weird for being interested in something like this?

Gabi leans forward and starts playing with the straw in her drink, barely concealing the boredom on her face. I take a deep breath and lean forward.

‘Hey, so… Gabi? Ray mentioned you’re involved in some volunteer work here. With the, um… prisoners.’

Gabi’s face lights up immediately. ‘Yes! Oh, don’t get me started on this, I’ll bore your ears off about it. Worse than…’ She grins and flicks a glance at Dan (or Dave), still holding forth about his driving licence. We both giggle. ‘But,’ she suddenly frowns, ‘I hope Ray hasn’t been going on about these things to you… he sometimes gets a bit overenthusiastic about what I do.’ She stops to nudge her husband. ‘Hey, amor, I hope you haven’t been boring our new guests with talk about prisons… they are here on holiday, and probably don’t want to hear about—’

‘Actually, I’m really interested,’ I interrupt to reassure her, and try to quickly pull her attention back to me before Harry overhears. Glancing over at him I see he is still deep in conversation with Luke, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘You see, I once did some work in a solicitor’s office and there was this guy… actually, never mind that. But let’s just say it’s kind of an area of personal interest for me. And… actually, I was already looking at doing some volunteer work while we’re out here in South America. So…’ I trail off, feeling suddenly very exposed.

Gabi, to my great relief, is smiling broadly.

‘Well, I volunteer for a charity that offers support to prisoners here in Ecuador. Mainly women, the more vulnerable ones, and foreigners. We visit them and try to help where we can – little things like posting letters for them to their families, bringing them snacks, or simply listening to them when they have no one to talk to.’

My eyes must be open like saucers. ‘There are foreign prisoners here in Ecuador?’

‘Oh yes, lots,’ Gabi says, and something about her kind smile makes me feel like the most naïve person in the world. ‘Almost all for drug trafficking,’ she answers my unspoken question. ‘Some friends of mine started a small charity, years ago, to help them. I’ve been involved since…’ She trails off and frowns. ‘Since even before I met Ray.’

‘Gabi is an amazing woman,’ Ray interrupts, slurring and squeezing his arm around her shoulders.

‘If you’re interested, I could introduce you to them – they’re a lovely older couple, and they basically run this charity from their home. I know they’re always keen for another pair of hands, especially with everything that’s going on at the moment.’

I’m already nodding enthusiastically.

‘I can’t help out that much at the moment,’ Gabi continues, smiling down at her bump. ‘I’m not going to be actually visiting the prisons myself for a while. But I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you about their work, or even let you go on a visit yourself, if you were interested…’

‘I’d really love to—’ I start to answer back, just as I see Harry coming round to our side of the table, his whole face lit up in a warm smile as he looks at me. He comes up behind my chair and wraps his arms around my shoulders, leaning in to whisper in my ear, ‘Sorry I went a bit crazy outside, babe.’ He rests a soft kiss on my cheek. ‘I was just worried something could happen to you.’

I let him kiss me and squeeze his hand back, despite the undercurrent of unease running through me and the man’s voice still ringing in my ears, saying ‘Hello, Fernandez family?’ When we’re alone, and sober, I will ask him about it, I promise myself.

‘Kirsty was just asking about my work with prisoners,’ Gabi says, before I can stop her. ‘I was telling her that if she wanted we could—’

‘Oh God, woman, you’re obsessed!’ Harry is rolling his eyes and chuckling. ‘Stop talking about depressing stuff like that!’ He straightens up and reaches for his beer.

‘Actually, how long are you guys going to stick around?’ Gabi asks. ‘Because the same couple I told you about, they have a really big apartment and are trying to rent out a part of it. It’s joined on to their house but completely self-contained. Would be perfect for you if you’re thinking of staying here a while.’

I reply ‘Oh, thanks, but we don’t know how long we’ll be around’ at exactly the same time Harry says ‘Great! How much is the rent?’

There’s an awkward silence, and I turn to stare at Harry, raising my eyebrows at him in question. The plan had been to stay in Quito for a week or so, maybe use it as a base to explore the rest of the country… but rent somewhere?

‘It might be worth it, babe,’ he murmurs to me, sitting back down beside me again. ‘Cheaper than staying in hotels, and if they’re willing to let it to us for a short time…’

I don’t get the chance to consider this further, as a loud shriek from the other side of the bar makes us all jump and turn to stare.

‘Hey, YOU LOT!’

It’s Gemma, waving her empty glass and indicating the bar. ‘Come on, what you all drinking? It’s time to get another round in!’

***

By the time we stumble back into our colourful little ‘habitation’ – as Ray would say – it’s nearly morning.

Harry falls asleep immediately, spread out fully clothed on top of the giant patchwork bed, his snores reaching to where I’ve positioned myself on the balcony to watch the sun rise. The drinks have worn off and I’m restlessly awake. I realise it must be late morning in the UK. That, combined with my marathon snooze from earlier – or should I say, from yesterday – makes any thought of sleep impossible now.

I stand and watch the city by night, stunned by the beauty of the twinkling lights on the high mountains around and above me, and by the silence. All I can hear is a stray dog barking in the distance or the occasional car pass by. If this were central London there would be ceaseless noise and activity in the street outside, even at this hour.

Standing alone in a place so unfamiliar, the enormity of what we’ve done really hits me. I won’t see England again for three months. I have no idea what the next few days, let alone weeks or months, will hold for us. The feeling of uncertainty, of adventure, of the future stretching out before me like an expanse of untrodden snow, is strangely liberating. But even so, beneath that, a feeling of unease niggles at me. Who had Harry been talking to, and could it be linked to his distracted behaviour leading up to our departure?

The sun rises so suddenly it’s as if someone simply switched a light on over the city. There are a few moments of eerie grey light, then bright sunshine. With it comes an immediate stream of cars and people and noise, appearing so out of the blue it’s as if they had been hiding behind the buildings waiting to pop out. I’d read that, due to its location right at the centre of the earth, the sun rises and sets in Quito at roughly the same time the whole year round, with none of the long, lingering sunsets or gradual dawns of a place further from the equator. I’d never imagined what it would be like to experience that in person, though.

I realise I’m hungry, but can’t decide whether it is for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

Right on queue there’s a knock on the door.

It’s Ray, bearing two steaming mugs of coffee and his usual broad smile, although slightly subdued today. ‘How are your heads this morning, guys?’ he asks, handing us each a mug.

The smell of coffee seems to revive Harry enough for him to haul himself up on to his elbows and sip from the mug as if it contained the elixir of life.

‘I feel fine, actually,’ I say quietly, realising at the same time, ‘but I don’t remember much after about eleven p.m.’

‘Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything serious to embarrass yourself,’ Ray winks at me.

‘Well, actually you did keep on asking to touch Gabriela’s belly…’ Harry pipes up, obviously finding it tremendously amusing, ‘…and going on about the miracle of life or something, every time you felt the baby kicking.’

Oh no. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and will already be getting a reputation as the next Single White Female.

Ray sees the humiliation on my face and says gently: ‘It didn’t bother her. She enjoyed talking to you about babies. Don’t stress.’

I smile at him gratefully.

‘But you!’ Ray turns his attention to Harry. ‘Well done, pal – I can’t believe on your first day here you managed to land—’

I watch Ray’s facial expression change from the usual smile to dawning horror, and whip round just in time to catch Harry sitting bolt upright, making panicked, wide-eyed waving gestures at him.

‘Managed to land what?’ I ask, feeling like I used to as a small child when my parents would talk in broken French to avoid my finding out what my Christmas present was. Except something tells me the secret being kept here is far less innocent than a Polly Pocket playhome or Thundercats action figure.

The changing expressions on Ray’s face would be comical, in any other circumstances. Confusion rapidly giving way to horror as all the colour drains from his cheeks and leaves him looking like he wants to cut out his own tongue. ‘Land… er… land in Quito at such high altitude and go out drinking with us, but still wake up fresh as a lemon!’ Relief floods his face as he internally congratulates himself on covering up whatever it was he said to put his foot in it.

Except he hasn’t. I don’t believe a word of it. And Harry certainly doesn’t look fresh as a ‘lemon’ today, or any other fruit, plant or animal that may be the local term.

‘How do you do it, pal?’ Ray continues, oblivious. ‘Transatlantic flight… all those cocktails…’

‘Thank you, Ray.’ Harry’s tone is suddenly cool as he cuts in. ‘I think I’ll take a shower now. So… we’ll come downstairs for breakfast in a bit?’

Ray recognises he has been dismissed and backs out of the room, holding his hands up.

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ I manage before he disappears.

There is an uncomfortable silence. ‘What was all that about?’ I ask.

Harry runs his hands through his hair and hauls himself to his feet. Distractedly, I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the lines that form when he frowns. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you yet. I wanted to see what happened. But…’

An irrational blast of panic jolts through me, and for a split second I imagine what it would be like if Harry broke up with me now. Left me all alone here in Ecuador. I’d have to book an early flight home and get Mum to pick me up from Heathrow. I wouldn’t even have a house to go back to, as I wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage on my own, so it would get repossessed immediately and I’d be back in Mum’s spare room, living out of a suitcase, turning up back at work three months early… my life would be OVER.

Wait – what the HELL are you thinking? I ask myself. Of course he’s not going to break up with me. We’re Harry and Kirsty, we’ve been together five years. We have a mortgage. We have a three-month sabbatical. We decided to do this together.

Oblivious to my irrational moment of panic, Harry continues: ‘So you know Luke from last night – the Brummy guy – dreadlocks? He offered me some work at his language school.’

I stare at him, feeling wrong-footed yet again.

‘Some… work? But… you’ve already got a job. You asked for time off from it, to come here. I don’t understand.’

My hangover unexpectedly makes its presence known with a lurch of nausea and wave of dizziness. I sit down abruptly on the end of the bed, rubbing my eyes. ‘What do you want a job here in Ecuador for? We’re supposed to be travelling.’

‘Yes, of course, but… Luke’s offer last night made me think. This seems like a cool place, and what harm can there be in sticking around here for a bit? You know, get to know Quito, find a proper place to stay. We could even rent that apartment from Gabi’s friends like she said last night? So we’re not just living in hotels…’

But that’s the whole point of going travelling, I think. You move around and stay in hotels and see different places.

‘… and it’s not like a permanent fixed contract or anything. They just really need someone to help out with the beginners’ English classes. It’s just for a few weeks or so, a month at most… because a teacher had to go back to the USA suddenly last week for a family issue. They’re offering good money, as they really need someone to stand in.’

I stare at my boyfriend across our hotel room, and for the second time in the last month wonder how we could spend every day together yet sometimes operate on such completely planes of existence.

‘But… you’ve got savings. We talked about this, worked it all out. We’ve got enough to last us the three months, if we’re careful, then you have a well-paid job waiting for you when we get back in June. I don’t understand why you would need to think about earning money out here?’

Harry is looking down at his empty coffee mug, swilling the dregs around in the bottom, seemingly unable to meet my eyes.

‘Don’t you like Ecuador?’ he eventually mutters.

‘Harry, we’ve been here twenty-four hours! Yes, of course I like it, but…’ My voice trails off as I think of my travel folder, full of ideas and potential, already unpacked and resting on top of my backpack just waiting to be opened and explored.

‘Well, there you go then.’ He’s smiling at me and getting out of bed and walking towards the bathroom as if that’s the subject settled. ‘People always say you experience a country and its culture much more vividly from the inside… when you actually live there for a while. And we’re not committing to anything, right? I’ll teach a few hours a week and we’ll still have plenty of time together… we could go to the beach? The jungle?’ His voice takes on a pleading tone.

‘I want to go to the Galápagos Islands, and Angel Falls,’ I mutter.

‘And you will, Kirst… we’ll go everywhere you want. Let’s just take a little bit of time here first, okay? Settle down a bit, get used to things, save some more money… Luke asked me to go and see the school on Friday. If it doesn’t work out then we’ll move on. I promise.’ He’s standing in front of me now, peering earnestly into my eyes and stroking the side of my face with his thumb.

Settle down a bit. We’ve been ‘settling down’ – without really actually settling down – for the last five years. With the idea of this trip, Harry woke up the adventurous spirit in me. I had just started to get into the mind-set of a wandering backpacker, albeit temporarily… and now he’s talking about settling down.

‘Just for a few weeks… it won’t be that much longer than we’d planned on spending in Quito anyway, I promise,’ Harry continues. Looking back at his earnest face and pleading blue eyes, I realise this seems to be something really important to him. Perhaps, in the way I’ve been seeking volunteer opportunities, using his teaching skills in an exotic setting is something Harry needs in order to really make the most of this experience.

And if he does this, it would give me time to get involved with the prison volunteering, I realise. Perhaps staying in Quito a little longer than planned wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

‘One month,’ I hear myself saying. ‘One month tops, okay? I don’t want to spend any longer than that in one place, otherwise we won’t have time to fit in all the other things we’ve already agreed to do. We had planned to visit two other countries as well. And I am not missing out on those places.’

‘Amazing, babe!’ Harry enthuses. ‘I knew you’d understand. Spending some more time here will really help us get a true feel for the place, experience the country from the inside, do you know what I mean?’ He leans down and kisses me, acutely reminding me of the conversation only weeks ago in which he’d convinced me so utterly to embark on this venture with him – blindly, trustingly. Except, this time, it’s going to be slightly different…

I stare levelly back at Harry, and take a deep breath. ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean,’ I reply, not completely recognising the new, firm tone in my voice. ‘And that’s why, if we’re going to stay in Quito for a few weeks, I’ve decided I’m going to do some volunteer work. Visiting prisoners.’

I watch the smile slowly fade from Harry’s face.

Bet you weren’t expecting THAT.

‘But… are you serious? Isn’t that a bit… dangerous?’ He’s frowning at me with a truly confused expression.

‘No, it’s quite safe,’ I tell him, wishing I felt as certain as I sound. ‘Gabriela told me all about it last night. They go in with proper authorisation from the prison authorities, it’s all official. And it’s something I want to do.’

The confusion on Harry’s face deepens. ‘Babe… are you sure? This just doesn’t seem like… like you. I mean, no offence, but at home you don’t even like going downstairs to lock up and turn the lights off on your own. Now you’re talking about going inside a prison? A place full of dangerous people?’ He forces a chuckle, but I keep my expression serious.

‘Maybe it is like me,’ I say, feeling increasingly filled with a new form of determination. ‘Actually, I was already researching various types of volunteering out here to possibly get involved in. If not here, then Peru or Venezuela… there’s loads out there. And this, now, seems like the perfect opportunity.’

‘Volunteering is one thing, babe, I’m all up for that, but… prisons?’ Harry is still staring at me as if I’ve just popped up in the middle of the room inside a time machine.

‘It’s my condition,’ I say firmly, turning away from him and walking over to the balcony to indicate the conversation is closed. ‘If you want to stay in Quito a few more weeks and work at this language school, fine – but I’m going to help Gabi with her prisoners.’

Harry is silent for so long, I start to wonder if he’s heard me. I stare out at the vast expanse of mountains and unexplored city stretching out below us, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually I turn to look back at him, and see he hasn’t moved from the spot, and is staring at me with the same baffled expression as before, rubbing his hand over his hair in a familiar sign of stress.

‘I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so determined to do this,’ he finally says, grumpily.

‘You don’t have to understand,’ I say calmly, stepping past him towards the bathroom. ‘But you do have to support me. Now, I’m going to have a shower.’

As the bathroom door closes on Harry’s still-bewildered expression and the hot water streams down around me, I feel a churn of different emotions. A sense of triumph at having put my foot down and imposed some conditions of my own on this whole venture. Mixed with a healthy dose of nervousness at the thought of actually going through with the idea of visiting the prisons – now I’ve said it to Harry, I will simply have to do it.

Too scared to go downstairs and lock up for the night – pah! I’ll show him…

But underneath all this I also feel a deeper unease, a sense of misgiving about Harry and me that I have not ever fully admitted to myself before. If we’ve only been here a day and are already talking at cross purposes over our plans for this trip… what do the next three months hold for us? Surely it shouldn’t be necessary to negotiate, to lay down conditions to your own boyfriend about a mutual adventure?

Going abroad won’t solve anything, you know. My father’s voice bursts unbidden into my mind.

Determinedly I block him out again. Dad knows virtually nothing about my life, so how could he comment on my relationship with Harry?

If he was even talking about my relationship with Harry?

It’s not that by agreeing to go travelling with Harry I wanted to solve anything… but somehow I had felt that if we left our old life behind for a while we would draw closer together again, realign on the same wavelength.

I close my eyes and let the water stream over my face, holding on to the sense of strength, of conviction, that filled me just now when I told Harry I was going to volunteer with the prisoners. A feeling, I realise in an instant, that I’m not going to let anyone take away from me.

Chapter Five

‘Here we are!’ Gabi pulls up her clunky old Chevrolet and turns to smile at me in the back. Harry, in the passenger seat, has his eyes closed. ‘This is Liza and Roberto’s house.’

My heart starts to pound in excitement as I look up at the modest, yellow-painted, box-like house standing before us among a row of similar, colourful houses in this narrow, pot-holed side street. A few minutes from now, not only will we meet our potential new landlords, but also – far more excitingly – I’ll finally be able to find out more about the prison volunteering.

We’re only about fifteen minutes from Casa Hamaca but I’ve watched the bustling town centre give way to quieter, residential surroundings. Now we’re parked in a narrow side street, lined either side with more of the box-like, tumbling apartment buildings we saw in the city outskirts on the drive from the airport. Some are well cared for and neatly painted, others faded and stained with graffiti, while others are still bare concrete blocks with ugly corrugated iron roofs. A reflection, I suppose, of the varying economic circumstances of their owners. As we step out of the car into the blazing sunshine, I find myself marvelling again at how almost all of Quito is built on some degree of slope. We seem to be about halfway down one side of a steep valley – like gradient seats in the cinema, our road is just one of many parallel lines scarring the side of the hill. It has taken five minutes of bumpy downhill driving, during which Gabi has surprised me by unleashing a series of colourful Spanish swear words, before a sharp left turn brings us on to one of the narrow streets branching off to the side.

Harry is rubbing his eyes and looking around him.

‘You okay?’ I reach for his hand as we follow Gabi a few feet down the road.

‘Gnnnrgh. Yeah. Just didn’t sleep too well last night.’

As Gabi stops outside one of the better-cared-for buildings and presses the buzzer beside a heavy iron door, I search Harry’s face and realise how tired he looks. His usually alert blue eyes have heavy shadows under them and there are some new frown lines on his forehead.

‘It’s just the altitude.’ He smiles down at me and squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t forget we are over two thousand metres above sea level. I think a lot of people find it hard to sleep here to begin with.’

I’d almost forgotten about the altitude. Climbing stairs is a bit harder than usual, but it certainly hasn’t stopped me sleeping. In fact, after staggering my way through the first two days of horrendous jetlag, I feel more energised than ever, thanks to the constant supply of fresh, delicious food and perfect weather.

Needless to say, Harry’s trial teaching day at the English school went well, and he came back raving about how laid-back everything was and how they let him use art materials as part of the English classes for adults. I haven’t even seen the school yet, but Dreadlocked Luke has stopped by Casa Hamaca several times (notably, only when the bar is open) and also raved about what a great job Harry is doing and how grateful he is for the last-minute help.

The problem is there doesn’t seem to be any particular schedule, with Harry being called in to work every day for either a few hours in the morning or the afternoon, usually at the last minute. So, after nearly a whole week in Quito, we haven’t been able to plan any trips or visits anywhere. Almost all my free time has been spent with Ray and Gabi, who have naturally taken on the role of friends as well as hosts in the few days we have spent at Casa Hamaca. On Harry’s first day at the school, Ray took me to the top of the Pichincha volcano, one of the imposing peaks surrounding Quito and after which the whole province is named. We stood at the top and took panoramic photos of the city spread out before us, legs trembling and pulses racing from the nearly 4,000-metre altitude, then rode the dizzying cable car back down the mountainside, where Gabi was happily devouring a large ice-cream sundae while waiting for us in the café at the bottom.

Every morning they have invited me into the back room of the hotel for a coffee and some form of homemade local treat – yesterday it was llanpingachos, the impossible-to-pronounce fried potato cakes typical of the mountain region, the day before pristiños, sugary deep-fried types of mini doughnut. After the first few days I stopped thinking about calories or cholesterol and just tucked happily into the colourful, delicious, horrifyingly fattening food.

I would have preferred to spend more time with Harry, of course – especially in moments like seeing the sun set from the top of Pichincha and riding the cable car – but I keep telling myself we’ve only just got here, and he’s only doing this job temporarily. Harry’s weird phone call is there at the back of my mind all the time, too – like a tiny splinter in your finger, aggravating enough for you to know it’s there, but not enough to make you want to prod around and sort it out… yet.

Gabi reaches out to press the door buzzer again, turning to smile apologetically.

‘Sorry about this. Sometimes they’re a bit…’ She doesn’t finish her sentence, but makes a ‘crazy’ gesture and rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, and they don’t speak a word of English…’

What? Oh no… we’ll have to communicate solely in Spanish…

I don’t have much time to dwell on this unnerving prospect, because we hear a woman’s voice cry out from inside, in perfect Quiteño dialect:

‘They’re here! It’s them!’

Then a man, in a lower, measured tone: ‘Calm down woman, we don’t want them to think we’re completely—’

The female voice replies shrilly: ‘But they’re early! We haven’t even finished the packing up yet!’

Back to the man again, sounding irritated now: ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, it doesn’t matter, just open the—’

Suddenly the door swings open. Standing before us is a tall, stern-looking man dressed in a smart grey suit, which matches the last tufts of hair clinging on behind his ears. Beside him is the owner of the female voice, as short and dumpy as her husband is tall and stately. She’s wearing heels, smart trousers and a bright-red poncho swathing her upper body, her jet-black (presumably dyed) hair in short, neat curls, and bright-red lipstick to match the poncho. They both look about sixty-something and very formal. I cast a glance at Harry’s saggy jeans, ancient SuperDry T-shirt and scruffy hair, and even my own cut-off trousers and plain top, and feel a sharp twinge of embarrassment. Not to mention nerves at the imminent requirement to speak Spanish properly for the first time since we arrived.

No one else seems to have noticed any of this, as the woman has already propelled herself forward to envelop Gabi in tight hug, crying ‘Gabriela, sweetheart!’ and planting an enthusiastic lipstick stain on her cheek.

‘Auntie Liza, Uncle Roberto…’ Gabi smiles as she extricates herself from Liza and leans up to kiss Roberto on the cheek in greeting.

‘This is the couple I told you about, from England—’

She doesn’t get the chance to finish as the woman, Liza, has already thrown her arms around me and given me a huge kiss on the cheek, for which she has to stand on tiptoes even with the high heels.

‘It is an honour to meet any of Ray’s countrymen,’ she beams. I feel a flash of relief that her accent is surprisingly clear and easy to understand. It would be awful if I had to ask her to repeat the first ever thing she said to me…

‘Lovely to meet you, too,’ I say politely, making a real effort with my accent. ‘I’m Kirsty, and this is my partner, Ha—’

Liza abruptly lets go of me and steps back, surveying me from head to foot, her expression suddenly dubious.

‘Krusty?’

‘Um, no, Kirsty,’ I explain patiently, realising my name probably seems quite unusual for the average Spanish speaker. Gabi can only just get it right, and she speaks almost perfect English.

‘Sí – Krusty!’ exclaims Liza, suddenly gleeful, clapping her hands together. ‘Like the clown! Or am I not saying it right?’

It would seem I have been given a name that is not only unusual, but completely unpronounceable in the Spanish-speaking world. Excellent.

Gabi is trying very hard to not to laugh. ‘How about Kristie?’ she ventures diplomatically, shooting me an imploring glance. ‘Like Christina?’

‘Ahhh – Kristie, of course,’ says Liza, nodding in approval at me. ‘Like Christina. Why didn’t you say so?’

I smile and resign myself to being Kristie for the foreseeable future.

‘I’m Harry.’ Harry bends down almost double to kiss Liza on the cheek.

Oh-ho, I wonder, how are they going to pronounce THAT? He’ll probably get stuck with ‘Enrique’ for the rest of our trip.

‘Harry? Like the young English prince?’ Liza squeals rapturously, throwing her arms around Harry’s neck. ‘Oh, you ARE just like the prince, every bit as handsome!’

Oh. Right. Typical.

Don Roberto, who has been watching the whole exchange with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, shakes both of our hands kindly and gestures for us to follow him inside. ‘So, evidently, you both speak Spanish?’ he enquires.

‘Well, sort of…’ I start to say, at the same time Harry replies, ‘Yes, we’re both fluent!’ Don Roberto looks back at us both and winks, then says directly to me, ‘from first impressions your Spanish certainly seems excellent, Kristie.’ I’m not quite sure what he means by the emphasis on my name… Harry has certainly been showing off his finest latino accent from the moment we got here. If anything, I expected them to comment on his Spanish before mine. Nevertheless, I smile back at Don Roberto, not wanting to seem impolite. Maybe Gabi is right and they are a little eccentric, I decide.

‘Now, I must apologise,’ Liza blusters, indicating for us to follow her past their parked car and up some concrete steps. ‘The apartment isn’t quite ready yet, I’ve still got some tidying to do – Roberto! Please could you go and check that the packing is almost finished! – and I don’t want you to feel obligated, you know, just have a look, and see if you like it—’

I think I notice Don Roberto and Gabi exchange eye-rolls as we follow Liza up the stairs. We climb up and around the house to reach a front door, set right in the side of the building. Don Roberto nods to excuse himself and disappears behind it, while to my surprise we continue on up the steps.

‘That’s our part of the house,’ Liza explains, ‘which I’ll show you later, once Roberto has… tidied.’ She puffs a little as she reaches the top step and another, almost identical, front door. ‘This is the apartment.’ She fusses with a set of keys, gives the door a good rattle, and swings it open.

A spacious, light-filled room is spread out before us. There’s a small kitchenette at one end, and a comfy-looking sofa and coffee table combination at the other. It’s not very big, but what it lacks in size it makes up for by being immaculately clean, and one of its walls consisting entirely of a giant floor-to-ceiling window looking out over the valley. Shiny wooden boards cover the floor, and hanging above the sofa is a single, modest painting of the Quito skyline. No homicidal wall hangings. No pounding music coming from a bar right below our feet.

‘It doesn’t matter if you’re only going to stay a short time,’ Liza says, as if reading my mind. ‘It’s been empty since… for a long time. So… we have finally decided to use it for something.’

Harry is pacing about, lifting things up, peering around doors, examining the place as if he’s about to buy it, not just rent it for a month. At most. I feel embarrassed.

Liza seems not to notice and bustles about, showing us the bedroom, bathroom and en-suite, all as immaculate as the main room. It really only takes a few moments as the place is so small, then she ushers us out again and back on to the stairs, to see the roof terrace.

Puffing, we all follow her right out on to the roof of the house. It’s been levelled off into a concrete terrace with a washing line, small shed and garden furniture set.

‘I only come up here to hang out the washing,’ Liza says, ‘so it would be your space to use for as long as you’re here.’

I go over to the edge of the terrace. More uneven rows of little square houses spread out below us, stretching down towards the bottom of the valley. They look like concrete and pastel-painted Tetris blocks which have fallen down and landed randomly on top of each other. A motorway is just about visible right at the bottom, snaking in and out of the mountainside, cars twinkling in the sunlight like tiny insects. On most of the roofs spanning out below us are little concrete terraces like this one, some with dogs running from corner to corner and yapping, or kids playing, or chubby, dark-haired ladies washing clothes – as far as the eye can see, a patchwork of colourful activity. On the other side of the valley, directly across from us, is pure woodland, almost untouched by civilisation except for a few clusters of concrete, unpainted, box-shaped houses, and beyond it all, on the horizon, rises up the striking, snow-capped Cotopaxi volcano.

‘Gabriela mentioned you two are only here for a short time. But we’d be very happy to have you, however long you choose to stay for, just paying by the week.’ Liza shyly mentions a figure that, spread out across a month, would still be less than our Council Tax bill back home. Gabriela hadn’t mentioned the price to me, but she had said they weren’t really doing it for the money, they just didn’t want to leave the apartment empty any more. I turn my head slightly to look at Harry. He’s grinning back at me. We don’t need to say a word to know we’re in agreement.

‘We’d love to take it.’ Harry turns his blue-eyed charm on Liza. ‘If you’re sure it’s okay on a short-term basis.’

She looks overjoyed, and bounces over to give each of us a tight hug.

‘Will you be comfortable here?’ Harry takes me aside and frowns down at me, suddenly serious.

‘Yes! It’s lovely.’ I lean up to kiss him lightly on the lips, a feeling of optimism starting to creep its way through me. Okay, so we’re going to stay in Quito for a little while. That doesn’t mean we can’t still go to all the places on my list – we do have three whole months, after all. And I’m already getting the feeling that living with Liza and Roberto could be interesting…

I smile back at Harry sweetly. ‘And it’s only for a month, remember?’

‘Of course, babe.’ As Harry leans in to kiss me again, Liza’s voice interrupts us piercingly from the other side of the terrace, sounding unnervingly like my mother.

‘Come on downstairs, you two, it’s time for a cup of tea!’

***

Liza’s kitchen is chaos. Bulging, waist-high, nylon sacks are spread across the floor in all directions. There is a delicious frying smell coming from one end of the room where Roberto is standing at the hob flipping something in a pan.

A large woman in a garish, lilac-print maxi dress is bent over one of the bags, wrestling with something that looks for all the world like a wooden gargoyle as she tries to get the bag closed around it. Finally she yanks the drawstring closed around its neck, then straightens up, wiping her brow and smiling at us.

‘Marion, this is Harry and Kristie. They’re going to rent the apartment upstairs from us for a while.’ Liza introduces us, and it takes me a few moments to get used to the sound of ‘Harry and Kristie’. Just that slight alteration to my name makes it sound like someone else altogether. I smile at Liza and the woman, Marion, realising I quite like that.

‘Kristie, Harry, Marion works with us in the Alma Libre charity – Gabi probably told you about it.’

Alma Libre – Free Spirit. Gabi really hadn’t told me much, except that Roberto and Liza founded the charity and worked with a handful of other people, all volunteers. Despite being so outgoing about everything else, I’d got the impression she didn’t really want to talk about it until we met Roberto and Liza in person. Now that time has finally come, I can barely wait to hear more.

We all step forward and take it in turns to kiss Marion on the cheek, then smile and make polite noises as she exclaims joyfully about how big Gabi is getting and how well she looks, all in a thick Southern US accent. She looks about mid-fifties, with a round, kindly face and sticking-up curly grey hair.

‘Oh, this darned heat,’ she says, fanning herself. ‘Sorry about the mess, we’re just finishing a batch of handicrafts, ready to take to the shop tomorrow.’ I look around at the bags and realise the gargoyle is actually a giant chess-piece, the king or queen, about a foot high and carved out of wood in the form of a native American warrior. Another bag is falling open and spewing out what looks like a giant red-and-yellow spider’s web.

‘Wow! Is that a… fishing net?’ I ask, trying to wonder what other function it could have.

Marion starts to laugh and tugs the thing out of its bag. ‘No dear, it’s a hammock. Don’t you recognise it from the ones at Casa Hamaca?’ She smiles and holds it out for me to look at. It’s wider than the span of her arms and so long it trails on the floor. I realise it’s made from hundreds of strands of yellow, red and blue material all woven together, the colours of the Ecuadorian flag. ‘The ladies in the Quito prison make them by hand,’ she explains, bending to open another bag. ‘They can also do mosquito nets, blankets, and lately one of the Colombian girls has proved to be very talented with a—’

‘Yes, okay, Marion,’ Liza says sternly. ‘Our guests have a lot on their minds and I really wanted all this to be packed away before I got back down here.’ She frowns pointedly at Roberto. He ignores her and instead indicates for us to sit at the little kitchen table in the corner, loading a plate with the delicious-smelling fried things and putting it on the table.

‘Harry, Kristie, Marion, please sit down. Make yourselves at home, have a cheese empanada. Would you like tea or coffee?’

Before any of us have a chance to answer, Liza looks completely scandalised. ‘Tea, of course!’ she hisses at him impatiently. ‘They’re English, of course they want tea!’

I catch Roberto’s eye and try to speak. ‘Actually, I’d really like a cup of cof—’

‘It’s coming right up, a cup of genuine English breakfast tea, just sit down and have an empanada, dear,’ Liza orders.

God, I thought my mum and Steve were bad… I sit down meekly next to Marion and wonder whether we’ll actually get any more peace and quiet in this place than in Casa Hamaca.

It’s then I realise Harry is still standing in the doorway with Gabi, who has her car keys in her hand.

‘Actually, thank you very much for the offer,’ he addresses our hosts, ‘but I’m going to go back to the hotel with Gabi and pick up our stuff. Kirst, I’ll see you back here in a bit.’

‘Oh, er, okay – do you want me to come with you?’ I ask, widening my eyes meaningfully at him in a look that says please don’t leave me here with these potentially crazy people we’ve only just met.

‘Nah, it’s okay, babe. You stay here and talk about your prisoner stuff.’ He grins back, oblivious. ‘It’s only our two backpacks, let me go get them.’ As Harry says goodbye to the others, Gabi catches my eye and winks, leaning down to whisper quickly in my ear, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.’

I watch Harry leave, trying not to feel patronised but instead glad to have a boyfriend who is happy to lug my backpack around for me.

‘Tea’ is nothing like any tea I’ve ever drunk before. For a start, there’s no milk. Instead Roberto passes around a plate loaded with slices of fresh lime, and a bowl of powdery dark-brown sugar. I furtively try to copy what Marion does, and end up heaping my little cup of black tea with at least four spoonfuls of sugar and the juice of two limes. I take a sip and try not to wince at the mix of extreme sweet and sharpness. After a few more eye-scrunchingly strong sips, I start to think the flavour isn’t too bad. It’s not coffee, but it’s not too bad. And the cheese empanadas are delicious.

‘So, are these handicrafts actually made inside the prisons?’ I ask, unable to take my eyes off the piles and piles of bags surrounding us in the kitchen, and impatient to find a convenient interlude to ask more about the prison work.

‘These are from the women’s prison,’ Marion explains. ‘Alma Libre, our charity, buys them straight from the women and we take them to sell in a little shop in town. This is a particularly big batch, as we’ve been a bit thin on the ground recently and not able to go and pick them up…’ Marion looks grimly down into her teacup, and I remember Gabi telling me she hasn’t been able to help out much lately due to being so heavily pregnant.

‘And every week there are new arrests, meaning the prisons are getting even more cramped,’ comments Roberto.

I think back to the newsflash I saw when we first arrived at Casa Hamaca, announcing the opening of new prisons and the possible release of many drugs criminals.

‘But… the government is releasing lots of prisoners, right?’ I ask, feeling the shudder of fear again at the memory of the news report.

‘May God will it so,’ Liza says gravely, crossing herself dramatically. Marion and Roberto both nod in solemn agreement.

‘Wait – you want them to be released?’ I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice. If my mum were here, she would be freaking out at this.

Marion sighs. ‘Of course, some people are behind bars because they really, truly deserve to be. Or because they’re a danger to the rest of us.’ She pauses and stirs her tea, looking thoughtful. ‘But so many aren’t. So many of them, especially – I am sad to say – the women, are just victims of circumstance.’

‘You mean they’re innocent? They didn’t really do anything?’ I cast my mind back to the international law parts of my degree, and what we’d learnt about the varying levels of corruption in other justice systems abroad. We’d even been to visit a charity, Fair Trials International, and listened in sickened fascination as the caseworkers there told us horror stories about wrongly accused people going down for years, or even getting the death penalty, for crimes they didn’t commit.

‘Well, I’m sure there are some people in there for the wrong reasons, or for no reason at all,’ Marion continues. ‘But no, the vast majority of the girls we know definitely did commit the crime. Our British lady, for example, was caught with nearly two kilos of cocaine stuffed inside condoms in her stomach. You can’t really argue with that.’

The lump of cheese empanada I’ve just bitten into curdles in my mouth and clogs in my throat. My eyes water as I struggle to swallow it without gagging.

‘What you must keep in mind, Kristie,’ Roberto says kindly, patting me on the back as my eyes stream, ‘is that until now the system was incredibly unfair. Not just here, but in most of Latin America and other parts of the developing world. There are people in prison with twelve-year sentences, for carrying a packet of cocaine through customs on holiday with their friends. No previous offences or intention to do it again. Meanwhile, other people, who have been involved in criminal organisations for years, right at the top, handling millions of dollars’ worth of drugs, get a sentence half that length. It all depends on the whim of the judge at the time of your trial.’

‘And who you know, who your family is, and how much you’re able to pay,’ Liza adds, bitterness in her voice.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, before I can stop myself, and guiltily notice Marion and Liza’s looks of shock.

‘So this new criminal code aims to redress the balance, review the sentences of every drugs prisoner according to how much they were actually caught with, and whether they had any previous criminal record,’ Marion explains. ‘Ecuador is one of the first countries ever to make a move like this… the government is actually being quite pioneering. Despite all the criticism they’ve received from some members of the public for focusing so much time and investment on people in prison, when one could argue the country has many other pressing needs.’ She pauses to sip from her tea. ‘But we at Alma Libre think it’s a very positive step.’

‘There is a strict table of sentence lengths, crossed by quantity of drugs,’ explains Roberto. ‘And it’s retroactive, meaning many people’s sentences will be reduced by over half, practically overnight. And of course, if they’ve already served that time or more, they will go free immediately.’

I sit in silence for a moment, absorbing the enormity of what the Ecuadorian government has undertaken. It seems to be well intentioned, but how on earth they’ll pull it off I don’t know.

Marion seems to read my mind. ‘There are over five thousand people in prison for drugs in Ecuador,’ she tells me. ‘It’s pandemonium.’

‘What about the British woman?’ I ask. ‘How long has she been here?’

‘Oh, dear Naomi. She’s on her sixth year now. She has three to go, but she’s holding out all her hope they will reduce her sentence.’

‘And how old is she?’ For some reason I’m imagining a lonely older woman, some kind of desperate-housewife scenario.

Naomi? Oh, she was so young when she got arrested,’ Marion says sadly. ‘How old would she be now… early thirties, I guess, at most.’

A shiver runs down my spine – barely older than me. I try to imagine having spent the last six years of my life in an Ecuadorian jail. That’s basically the length of time I’ve known Harry.

‘In principle she could get a reduction,’ Marion says, ‘as the amount of drugs she was carrying equates to about five years, not eight. But there are so many people in the same situation, all the paperwork is taking ages. Lawyers up and down the country are swamped. Naomi is terrified her case won’t go through before… well, her father in England isn’t very well. She’s scared. That’s why we’re trying to visit her as much as possible at the moment. I’m going every Saturday, not just to see Naomi but to talk to all the foreign ladies, take them the cash from the handicraft sales, and try to help them where we can with their sentence-reduction applications. Some of them don’t speak any Spanish, so they’re baffled by all the paperwork… and Alma Libre is all they have.’

‘Do you visit them, too?’ I turn to Roberto and Liza, and instantly regret my question. Liza has visibly paled under her beautiful, coffee-coloured skin, and in a reflex has raised her hands to cross herself, muttering some kind of supplication in Spanish. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. Roberto pushes his chair back abruptly and gets up to clear the table.

‘No. No, we do not,’ he says. ‘We help from the sidelines, but never go in.’ With that he lifts the plates from the table and disappears to the other end of the kitchen to start washing up.

An awkward silence falls. I want to ask so many more questions. Like, how many foreigners are there, how do they get cash inside the prisons, why do they need it, and what the hell was that all about? Why has the temperature in the kitchen suddenly dropped by several degrees?

Instead of all this I find myself asking Marion, ‘Can I come with you on your visit this Saturday?’

She puts down her teacup and beams at me, and suddenly the tension in the room evaporates again. ‘Well, of course you can, my dear!’ she says. ‘The girls are always glad to see a friendly face, and Naomi in particular will be happy to meet someone from her homeland.’

The spark of excitement tinged with fear I felt when Gabriela first mentioned the prisons flashes through me again. And only now do I realise in elation that, despite the last half an hour of conversation being in Spanish, I’ve understood everything. Without being confused by Liza and Roberto’s unfamiliar Quito accents, or Marion’s distinctive, thick, Southern US twang tarnishing her Spanish. Without asking any of them to repeat anything at all. Without Harry.

‘Where has that boyfriend of yours got to?’ Roberto asks from over his shoulder at the sink, bringing me back down to earth with a bump.

Shit. Harry. I look at my watch and realise over an hour and a half has passed since he left with Gabi to get the bags. If it only took us about fifteen minutes to get here, what on earth has happened to him?

Fumbling in my handbag I pull my phone out and dial Harry’s number, only to hear his phone buzz to life immediately on the kitchen worktop next to Roberto. Typical. He spends half his life glued to that phone, then at a crucial moment like this leaves it behind, forgotten and abandoned.

I look up to see Marion’s wide, worried eyes.

‘Oh, precious Lord, I hope nothing’s happened to him.’

A chill of fear slices through me and my brain is instantly flooded with images of gun-toting gangsters, gold-toothed drugs pushers and curb-crawling cars with blacked-out windows.

‘I’ll ring Gabi.’

She sounds surprised to hear from me. ‘Harry? No, he’s not here anymore – he left ages ago. He should have got back there by now.’ A shiver runs down my spine as I realise my boyfriend is out there, in a strange city, lost and unreachable…

Chapter Six

Hearing my gasp of shock, Gabi hastily backtracks. ‘Well, not ages ago, about an hour ago at most, not even that really… I offered to drive him back there with the bags, but he insisted he was fine to get a taxi.’

A tense silence invades the phone line between us.

‘He left his phone here,’ I say in a small voice.

Gabi does all she can to make reassuring noises, telling me it isn’t really that long since Harry left, more like half an hour, or even twenty minutes, but my hands are already starting to shake a little as I hang up the phone.

Liza, Marion and I sit in anxious silence, probably all thinking the same thing – there is absolutely nothing we can do to try and locate one, solitary, phoneless man in the middle of a huge city. The excited conversation of just a few minutes ago has evaporated into the ether, all thoughts of prisoners and handicrafts gone from my mind.

I don’t know how long we stay there, Roberto fussing around with the washing up, Marion sitting next to me, awkwardly squeezing my hand, and Liza pacing up and down muttering what I think are Hail Marys in Spanish. I’m just about to stand up and insist we call the police when the doorbell buzzes.

We all leap to our feet, then, in unspoken agreement, Liza and I hurry down the steps to the iron door.

Harry stands beaming in the doorway, one backpack slung over each shoulder and his hands weighed down with bursting carrier bags emblazoned with a red ‘Tu Supermercado’ logo.

‘Where the f… heck have you been?!’ I shout, remembering Liza’s presence next to me just in time.

‘I’m so sorry, babe, were you worried? I stopped off to get some shopping near Casa Hamaca, then it took me ages to flag down a taxi outside the supermarket…’

‘Oh, what a good husband!’ Liza enthuses, patting Harry on the elbow and reaching up to cheek-kiss him in greeting. ‘Going out to get provisions for your first day in a new home. Isn’t that lovely!’ She beams up at both of us, and I feel my irrational anger and fear reluctantly dissipating. In fact, I feel a bit silly. Of course he was doing something innocuous like stopping off for some shopping – what had I thought? That something had happened to him? No… if I’m really honest with myself, my concerns had been less about Harry’s wellbeing and more about what on earth he was getting up to. Ever since overhearing that strange phone call to the ‘Fernandez family’, I realise I’ve been watching his every move with a degree of suspicion. Then he disappears without warning for ages…

Feeling a bit sheepish, I accept Harry’s kiss and silently trail after him up the stairs with the shopping bags, saying goodbye to Liza. What must she and the others think of me? I wonder in mortification. Then I remind myself that they were just as worried and panicked as I was. Except they were innocently fretting about Harry’s safety as a newly arrived tourist in a huge foreign city. Not suspecting him of some heinous crime or illicit activity. What’s happening to me? Less than a week in South America, one strange phone call and one news report about drugs criminals, and I’m seeing crime and corruption everywhere. Even when my boyfriend goes out to buy some groceries.

Inside the apartment I go over and slump on the sofa, staring huffily out of the window, unable to verbalise my confusing feelings of guilt and lingering suspicion.

Harry stands at the breakfast bar unpacking the shopping.

‘Babe, I’m so sorry if I worried you,’ he begins, flicking nervous glances at me in between unloading cartons of milk, coffee, bread and eggs from the bags. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been gone so long… Ray started chatting to me when I picked up our stuff.’

I watch him fussing with the plastic bags but say nothing.

‘Then I thought it would be nice to stop and get some food for us, you know, to make it feel like home, so we can have a proper breakfast in the morning…’ He looks at me imploringly, holding up a bag of coffee granules as if to demonstrate his intentions.

‘Who were you on the phone to outside Casa Hamaca when we first arrived?’ The words are out of my mouth before I even realise what I’m doing. I watch Harry’s brows come together in confusion. Or guilt?

‘I… what? When do you mean?’

‘The day we arrived. I fell asleep for ages. Then I woke up and you were outside in the street, shouting down the phone to someone.’ My heart is pounding energetically in my chest and I can’t quite bring myself to look at Harry while I say any of this. Hasn’t he just demonstrated that I should trust him? He disappears for a bit longer than expected and I get all suspicious, when really he was just picking up some shopping… likewise, there has to be a perfectly normal explanation for the phone call. Something like…

‘Oh, that!’ Harry laughs, plonking the packet of coffee down on the worktop with a loud thud and reaching up to run his hands through his hair. ‘You heard? Oh, God. Okay. I wasn’t going to tell you, but…’ The hair-rubbing intensifies. ‘So, er, look, I know how much you want to go to other places. The Galápagos Islands, then down to Peru, and that place in Venezuela with the waterfall, what was it called?’

‘Canaima National Park. Angel Falls. Harry, you’re rambling.’ I don’t know where I get my steely conviction from, but I hold firm and meet his eyes, demanding an explanation with mine.

‘Right. Angel Falls. Yes. Anyway, so, I wanted to arrange something as a surprise for you – starting off with a trip to the Galápagos, you know, one of those island-hopping cruises we read about. All-inclusive. A week visiting the main islands, snorkelling off the boat, breakfast up on deck…’

I cross my arms and stare at him. We had read about the ‘island-hopping cruises’ in Harry’s old guidebook, yes. And I’d commented that they looked very commercialised and expensive, when a lot of the travel blogs I’d found state that you can see the Galápagos just as easily and much more cheaply by booking your own accommodation in advance and catching one of the frequent motorboats between islands, travelling at your own pace, eating where you want… but Harry doesn’t seem to remember any of that.

‘It was perfect, babe, I had it all planned out…’

‘But?’

‘But… well.’ Harry sits down on one of the breakfast-bar stools with an elaborate sigh. ‘I’d already made a reservation online, they just needed me to phone and pay – so when you were asleep I called the travel agency to finalise the booking. Then they told me there were no more spaces on the cruise for over a month. When they had specifically promised me two spots for the following weekend.’ Harry ruffles his hand through his hair again and makes his best crestfallen face. ‘So I guess I lost my temper with them a bit. I had really wanted to surprise you.’

I leave the sofa and walk over to Harry, resting my hands on the other side of the breakfast bar, wanting to see his reaction right up close to help me decide whether to believe it or not.

‘So… you were on the phone to a travel agent?’

‘Yeah. Silly, really. Getting so worked up over something like that. They were just one of those little family-run companies, I should’ve known better.’ He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide, his hand reaching across the breakfast bar to find mine. I take his hand distractedly, my mind whirring. When I’d dialled the number it had been midnight, so even if they were a small, family-run travel agency by day, they’re hardly going to answer the phone in the middle of the night saying ‘Hello, Galápagos Tours, how may I help you book your dream holiday?’ It’s quite reasonable they would answer as the Fernandez family, or whoever they are, getting an unexpected call at that time of night.

I want to ask more questions. But I can hardly tell Harry that when we were out at the bar I stole his phone and locked myself in the ladies’ toilet to go through his call log.

‘Babe, please don’t look at me like that,’ Harry implores, squeezing my hand tighter. ‘I know it’s disappointing, but we will go, I promise. We’ve only just got here. This is just the beginning of the adventure. Let me do a few weeks at the school, and we can use that time to find the best deal and book it all up properly, then take a long weekend and really indulge ourselves. Just imagine – swimming with sea lions and giant tortoises, then a cocktail reception on the beach afterwards…’

That’s not really what I had in mind, I want to say, but instead I find myself smiling back and nodding. We can finalise the details later. He’s right – our adventure is only just beginning, and it seems ridiculous to fall out or make a fuss over one phone call now, when we have months of freedom stretching out before us.

‘And you should have seen the supermarket just now, Kirst. It sounds silly but honestly it was really cool, all the exotic fruit and veg they have. I’d never seen it before! Like this…’ He gets up and rummages in one of the bags, pulling out a pineapple that is literally twice the size of any pineapple I’ve ever seen before, bigger than Harry’s head. ‘Look at the size of it! And this…’ More rummaging, then he produces a bizarre pink object covered in green points, shaped like a rugby ball and almost as big. ‘This is a pitahaya. It’s a type of kiwi, apparently, but they’re bright pink. Isn’t it funny? It looks like something from another planet…’

He trails off and looks at me pleadingly. ‘Kirst, babe, please don’t be angry with me. I only wanted it to be a surprise for you.’

Something about the sight of my boyfriend standing with the giant pineapple in one hand and the weird alien-fruit in the other, a beseeching look on his face, makes me gradually start to smile and let go of the strange pangs of suspicion and disappointment that have been running through me.

‘Oh, Harry… put the pineapple down, for goodness’ sake,’ I sigh, and walk around the breakfast bar to go and hug him.

He squeezes me back gratefully, and I feel the soft little pointy bits of the pitahaya digging into my back, the fruit still in his hands.

‘No more secrets or surprises, though, okay?’ I mutter into his T-shirt. ‘Let’s plan everything together.’

Enjoying the warm feeling of Harry’s arms, I promise myself to believe his explanation about the phone call. After all, what on earth else could it be? Harry doesn’t even know anyone in Ecuador. It had to be something like a travel agent.

Deep down, I don’t think Harry would ever lie to me outright. But then, a week ago, I never would have expected him to change our plans at the last minute and take a job at a language school, however temporary, when we are supposed to be travelling. And a month before that, I never would have thought he’d suddenly suggest going travelling in the first place. A question creeps uncomfortably into my mind, one I realise I don’t know the answer to. How well do I really know Harry these days?

I suppose, if I really wanted to be sure about the phone call, I could always call the number again at a more reasonable hour, just to check…

‘Hey, I’ve got an idea,’ Harry says softly in my ear. ‘How about we unpack this stuff later?’ He is stroking the soft skin behind my ear, his other hand sliding down my back to rest on my bottom.

He wouldn’t ever need to know I’d phoned them… It would be a one-off, just to be sure. Then I’ll be able to forget about it once and for all.

I hear a soft thud as the pink fruit falls to the floor and I raise my lips to meet Harry’s in a kiss.

***

Later that evening, curled up beside Harry in our new bed, I reflect on the day. This afternoon has passed in a flash. We eventually unpacked the shopping properly, changed into our pyjamas and opened the door to Liza bearing a tray of steaming yucca cakes and mugs of hot chocolate. Harry spent ages doing something or other on his laptop, while I sipped my hot chocolate and watched out of the huge window as the sun set, as beautiful and sudden as the sunrise. Just a brief purplish change in the sky, then utter darkness. By night the view from the window was completely different – the detail of the roof terraces and tumbling houses obliterated by darkness, transformed into an expanse of lights trailing down away from us to the bottom of the valley.

A tremor of fear and excitement runs through me at the thought of going to the prison with Marion in just two days. I can hardly believe I asked to go with her. Just a month ago, the thought of visiting a prison in the UK would have scared the life out of me. And a prison in the UK must surely be like Disney Village compared to one in Ecuador.

It has been dark for over an hour now; Harry is already snoring softly beside me, the altitude apparently no problem today. I know I should sleep, too, but my head is too crammed full of thoughts. A travel agent. After all the agonising and questioning I’ve been doing over the last few days, his strange, angry telephone call turned out to be something perfectly innocent like a disagreement with a travel agent. A travel agent Harry was calling in order to take me on a romantic, overpriced and not very appealing novelty cruise of the Galápagos Islands.

If that’s true, I should feel thoroughly ashamed of myself for ever doubting him, I think uneasily, watching Harry’s peacefully sleeping form next to me.

Wait… what?

What do I mean, if that’s true? I’d promised myself I was going to believe him, hadn’t I?

And yet… almost without realising what I’m doing, I find my eyes drawn to Harry’s phone, lying between us on top of the duvet just next to his hand. If I do this, I tell myself firmly, it will be the last time EVER. I do not want to turn into one of those girlfriends. Just one more call, in which I will find out for sure that they are a travel agent, feel thoroughly silly and guilty, then put the whole thing behind me and concentrate on enjoying Ecuador. Yes, that’s the right thing to do, I decide. Then I have absolutely no excuse to carry on feeling all weird and suspicious with Harry.

I carefully slide the phone towards me across the duvet, at the same time slowly swinging my legs round to touch the floor, so all I have to do is slide out from under the covers and leave the room quietly for a few seconds. He won’t even know I’m gone.

Wait – but what if he wakes up and his phone is no longer beside him? It’s too risky. Cursing, I quickly navigate through Harry’s phone to the list of dialled numbers. To my surprise there have been no other phone calls, either incoming or outgoing, since that one. Already feeling a bit ridiculous and guilty, I grab my own phone from the bedside table, tap the number into it, then slip quietly out of the room – but not before carefully positioning Harry’s phone back where it was.

As the phone starts to ring, I leave all the lights off and go over to the big living-room window, admiring the twinkling expanse of city spread out before me.

You could be out there enjoying that, a voice niggles in my head, but instead you’re here going through your boyfriend’s phone like a nutcase.

‘Hello?’ A child’s voice interrupts my uneasy thoughts. ‘Buenas noches?’

‘Oh! Er…’ Crap! I hadn’t even planned what to say. I quickly reorganise my brain into Spanish and say as politely as possible, ‘Buenas noches, sorry for calling a bit late, but I would like to enquire about your package tours to the Galápagos Islands, please.’

There’s a brief silence in which some cynical part of me half expects to be told I’ve got the wrong number and they’re not a travel agent. But then the young voice responds, ‘Okay, let me get my mum, she handles all that.’

Before I have a chance to reply there’s a muffled shout of ‘MAMÁ! Someone on the phone about booking a tour!’

At the very same time I notice the bedroom light flick on and hear Harry call out my name.

‘Kirst, you out there?’

Oh no! Without thinking I press the hang-up button and hastily shove my phone into my dressing gown pocket, just as Harry appears in the doorway.

‘What are you doing standing there in the dark?’

He’s leaning on the doorframe and rubbing his eyes, silhouetted against the light from inside the bedroom.

Feeling truly guilty now, I turn and open one of the cupboards in the little kitchenette, getting out a mug.

‘I just came in here for a drink,’ I say, not meeting his eyes. ‘And the view was so pretty…’ I gesture vaguely towards the expanse of sparkling city lights on display through the window. ‘It seemed a shame to turn the light on.’

‘Ah, right.’ Harry nods and stifles a yawn. ‘Well, come back to bed, won’t you? I’m knackered tonight, think I’ll get an early one.’

I watch him turn away, back towards the bedroom. Then something makes me step forward and actually turn the light on, then reach out and grab his hand to stop him.

‘Harry, why don’t we go out?’

He turns to look at me with a perplexed expression. ‘Out?’

‘Yes, you know – out. Out there.’ I indicate the window. ‘Out somewhere in Quito. A bar or a restaurant or—’

‘We’ve already had dinner.’

I swallow back a surge of frustration. ‘Yes, okay, I know that, but we could still go somewhere different. I don’t know… find some live music, have a drink, see where the night takes us? We could even look for that traditional place I read about, in the old town, that does those cheesy corn things – what were they called? I can’t remember, but you know that traditional snack I told you about… from the guidebook…’ I can hear the mild desperation in my own voice as I trail off.

‘Babe, I’m knackered today,’ Harry says apologetically, lifting my hand to kiss it. ‘Plus, it’s a Wednesday. I doubt anywhere’s open.’ He drops my hand and turns back to the bedroom door. ‘But let’s definitely do something on Friday, okay? I’ll take you out for dinner.’ Then he winks at me and disappears from view.

I stare at the empty bedroom doorway and hear the slight creak of the bed as Harry gets back into it, realising I should be feeling pleased. Haven’t I just proved Harry was telling the truth – the number he called was a travel agency, or at least they were people who organise trips to the Galápagos Islands. There’s nothing suspicious going on, and the only reason he’d gone outside to make the call was that he wanted it to be a surprise. I should be feeling relieved.

So why aren’t I?

Aside from the stabs of guilt about checking Harry’s phone, why do I still have a creeping sense of unease, a feeling that something isn’t quite right?

Chapter Seven

Quito women’s prison is both much better and far worse than I’d expected. If you’d asked me what I had expected, I wouldn’t have been able to answer you, but all I know is that it was not this. From the moment we arrive, the feelings that swamp me are of deep disgust and intense amazement both at the same time.

I spend the journey from Liza and Roberto’s house to the prison, on the outskirts of downtown Quito, with my stomach in knots and my nails digging into the palms of my hands, nerves causing my heart to pound at the thought of entering the prison.

As Marion’s car slows to a stop at the end of a grotty and almost derelict street, and she reminds me yet again to watch my handbag as we get out of the car, I wonder, not for the first time today, what on earth I am doing here. It had seemed like such a good idea from the comfort of Liza and Roberto’s kitchen last week…

I stick close behind Marion as we walk hastily up to the prison entrance, not making eye contact with anyone in the small cluster of people, mainly men, loitering at its edges. We have to practically step over an older woman sitting on the very pavement, selling bottles of water and fizzy drinks straight out of an old plastic cooler bag at her feet. She waves a bottle of water at me as we pass, but I follow Marion’s example and ignore her.

Even the prison door itself is terrifying. Vast and black and heavy-looking, topped with rusting coils of barbed wire and spikes pointing up into the cloudless blue sky. I stare at it and tilt my neck back to see right to the top, trying not to imagine what horrors lie on the other side. My nerves become genuine fear and cause my legs to tremble as I stand behind Marion, who knocks once on the door then stands back with her arms folded, waiting. For one crazy, delirious moment I’m reminded of various fantasy adventure films from my childhood, and half expect a booming voice to call from the other side ‘Password?’

Instead, the metal bolt on the door slides back with a painful scraping sound and a short, middle-aged man in sun-faded prison-guard uniform silently gestures at us to enter.

As I step off the street and through the metal doorway I can’t help but imagine the hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet that have stepped over this threshold in the past, experiencing all the sights and sounds just as I am, but combined with the knowledge they won’t be stepping back over it again for a very long time. I can almost feel the ghostly eyes of all the prison’s occupants, past and present, observing me as I follow Marion inside.

The guard flicks through our documents – passports, and an authorisation letter Marion had already obtained on behalf of the Alma Libre charity – then nods at Marion and waves us through.

Keep it together, I tell myself, when what I really want to do is turn on my heel and run as fast and as far as I can away from here. Down to the end of this neglected old street with its stray dogs and boarded-up shops and loitering men. I would not stop running until I got back to the part of the city I knew; where the streets were lined with palm trees, not rusting cars, and where Quito still felt like a holiday destination.

Too late now, I realise, as we hear the heavy metal door clang shut behind us. I wonder again what each woman inside must have felt when she heard that sound.

The first thing that hits me is the smell. A combination of frying food, sewage, cleaning products, and the simple, horrible smell of lots and lots of people crammed into a small space.

Seconds later I notice the beautiful, magical singing coming from somewhere within the dirty, yellow-painted walls in front of us. Haunting, echoing, the sound of one hundred or more women’s voices rises and falls in and out of earshot over the background noise – banging pots, people calling to each other, cars hooting on the road outside. I realise they’re singing in Spanish. I can’t make out any words but the emotion and energy of the voices sends a shiver down my spine.

I stop and hesitate, just inside the doorway. Marion turns to look at me kindly. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, dear,’ she says, taking my arm.

‘No! No, it’s not that. I do want to,’ I lie. ‘It just… isn’t what I expected.’

Marion smiles. ‘Trust me, I remember that feeling. But you’re here at a good time. They’re just finishing worship. Come on, let’s go in.’

Worship? Thoroughly confused, I follow Marion across a small concrete courtyard. It’s surprisingly pleasant-looking – several potted plants dot the corners of the narrow area, some with bright red-and-pink flowers, and two benches line the side walls. It could be the back yard of any London apartment, in fact – until I look above me and see the wall going up and up, twenty feet above my head, crowned with angry coils of rusting barbed wire.

The courtyard is empty except for a female guard at the far end, leaning against the wall and looking down at what I take to be a mobile phone in her hands, an expression of crushing boredom on her face. Despite the relentless sun beating down on us, she’s dressed in a thick, dark-blue uniform and heavy boots, hair scraped back in a severe bun. Next to her is a black metal door festooned with several thick chains and padlocks, which I presume she is supposed to be guarding. I follow Marion towards her, and as we get closer, with a gulp of fear I notice what looks like a real gun stashed in her belt.

She and Marion exchange a few words in Spanish, then the guard lazily digs in her pocket, produces a tangle of keys and begins to unlock the padlocks one by one.

Eventually she finishes the last padlock and pushes the door open, gesturing for us to step forward. As soon as we’re over the threshold the door bangs shut behind us and I hear the metallic scraping of the bolt sliding back into place. I imagine the guard resuming her position against the wall and going back to her text message or game of Candy Crush or whatever she was doing.

‘Is that – it?’ I ask Marion incredulously, realising we are now inside the very bowels of the prison. I don’t know what I expected – some sort of check, a pat-down, an X-ray machine, a search of our pockets – something. In reality, all we have on us is a plastic bag containing an assortment of chocolate bars, some tatty Stephen King paperbacks and a notepad and pen. The first guard at the outer door had peered in it briefly, rummaged around a bit, taken one of the chocolate bars for himself, then waved us in. It feels almost like a wasted opportunity.

Marion nods. ‘Yep. That’s it. They all know me here. Christian missionaries pose no threat.’

At the sound of the door closing, I feel fifty pairs of eyes turn to stare at us. We’re in a wide outdoor corridor between two high buildings. Women of all shapes, sizes and ages line the corridor – some sat on benches, some leaning against the walls, some milling about in groups. A hushed silence falls as we enter, conversations ending abruptly as the women turn as one to stare at the two intruders.

‘Stay close to me, Kirsty, and keep your eyes forward,’ Marion commands, as we start to cross the corridor. We dodge smelly puddles of water on the bare concrete ground as I follow in her wake, practically trotting to keep up with her determined pace. She seems to have morphed into a totally different person with our step across the prison threshold. Gone is the twinkly-eyed, bubbly old lady from Liza’s kitchen, and in her place is a fierce, fearless warrior-woman. I resist the urge to cling to her arm as we pass just feet away from the inmates.

Fascinated despite my fear, I flick nervous glances left and right. On the bench nearest us, three young women are huddled together, engrossed in a game of cards. They are dressed in jeans and T-shirts or strappy tops, and look like they could easily have just walked in off the street ten minutes ago, as I did. Beside them on the bench an elderly woman in a tatty duffel coat is slumped against the wall, knees pulled tightly up to her chest, staring into the middle distance and muttering to herself. I look away quickly and see a group of girls, no older than twenty, standing smoking and chatting, but also watching us carefully with sidelong glances as we walk past. Behind them, cross-legged on the floor and observing everything around her peacefully, is a young woman with the unmistakable almond eyes and childlike innocence of Down’s syndrome.

The noise of chatter and laughter gradually resumes as we walk past and they forget we are there. Meanwhile, in the background, the singing is always present, rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of a hymn. It is growing louder and closer as we near the end of the corridor.

Within minutes, I realise I am having to re-assimilate my ideas of what a prison should look like. No standing in lines, no uniforms…

‘That’s where the sewing and art workshops are.’ Marion indicates a window to our right, not slowing her pace to allow me to look inside. ‘Where most of the handicrafts come from.’

I glimpse women bustling in and out of the doorway to the workshop, and hear the clamour of voices and activity from inside. I look up past its smeared windows to the two buildings on either side of us, painted the same dirty yellow colour as the outer walls. They each rise at least three storeys high, and are dotted with rows of little metal-barred windows. I stare up in amazement; from each window hangs a colourful assortment of drying laundry – dresses, jeans, bras, T-shirts – dangling from wooden poles and metal wires.

‘They’re the two main wings – where the women live,’ says Marion. ‘They’re allowed outside here most of the day, but then have to go in for lockdown at night. You’ll see inside later, I’m sure.’

I feel a tremor of fear, but also an exhilarating stab of defiance at the thought of going right inside the prison, to its very heart. Harry had been trying to persuade me against coming here right up until I left this morning. ‘But you’re here on holiday,’ he kept saying. ‘Yes, and so are you!’ I had finally answered back sharply as I ran down the steps to meet Marion outside. ‘But the first thing you did when we arrived was get a job.’ I can’t help but smile to myself, remembering the sight of Harry standing at the top of the stairs, still in his pyjamas, hair tousled and brow furrowed in confusion as it finally dawned on him I was going ahead with this. All he managed to reply was, ‘Right… be careful then. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Well, as a matter of fact, I do know what I’m doing. What was it my boss, Angela, said when I asked her for the sabbatical to go travelling? I’m so pleased to see you actually making a decision. Okay, maybe that’s not exactly what she said, but I’m sure it’s what she meant. And now I have. Decided to do something that is entirely driven by my own interest, not even slightly related to what Harry wants.

I realise with a shock that – despite my still-trembling legs, and considerable fear at being inside what is probably one of the most dangerous prisons of the modern world – it feels great.

We’ve reached the end of the corridor now and there is another black metal door identical to the one with the bored guard. Except this one is partly open and unmanned. The singing is really loud now, and I can tell it is coming from just the other side of the door. Marion indicates for me to go through first, and the sight I see the other side is something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

We’re in a concrete courtyard, about the size and shape of a school playground, surrounded on all sides by high, corrugated-metal walls. At each end there is a tatty basketball net on a metal post, and under our feet I notice broken and faded football-pitch lines. But the thing that takes my breath away and causes me to stop dead in the doorway, forcing Marion to crash into my back, is the sight of row upon row of women standing and singing with all their energy. Old, young, black, white, tall and slim, short and hunched, blonde hair and red hair and afro hair and – in one instance – bright-blue Mohican spikes, everyone lined up in orderly rows, at least a hundred of them. At the far end of the courtyard and facing the throng are three women, smartly dressed and raising their arms in encouragement, wide smiles on their faces as they sing, too.

‘They’re just finishing,’ mutters Marion in my ear. ‘They usually do this one last. We can just stand here and wait.’

Some of the women nearest us turn their heads and smile at us in recognition. Well, presumably at Marion. A blonde girl near the back stops singing completely and turns to wave enthusiastically at us.

I can make out the words now – all in Spanish – You gave me a name. You did not forget me. I am your daughter. Because you loved me…

It is impossible not to be moved by the raw passion behind the words. I realise it is a hymn and they are singing to God. I haven’t sung a hymn since primary school assemblies, nor felt the slightest need to, but something about the song sends a chill down my spine and makes unexpected tears prick my eyes. It isn’t just a hymn. It’s a hundred women standing up and insisting they still have voices, that they count, that they will not be forgotten.

Looking at some of the women nearest us I notice their faces are contorted with emotion. Some have tears rolling down their cheeks, others are raising their arms in the air as they sing with complete abandon. It reminds me of a weird evangelical church I went to once with a girl from my commercial law class at uni. Everyone went a bit crazy and started wailing and waving their arms around, while I stood awkwardly at the back wishing I was at home with a cup of hot chocolate and a book. Except, now, the emotion feels wholly real, and instead of feeling awkward, I find myself somehow humbled.

The singing gradually fades out on the last line, ‘Because you loved me… Because you loved me…’, but before it’s even fully finished, the blonde woman who waved at us is breaking from the crowd and bounding over.

As the last words echo around the courtyard she grabs Marion and the two women embrace in a heartfelt hug.

‘I didn’t realise you were coming today!’ she beams, still holding tightly to Marion’s hands, ‘How are you, and how’s Gabi? She must be nearly ready to – wait! Who’s this?’ Her whole demeanour changes as she releases Marion and eyes me suspiciously, taking a step back.

‘Naomi, don’t worry. This is Kirsty. She’s from England, too – she’s travelling in Ecuador with her boyfriend and wanted to come along today. They’re staying with Liza and Roberto… you know, the ones who… erm, do you remember them?’

As soon as Liza and Roberto’s names are mentioned, Naomi’s face changes again, but this time she sags in relief and turns to smile at me. ‘So, you’re English, too? Fuck me.’ She leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek.

I blink, trying to arrange my features into an expression that says this is all totally normal for me, I visit prisons all the time and am not scared AT ALL, then kiss her back.

‘Sorry. I thought you were some kind of lawyer or something,’ she continues. ‘Speaking of which, is there any news from that bloody woman? Has she got my papers translated yet?’ Naomi turns back to Marion, and the hope etched on her face is heartbreaking, even though I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about. I realise how young she looks. I know from Marion she’s several years older than me, so well past thirty, but something about her swinging blonde ponytail and open face with its big, brown eyes makes her appear much younger. She’s wearing jeans and an ugly pink T-shirt that looks as though it once belonged to someone much wider than her. The only concession to my idea of a stereotypical female prisoner is the little swirling tattoo behind her ear.

Marion’s face is all the answer Naomi needs. ‘I’m so sorry, love, no news yet. But hey, why don’t we go inside and talk about this? In private…’

As we’ve been talking, the throng of women has dispersed, some staying in the courtyard to stand around and talk or bounce a ball, and many of them pushing straight past us through the door into the corridor. The enchanting peace of the singing has well and truly disappeared, replaced with the more predictable clamour of talking, shouting and laughing from a hundred women crammed into a small space.

‘Yeah, good idea, come up to my cell,’ Naomi says, in the casual way a person in the real world, back home, a thousand light years away, might say ‘Come over for a cuppa’. She’s already started walking away from us, swaggering in a manly style that totally belies her slight, feminine frame.

My… CELL? My mind is instantly flooded with images of a dingy, windowless room dripping sewage from a crack in the ceiling, knife scratches on the bare wall counting down endless lost days, a hundred pairs of eyes staring at us hungrily from behind rusting metal bars as we walk past them down a long corridor… the sound of tormented wailing as the electric current takes hold of a man’s body, convulsing in agony until even his head bursts into flames…

Oh no, wait… that’s The Green Mile.

Even so, I suddenly want nothing more than to leg it out of here, all thoughts of being independent and showing Harry how fearless I am totally forgotten.

‘Um, Marion, I’m not sure I want to…’ I realise I’m tugging at her sleeve in the pathetic way I’ve tried to resist doing all morning. ‘Surely we can’t just walk into the…’

Marion isn’t listening to me, as the two women who were leading the singing are waving at her and shouting something incoherent from the other end of the courtyard.

‘SEE YOU AT CHURCH!’ She yells back at them, waving manically. ‘DON’T FORGET TO BRING MY CAKE STAND!’

She turns back to me, smiling broadly. ‘What were you saying, dear? Oh, look, hurry up and follow Naomi, we don’t want to get left behind out here.’

Before I can protest any further, Marion is leading me by the arm across the corridor and through a narrow doorway, into one of the two main prison buildings. As soon as we’re out of the sunshine, we’re hit by a suffocating smell of cooking, body odour, and something else that is harder to place and even less pleasant.

Trying to breathe through my mouth, I follow Marion along narrow corridors, up two flights of spiralling stairs, past open doors to little offices where women in guard uniform are talking loudly on the phone and clacking away on typewriters – yes, typewriters – up more stairs, then along another corridor where we finally catch up with Naomi.

‘There you are – I thought you two had got kidnapped for a minute!’ she laughs loudly, clapping me on the back.

As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I realise we’re in a long corridor with doors branching off to either side, strangely reminiscent of my old dorms at university. The doors and corridor walls are all painted a horrible sludgy cream colour, probably called Magnolia Glow or something gross like that. Dirty fingerprints, muddy stains and illegible graffiti messages in biro dot the walls. A string of purple fairy lights is hung above our heads, taped to the wall with masking tape along the whole length of the corridor.

‘Let me just check it’s free, and we’ll go in.’ Naomi thumps her fist on a door to her left. ‘ANYONE HERE?’ she yells.

‘Sí! Yo! Vicky!’ A voice calls back from the other side of the door, and I recognise her Ecuadorian accent. ‘I’m naked! Hold on a minute!’

Naomi bawls back in perfect Spanish, ‘Put a towel on then! My missionary people are here!’

Before the other woman has a chance to reply, Naomi is swinging the door open and we’re met with the sight of a young woman scrambling to cover her naked body and bulging stomach with a towel, her dripping wet hair flying in all directions.

‘Naomi, you’re a nightmare!’ she shouts, still in Spanish, thumping Naomi affectionately on the arm as she clasps the towel behind her with her other hand. ‘I jumped in the shower while everyone was singing. It’s the only time you can get any peace – oh, hi, Marion! Good to see you.’ She leans forward to give Marion a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll go get changed in the bathroom before everyone comes flooding back.’ Without even a glance at me, she squeezes past us and heads slowly off down the corridor, with the unmistakable awkward waddle of a woman just weeks away from giving birth.

I stare after her in amazement, my mind flooded with questions I don’t have the courage to ask.

‘Welcome… to my humble abode,’ Naomi says drily, motioning for us to enter the room behind her. ‘Don’t mind Victoria, my “roommate”.’ She chuckles ironically.

I realise why Victoria had to leave the room before we could enter. There would have barely been enough space for the three of us, even without Victoria’s bump. Marion and I can just about stand side by side in the tiny square of bare wooden floor in the centre of the room. Flashes of hot-pink painted walls are visible between the rickety metal bunk beds taking up most of the room, and other odd bits of furniture, photos, pictures and a calendar. I notice one of the photos is of Naomi, looking younger and happier, her arms around a small older couple, presumably her parents.

Naomi has slumped on the bottom bunk, all her previous swagger and cockiness evaporated as she buries her head in her hands, looking suddenly smaller.

‘The money from your mum arrived,’ Marion says, rummaging in her blouse, producing a small envelope from inside her bra and handing it to Naomi.

Naomi takes it wordlessly, then counts out eighty dollars and nods. ‘Thanks. Thank God, now I can pay back that sodding woman from room six,’ she mutters. ‘I need to get another data plan on my mobile. It works out even more expensive to keep borrowing other people’s internet – they know we’re desperate, us foreigners. They know it’s the only way we can speak to family back home. So they charge whatever the fuck they want. With interest.’

I’m staring back and forth between Marion and Naomi in silent astonishment. At this harmless old lady who can smuggle hard cash into a prison inside her bra without batting an eyelid. And even more so at Naomi’s talk of mobile phones, internet, and Skype. Again, my mind churns with questions that I feel unable to ask.

‘Your Spanish is really excellent,’ I say awkwardly to Naomi.

‘Huh, that’s the upside of prison here,’ she mutters from behind her hands. ‘Free Spanish lessons. All day, every day. To eat, to wash, to see the doctor. If you don’t speak Spanish, you die.’

Marion sits down on the side of the bed next to Naomi, having to duck her head under the top bunk, the whole mattress sagging beneath her weight.

I look around for somewhere else to sit, realise there isn’t anywhere, then curl up cross-legged on the floor opposite the bunks.

‘Not everyone learns Spanish like you, dear,’ Marion says, and something tells me this is a speech she’s given many times before. ‘Some foreign men and women get put in jail here, and sink into a despair of drink and drugs, leaving worse than when they arrived. Some never leave, at least not alive. You’ve used your time productively, achieved so much.’

‘Well, learning fluent Spanish isn’t much use if they won’t let me translate those fucking documents myself, is it?’ Naomi scowls, her voice full of bitterness. ‘We all know I’d probably do a better job than any of those stuck-up lawyers anyway. They just take your money then never come back.’

‘Naomi has not only learnt Spanish, but taken part in every workshop the prison has offered over the last eight years,’ Marion explains to me, ignoring Naomi’s negativity. ‘Sewing, IT skills, aerobics, dance, woodwork, painting. There’s actually a lot on offer from the prison authorities, if people want to take advantage of it. Most don’t. It’s far easier to fall into drugs and depression. But Naomi has kept incredibly busy.’

‘It’s the only way not to go completely insane,’ Naomi grumbles under her breath. ‘The problem is that having all these certificates of achievement, good conduct, blah blah blah…. is USELESS if they’re not recognised by the UK, too. It’s like being at bloody school again. Except you can never leave. And this time, I’m thirty-three and just want to get home and see my kids.’ Her voice wobbles and she turns away from us, scowling.

‘As I explained before, Naomi is one of the many prisoners applying for a sentence reduction under the new law,’ Marion continues explaining patiently to me. ‘She was caught at Quito airport with two kilograms of cocaine. If she were caught today, that would be a sentence of three to five years. But she’s already served six.’

‘With three to go… if everything goes smoothly.’ Naomi sighs.

‘The system is a lot fairer now,’ Marion explains. ‘So obviously everyone sentenced under the old law is applying for a reduction. As I told you, it’s chaos. The government is doing what they can to process them all, but it’s turning out that foreign prisoners are falling to the back of the line. Any participation in workshops and good conduct certificates stand in your favour. But foreign prisoners must have everything translated into their native language, and approved by their home government as well, before Ecuador can grant them the reduction.’

At this, Naomi makes a kind of huffing, growling noise.

‘And it’s not as easy as it looks,’ Marion continues. ‘The embassies help to get the papers approved, but the actual translations have to be done by a professional lawyer, or at least a qualified translator with legal knowledge.’

As we all lapse into silence, the seed of an idea starts to take root in my mind.

‘Naomi, I really think we should give up on that last lady,’ Marion says gently. ‘I know it’s terribly disappointing, but I don’t think she’s coming back. We always knew there were con artists out there. I’ll call the embassy and ask for their help with finding someone else.’

The seed sprouts further into life, blossoming into genuine excitement.

Could I?

My heart starts beating faster, filling me with a real sense of purpose for the first time in as long as I can remember.

‘How are the kids?’ Marion is asking Naomi, clearly trying to change the subject. ‘Have you called home lately?’

Without answering Marion’s question, Naomi jerks her head up to look me straight in the eye. ‘Do you have children, Kirsty?’

Caught off guard, I’m hit full force with the old, familiar longing to be able to say ‘yes’ when someone asks me that question. To be able to light up and talk about my little ones, maybe get out a photo, tell a few funny stories about what they’ve been doing or their latest new words. I haven’t really thought about it since we arrived in Ecuador as there have been so many new things to see and experience. But I suppose it’s been lying dormant inside me all along, waiting for a moment like this to flood my heart and close up my throat with longing.

‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘No children. Hopefully one day.’

Something softens in Naomi’s face and she loses the intense, almost angry expression she’s been directing at me. ‘Hopefully one day you will,’ she says, sounding like she really means it. ‘Let me show you mine.’

She reaches down under the bottom bunk and pulls out what looks like an old pillowcase. Inside the case is a small metal box. Naomi stands up and rummages around on a shelf opposite the bed, knocking over perfume bottles and picture frames. From somewhere on the shelf she produces a tiny set of keys and crouches down in the cramped space on the floor next to me, opening the box. She pulls out an old, fake-leather diary with ‘KEEP CALM AND DRINK COFFEE’ emblazoned across the front in shiny brown letters.

Slowly, reverently, as if pulling the first golden relic from Tutankhamun’s tomb, Naomi slides a tatty little photo from the back of the diary, and holds it up to me.

It’s a picture of three grinning, blonde-haired kids, two boys and a girl, all slumped across a sofa, looking as if they’ve just disentangled themselves from a play-fight for long enough to be snapped in the photo. The eldest looks about twelve, his lanky arms and legs sprawled around his siblings. The next one is a couple of years younger, his face still chubby with puppy fat and lit up with a cheeky smile, his fingers making a ‘V’ sign behind his older brother’s head.

The little girl, no more than four, has one arm wrapped around her oldest brother’s leg, the other raised to her mouth, sucking her thumb, a bewildered expression in her bright-blue eyes at being taken by surprise by the camera.

‘They don’t look like that anymore,’ Naomi says quietly. ‘This was taken a couple of years after I… left. But it’s my favourite picture of them.’ Her thumb strokes the photo in a barely noticeable, instinctive caress.

‘The oldest is Dario. He’s just passed his driving test. Seventeen – the age I was when I had him – how is that even possible, for God’s sake?’ She chuckles, looking down at the photo, sharing a private joke with her eldest son, who can’t hear her. ‘The last time I saw him his voice hadn’t even broken.’

‘The next one is Leo. He got caught smoking in the playground last month. I thought my mother was going to kill him. She had to go into the school and everything… it should have been me. But he’s a good child, deep down, I know that.’

I notice silent tears are rolling down Naomi’s cheeks, which she bats away impatiently as she speaks, as if they were no more than an inconvenience.

‘And the baby… Maya… she’s not a baby any more, of course. She’s eight now. She nearly died last year. Rushed to hospital with appendicitis. It turned into blood poisoning, they only just caught it in time. The embassy came here and told me, all suits and briefcases and hushed voices. It was the worst moment of my life.’ The tears start rolling freely down Naomi’s cheeks now, and she no longer attempts to wipe them away.

‘She was only two when I came here. I still have no idea what I was thinking. Kirsty, believe me, you can regret something every minute of every day with every breath, until you want to eat yourself alive just to make the guilt and regret go away.’

I have no idea what to say.

‘They’re very beautiful children,’ I eventually manage, in a whisper.

‘My ex’s mother got custody of them, temporarily. But at least she lets them go to my mum’s house regularly, and I can see them when I Skype call my parents.’

Naomi takes a deep breath and slides the photo back into the diary, then lays the diary back in the box with immense care.

We all sit in silence for a few minutes, and I can’t help feeling as emotionally drained as if I’d just survived a shipwreck or plane crash.

‘And what about your father?’ Naomi suddenly breaks the silence, jerking her head to look at me, the intense expression back as her brown eyes bore into mine.

‘Honey, I don’t think you should—’ Marion tries to be diplomatic, but Naomi isn’t listening.

‘Your father – is he alive?’ she presses on.

I nod, unable to find the words.

‘Well, good for you,’ Naomi says dully, ‘mine’ll be dead soon. Stomach cancer.’

There’s a horrified silence as I swallow back my shock.

‘They’re supposed to be considering my case on a compassionate basis,’ she spits, looking at the floor. ‘They promised to carry out the review of my sentence promptly based on my father’s condition. But of course they need proof – medical documents, letters, statements from my poor dad himself. And, guess what? All that needs translating into Spanish before the authorities here will even look at it.’ She hangs her head and fiddles with the edge of the patchwork bed cover.

‘Is there… any more news?’ Marion asks tentatively.

‘Yeah.’ Naomi still doesn’t look up. ‘Spoke to Mum yesterday. Apparently he’s only got weeks left. The doctors have made it “official” now, and told him to “start getting his affairs in order”, whatever that means. So, unless some kind of miracle happens with my sentence appeal, I’ll never see him again.’

I want to say ‘I’m so sorry, that must be really hard, I can’t imagine what you’re going through’, or any number of other platitudes I’ve learnt over the years from the solicitors at work when faced with people in the midst of their own worst nightmares. I look at Naomi, a woman barely older than me yet with such a harrowing past behind her already – far away from the children she adores, and facing the loss of her beloved father at any moment. I think of the children I have always yearned for, the comfortable naivety with which I took for granted they would come along one day and never be separated from me. Then I think of my own father, and the distance between us that we ourselves have imposed, with no thought for the fragility of life or the briefness of the time available to us. Looking at Naomi’s face now and seeing the desperation in her eyes, a wave of shame and regret washes over me for the way I have deliberately distanced myself from my own father for so long.

I want to tell Naomi all this, explain to her how, after just this brief meeting, she has already changed me. I want to say many things, but something goes wrong in the connection between my brain and my voice, and what I find myself saying is:

‘I’ll do your translations.’

Chapter Eight

Leaving the prison is, perhaps understandably, much harder than entering. By the time we finally depart Naomi’s cell it’s lunchtime for the inmates. The salty smell of cooking is even stronger as we make our way back out through the winding corridors and staircases, and it invades my nostrils and mingles nauseatingly with my own hunger. I follow Marion obediently, clasping against my chest the crumpled brown envelope Naomi had thrust into my hands as we left, containing an assortment of letters from her father and good conduct certificates issued to her by the prison. Four different guards stop us on our way out, asking who we are, who we came to visit, and insisting on seeing the ugly black ink stamps that were branded on to our wrists by the guard on the door when we entered, shortly before he stole our chocolate.

I try not to stop and imagine what would have happened if we had been unable to show them.

‘Visiting hours normally finish at eleven,’ explains Marion. ‘They’re naturally suspicious of two foreign women still lurking around long after that time.’

I realise in shock we have been inside the prison for over three hours.

We finally make it to the threshold and freedom, and I feel an almost overwhelming sense of relief as I step out of the black iron doorway on to the street. The sky is overcast, and I realise it’s the first time since we arrived in Ecuador that it has been anything other than clear sparkling blue. In just the few steps to the car it blackens even more, the premature darkness casting weird shadows around us as a rumble of thunder echoes close overhead.

‘Quick – it’s going to pour!’ As the first specks of rain fall, Marion does an awkward little trot to the car and hurriedly scrabbles for the lock, but I linger behind, actually wanting to feel the rain on my face. I can tell within seconds it’s going to become a torrential downpour, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to run down the street enjoying the freedom of the rainstorm in a way I have not done since childhood, and the women inside the prison maybe never will.

‘Kirsty – what are you doing?’ Marion calls through the open chink of car window.

‘Just coming!’ I shout back as the freezing, refreshing rain starts lashing down, soaking me in seconds. I surrender myself to it and turn my face up to the sky, letting the furious drops of water pummel my face and blur my vision and block my ears.

‘Woooooooooo!’ I yell, opening my arms up to the rain, filled with a sudden, intense elation at having survived a foray into the depths of a foreign prison. It’s like the day my cousin and I did the skydive then went out and got really drunk afterwards, so happy were we to still be alive. I spin on the spot with my face lifted to the sky, knowing I look crazy, but I don’t care. I hear Marion shouting something at me from the car, but for a moment I’m oblivious to her, completely swept up in the euphoric sense of freedom that comes from suddenly not caring about the cold or my hair or what anyone might think.

Then I hear a car door slam and see Marion has actually got out and is battling to open a bright-purple polkadot umbrella against the downpour as she trots over to a car parked in front of ours, yelling what sounds like ‘Sebastian! Sebastian!’

A man in a dark suit, standing under a black umbrella, has just got out of the car and seems to be standing in suspended animation, one foot slightly raised from the ground, as he crosses the pavement towards the prison. I think he might have been staring at me and my outburst. Feeling a bit silly now, I stumble after Marion as she catches him up, puffing.

Their umbrellas collide as they awkwardly embrace and cheek-kiss.

‘I didn’t know you were coming today!’ Marion is exclaiming breathlessly, shouting to be heard over the rain. ‘To see Naomi?’

‘Yes, not good news, that translator has only gone and…’ He trails off as I duck under the umbrella next to Marion, dripping.

‘Oh, and this is Kirsty!’ Marion shouts. ‘She’s visiting from the UK – we just saw Naomi together! Kirsty, this is Sebastian North, the British Consul!’

I step forward to carry out the obligatory cheek-kiss, the rain pounding over my head for a momentary flash as I pass from the shelter of one umbrella to another, then stand on tiptoe to reach his cheek. I catch a fleeting waft of aftershave and a glimpse of dark-green eyes, stubble and windswept black hair as our cheeks bump together politely for the briefest of seconds, then I duck back out of the umbrella and to the safety of Marion’s.

‘So, the translator has resigned and moved to Colombia!’ Sebastian says, presumably to Marion, but still looking at me. ‘I’ve got to tell Naomi, brought her a list of other options.’

‘Oh no… but we expected this. And actually…’ Marion also turns to look at me. ‘Did you mean that earlier, Kirsty? Perhaps you could give Seb your details?’

Even through the blurring rain I’ve noticed the look of real anguish on Sebastian’s face as he gave us the news about the translator. He really cares about Naomi, I think.

‘Kirsty!’ Marion cries, nudging me. ‘Come on! We’ve got to get out of this rain!’

‘What? Oh, sorry, yes…’ I realise Marion is talking about my offering to translate Naomi’s documents. Sebastian is from the embassy. This is my chance. Suddenly nervous, I fumble in my bag for a pen and scrap of paper to write my phone number down.

‘I studied law,’ I explain to Sebastian over the increasing thunder of the downpour, while rooting through make-up, phone, keys, ‘and I told Naomi I could do the translations… that is, if you want! I’m not sure my Spanish is good enough, but I could try.’ Finally, I locate an old receipt and a stub of black eyeliner pencil from the depths of my handbag. Pushing my dripping hair out of my face and resting the scrap of paper on Marion’s arm, I clumsily scribble my phone number on it with the eyeliner. I look up just in time to see Sebastian’s face break into a surprised, dazzling smile. I press the paper into his fist, his hand warm against my icy cold one, and hope he doesn’t notice the sudden childish flush rising up my cheeks. I’d seen my friends scrawl down their phone numbers for men many times, in bars, on beermats, even straight on to someone’s hand. I had always been the one hanging back, not knowing where to look. Yet here I am, writing my phone number in eyeliner for the British Consul in Ecuador. Despite the perfectly legitimate context, it feels somehow… audacious.

‘That’s amazing! Kirsty, thank you…’ Sebastian fumbles inside his jacket and almost drops the umbrella. ‘Here’s my card, too. I’ll call you to make arrangements!’

I take the card and plunge it safely into my back jeans pocket. After more awkward cheek-kissing and umbrella tangling, Marion and I finally make our escape to the car, and Sebastian jogs towards the prison entrance, his feet splashing up arcs of water.

Once we’re safely inside with the doors shut, I pull the interior mirror down to inspect my sodden appearance. My hair is sticking up in a tangled mop and there are rivulets of black mascara running down my cheeks. I close my eyes and slump back against the seat.

‘Are you okay?’ Marion turns to smile at me. The twinkly old lady from Liza’s kitchen is suddenly back. As we pull away and see the prison receding in the rear-view mirror, I get a sense of leaving Narnia and returning to the real world, the colour and activity of life resuming.

‘Yes… I’m fine,’ I say quietly, starting to shiver as an icy trail of water drips down the back of my T-shirt from my drenched hair. ‘Sorry… I’m completely soaking your car.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Marion says with a wave of her hand. ‘I know it can be a bit overwhelming, the first visit. Thank goodness Naomi’s other cellmates weren’t there, too. They must have stayed behind in the yard after the singing. When they’re all there together it can get a bit… rowdy!’

Other cellmates?

‘It’s not just… her and Victoria… in that room?’ I somehow manage to ask through my shock.

Marion is smiling sadly at the road ahead. ‘No, dear, there are four of them. And they’re lucky – in some other rooms on the same corridor they have five or six. Two to a bed, of course. But luckily, in Naomi’s cell, no one has to sleep on the floor.’

I remember the narrow single bunk beds, and try to imagine sharing one of them with another person. A person not of my choosing. Then having two more people in the one above or below me. And maybe someone else squashed into the tiny amount of floor space beside us.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Kirsty,’ Marion says. ‘It stays with me, too. But actually it’s incredible what support the women are to each other. There are fights, of course, but I’m always humbled by how all the girls pull together to help each other. In Naomi’s cell there’s another Ecuadorian, like Victoria, and an older lady from Romania. They all adore Naomi. I suppose she is very…’ Marion frowns and smiles at the same time, trying to find the words. ‘…Intense.’

I find myself smiling back. ‘Yes. I liked her.’ I realise as I say it that it’s true. I really did warm to her. She almost knocked me to the floor with the force of her bear-hug when I offered to translate her documents. I tried to explain I couldn’t guarantee anything, that my Spanish was still quite rusty, that I’m not even qualified to practise law yet, that they might not even let me do it and I would need to read through everything first… but I don’t think Naomi heard any of it. She just kept saying ‘thank you’ and ‘fuck’ and hugging me and wiping the tears from her face, before digging around under the bed and thrusting a crumpled envelope full of papers into my hands.

Marion is nodding. ‘She certainly has an effect on everyone she meets. Naomi has been through so much. She’s known more pain in her young life than I could ever imagine. Even after losing my John, before I sold up and moved out here, nothing I’ve been through can compare. A lot of the pain she brought on herself, of course… But I suppose that doesn’t make it any less painful.’

I turn to look at Marion as we crawl slowly forwards in the rain-induced traffic. ‘Why was she in Ecuador in the first place?’ I ask. ‘She said her little girl was only two when she got arrested… were they all here together, or what? And what made her get into… um, trouble?’ The questions I’ve had about Naomi ever since I first heard her name spoken at Liza’s kitchen table all come pouring out at once.

‘Naomi came here on her own.’ Marion keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead of us and I get the impression she is choosing her words with care. ‘She’s what we refer to as a recruit. She came here to Ecuador with the specific purpose of trafficking drugs – it was all arranged before she even left London. I have no idea how she got into it. But from the little she’s told me… it’s easy enough to find these, er, opportunities if you know where to look, and if you’re desperate enough. And Naomi was.’

I realise too late my mouth is practically hanging open in disbelief as I listen to Marion.

‘Try not to judge her, my dear.’ Marion flicks a glance at me. ‘Please don’t ever tell her I told you this. But that relationship she was in… the ex she refers to. The father of her children. He was an abusive shit. Excuse my language,’ she crosses herself briefly, ‘but he really was. He used to hit her. She was desperate to escape him. That’s all she’s really told me but I understand the money she was offered to make one simple journey – or, that’s how it was sold to her – could have solved all her problems. One all-expenses-paid round trip to a far-off country. One meeting with a stranger and one terrible, enormous risk. Not to mention the guilt, of course. Naomi told me once, in a weak moment, how awful she felt lying to her parents and even her children, making arrangements to come to Ecuador for a few days. She’d never even tried drugs before. I know she comes across as a little – what would you say in England? Rough around the edges? But really she’s a good girl. She had no idea what she was getting into with all this business. But once you’ve got into it, it’s very hard to get out again.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, only half sure I want to hear the answer.

‘Well, once she got here there really was no going back. They arranged everything. Whoever they are, the people pulling the strings in these situations, paying others to take their risks for them. So once they’ve paid your ticket out here, you have to go through with it. Naomi told me she wanted to change her mind – chicken out, do the right thing and come home – almost as soon as she got here. But they don’t let you. They took her passport and only agreed to give it back if she showed up at the airport with the package she was supposed to carry. They threatened to kill her. To find her family in London and kill them, too. It sounds like something from Breaking Bad, I know, but I swear there are people who operate like this in the real world. And poor Naomi was foolish and desperate enough to get involved with them.’ Marion’s voice is thick with sadness as she recounts Naomi’s story. ‘And the worst thing is, they were probably only using her as a decoy anyway, to distract the officials from a larger batch going through. They rarely trust inexperienced young girls like her with their big deals. So she got caught immediately.’

‘I would never judge her,’ I tell Marion fervently, swallowing back a confusing mixture of pity, revulsion, and even a little admiration at Naomi’s undeniable, although misguided, bravery. ‘And I meant it when I said I want to help her.’

A long, introspective silence extends between us as we make our slow, stop-start way across the streets of Quito. I realise one question I have about the prison has been left unspoken.

‘How did Victoria get pregnant?’ I ask, finally.

Marion hesitates a second before answering. ‘In the usual way, I should imagine.’ The corners of her mouth are twitching and she doesn’t take her eyes off the road to answer me.

I look down at my hands, feeling ridiculous.

‘There are a handful of pregnant women in the prison at any given time,’ Marion explains, more kindly. ‘It could be their visiting husbands or boyfriends from the outside, or from their regular visits to the male prison. They’re allowed once a month, under police escort, if they demonstrate good behaviour. You see, many of the women here have partners inside the male prison.’

The sensation of strength and independence I had as I left the prison has now well and truly deserted me, leaving me feeling like a silly child, totally out of place in this new world of deals, decoys and police escorts. I stare dumbly at the windscreen wipers swishing furiously back and forth in front of me, the rain teeming against them even more violently.

‘Sometimes, of course, it’s rape,’ Marion finishes, matter-of-factly, reaching over to flick on the demist button on the dashboard. ‘But one thing’s for sure – it’s never planned.’

‘But where do they… what about the babies?’ I ask, wondering at the same time whether I want to know the answer.

‘The women are taken out to a local public hospital to give birth,’ Marion explains. ‘They receive due medical care, until they and the baby are able to leave hospital. Under constant police guard, of course. Then the babies stay with them in the prison until they reach three years of age. After that they go to a family member on the outside – if they’re fortunate. If not, it’s social services.’

‘Fuck,’ I whisper, then clap my hand over my mouth as soon as the word is out. ‘Sorry! Marion, I…’

‘It’s okay, honey.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?’

I have fantasised so many times about pregnancy and motherhood. My daydreams usually involve gushing visitors and sparkly blue or pink cards on the mantelpiece, shopping for baby clothes with my mum, Harry squeezing my hand with tears in his eyes as we hear our baby’s very first cry. I have never considered how different everything would be if pregnancy were your worst nightmare. Apart from a brief period in my teens, when some of my friends at college had ‘scares’ and we all sat huddled over that little plastic stick anxiously awaiting the results, talking about how their lives would be ‘over’ if it were positive. But even then I felt somehow removed from the situation. I hadn’t even had a boyfriend yet, so my friends’ fears of pregnancy didn’t apply to me, and by the time I started going out with Harry I already knew how much I wanted it.

Would I rather give birth while in prison and be forced to hand over my child to the authorities, or… never become a mother? A hypothetical question, and totally impossible to answer. Something like that could never happen to me. I wouldn’t break the law and get into that position. I imagine it happening to Naomi, on top of everything else, and squeeze my eyes shut at the horror of it.

‘I meant what I said about doing the translations, you know,’ I say fervently. ‘I’ll buff up on my Spanish, give it my really best shot. I want to help get her out of there.’

Marion is smiling. ‘That’s wonderful, dear. If you’re really sure, give Seb a call. He’s spent so much time trying to organise these translations for Naomi, but it’s been a nightmare. Local legal translators are real unreliable. So I know he must be thrilled by your offer to help.’

‘Yes, I will,’ I mumble, feeling another blush threatening my cheeks, and suddenly aware of the business card burning a hole in my back pocket. ‘He seems very… nice.’

Marion turns briefly and grins at me. ‘Oh, Seb is wonderful. A real dish. All the girls adore him. Of course. He goes in to pay his consular visits to Naomi and nearly gets eaten alive by all the others, poor bastard.’

For a moment I’m rendered speechless by Marion’s use of the word ‘bastard’ and the sudden, vivid image of Sebastian North getting his dark suit ripped off by a gaggle of voracious female prisoners.

‘He’s actually a very good person as well,’ Marion continues, her face suddenly serious. ‘Probably… too good.’

Well, he was certainly not what I had expected the British Consul to look like. I’m not sure what I would have expected… someone older, balding, less friendly? But even so, just the talk of consuls and embassies reminds me this is no university coursework; these are real, official documents with actual, legal implications for a person’s life.

Can I really do this? A chorus of self-doubt floods my mind. Mostly in my father’s voice.

‘And how do they all know Gabi so well?’ I ask, desperate to distract myself. I remember the tightly folded letter Naomi had given Marion for Gabi at the end of our visit, and how several other prisoners, including the pregnant Victoria, had asked after her as we left. ‘She seems so well loved. Is it from her involvement in the charity?’

‘Oh, that’s a question for Gabriela herself, I think, dear,’ Marion says kindly, yet in a tone that makes it very clear the subject is closed.

‘Ah… okay.’ Feeling silly yet again, I turn to look out of the window and realise we’re very close to the part of town where Harry’s language school is. He’d told me it was only about ten minutes away from our flat at Liza and Roberto’s, very near the central bus station, which we have just driven past. What time had he said he was working today? Nine until twelve? I realise he will have got home ages ago, and will be wondering where I am.

As we slow down at a crossroads I suddenly spot the bright blue-and-red lettering of ‘Language Leap: Leap Your Way to Fluent English’ shining in the rain on the front of a building opposite. I press my nose up against the window and think I can even see Luke, behind the reception desk with his feet up on the counter. I sigh to myself. Harry definitely will have expected me to get back long before him. A small, logical voice inside me tells me this shouldn’t be a problem, but nevertheless I have a feeling it will be, judging by his overall attitude to my involvement with the prison visiting so far. This morning, when I’d been up and showered and ready to go before Harry had even finished breakfast, he had become grumpier with every passing minute until Marion’s horn finally sounded outside, signalling for me to leave.

‘I still don’t get why you’re so keen on doing this,’ he muttered over his cereal as I bent to kiss him goodbye, determined to rise above the tension emanating from him and filling the apartment.

‘Well, I am, okay?’ I told him as cheerfully as I could manage, before fleeing outside to Marion’s waiting car, and not looking back.

I didn’t really understand what Harry’s problem was. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let it stop me.

***

But now, as I climb the steps back to the apartment, I can’t help being filled with a sinking feeling at the reaction awaiting me. Just as I am about to slide my key into the lock, the door swings open and Harry is standing there, frowning down at me.

‘Where have you been?’ he asks irritably. ‘You said visiting time finished at eleven – I thought you’d be back ages ago!’

I knew it. Edging past him into the flat, we sidestep each other like two swordsmen preparing for a duel.

‘We took longer than expected, and stayed past visiting hours.’

‘But you’re soaked!’ he exclaims indignantly, looking at me as if I’d just walked in after five years away at war, not a morning’s prison visit. ‘What the hell were you doing in there?’

I suddenly think of Naomi and her fake swagger. I take a deep breath and force myself to meet Harry’s eyes.

‘I actually had a really interesting time, and have agreed to help one of the prisoners.’ I nudge past him and kick off my sodden shoes by the door. ‘That means I’ll definitely be going back there. I know you don’t agree with me doing this, but then I wasn’t too thrilled either when you got a job here and now spend half your time at the language school.’ I ignore the look of spreading shock on Harry’s face.

We stare each other out across the breakfast bar, until he eventually lowers his gaze.

I take a deep breath and consciously make my voice softer, more conciliatory.

‘I think it’s only fair for me to have an interest as well, if you’re out almost every morning at the school. And I am actually really excited about this… the girl I met today, Naomi, is trying to appeal to be released early and go home to the UK, and I’m going to try and help her…’ I trail off as I realise Harry has turned away from me and sat down at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

‘Harry?’ I walk around the kitchen table so he’s forced to look at me again. ‘Seriously, what’s going on?’

Harry slides his chair back abruptly and gets up, turning to switch on the kettle and pull a mug from the cupboard, avoiding my eyes again.

‘Nothing, Kirst. Sorry. I just…’ His voice lowers a notch, so I can barely hear him. ‘I just feel like I don’t recognise you at the moment.’

I stand rooted to the spot behind him, momentarily lost for words.

‘You don’t recognise me?’ My voice is filled with incredulity. I can barely believe he is saying this. After all the surprises he has sprung on me lately!

Harry puts the mug down on the counter a little harder than necessary. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ He’s staring at me dumbly, looking as if he genuinely doesn’t get it. I stride over to the counter and face him, my feeling of indignation growing.

‘What I mean is… how do you think I feel? We come here to go travelling, then within only a day of arriving you change the rules and get a job – yes, I know it’s only temporary, and yes, I did agree to support you in it – but now I’ve found something to interest me as well and pass the time while we’re here, instead of supporting me in return, or even – God forbid – taking the slightest interest in it with me… you say you don’t recognise me?’ I stop for breath, feeling my determination grow with every word. ‘So, I just want one thing to be clear. For as long as we stay in Quito – I am not giving up on this. I promised today to help someone, and I fully intend to do so.’ I stare back at Harry, daring him to say something. He doesn’t. I let out a deep breath, feeling a sense of release at finally getting all that out. ‘Okay then. I’m going to have a shower.’

Before the bathroom door closes behind me I get a fleeting glimpse of Harry standing with an empty coffee mug in his hand and his mouth half-open in shock.

Ten minutes later, I come out of the bathroom to find the apartment silent and empty. Then I spot something on the kitchen worktop.

There’s a note in Harry’s familiar scrawl, next to a rapidly cooling mug of coffee and a plate bearing two little round yellow yucca cakes, Liza’s speciality. I pop one in my mouth and enjoy its warm, spongey texture as I read the note.

Sorry for being a grumpy prat. Liza’s made yucca bread for lunch, come downstairs. Love H xxx

Even as I read I feel my anger towards Harry dissipating as fast as it came. He might have been inexplicably off with me about visiting the prisons ever since I first voiced the idea, but at least now he’s apologised. Everything is going to be okay.

But instead of heading straight downstairs, I go over to my handbag and pull out my phone, finally deciding to do something that has been at the back of my mind, pressing for my attention, ever since we left the prison earlier. Ever since I heard Naomi’s heartfelt longing when she talked about going home. When she talked about her father.

I clutch the phone in my hands, staring at its blank screen, properly realising for the first time the power held by this tiny device – the power to cause conflict and distance, or… to reach out.

I scroll through my contacts list until I find his name. Casting aside the fact that we never talk this way, that given the time difference he might be asleep already, that I am not even sure whether it is still his number… I hit ‘dial’.

Chapter Nine

‘Thank you, Liza, that was delicious…’ I lean back in my seat, stretching out to try and accommodate my swollen stomach after another enormous lunch.

‘Yes, it was wonderful,’ adds Harry, looking equally stuffed.

We’re sitting round the kitchen table with Liza and Roberto, surrounded by empty bowls and chicken bones as the only evidence of the delicious soup and homemade yucca bread we’ve just polished off, lazily watching the local news on the ancient, flickering television on the worktop opposite us.

I reach over and take Harry’s hand under the table, while surreptitiously sliding my phone out of my trouser pocket with my other hand, checking it for the hundredth time since we sat down. But still it remains disappointingly, resoundingly silent.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Harry glance at his watch. ‘I’m going to have a few drinks with Ray this afternoon,’ he announces, just as Liza jumps to her feet excitedly and reaches to turn up the volume on the TV.

‘Oh, look! They’re talking about the prisons.’

The news report flashes to a clip of the United Nations Secretary-General hailing the Ecuadorian government’s investment in prison conditions as ‘revolutionary’. Liza and I both lean forward in our eagerness to hear more. The reporter concludes that the opening of the new prisons will represent a time of significant change in Latin America, and position Ecuador as a global example. I feel another flash of something – pride? – at being a small part of something so monumental. I think of the brown envelope inside my handbag upstairs, containing Naomi’s good conduct certificates, just waiting for me to render them into English, and feel a growing impatience to get started.

‘A few of the other guys are going, too. I won’t be back late,’ Harry continues, having received no reply to his first announcement. ‘Is that okay, babe?’

‘Of course.’ I smile at him, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go of it to get up and take my dirty plates over to the sink, glancing over at Liza, still engrossed in the television. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

Even as I say this, I realise that, until very recently, an announcement like this from Harry might have annoyed me… upset me, even. I remember with a pang of embarrassment how only a few days ago I had practically begged him to go out with me for the evening. Now, however, the overriding feeling is of relief as I realise I have several uninterrupted hours ahead of me in which to make a start on Naomi’s translations.

‘While you’re out I’m going to make a start on those papers I told you about – to help the prisoner I met today,’ I tell him.

In spite of my outburst less than an hour ago, when I had laid everything out to Harry in no uncertain terms, my heart still pounds with a strange feeling of rebelliousness. As if, by looking him in the eye and telling him what I’m going to do, I am breaking some sort of unspoken rule or doing something wrong.

Ridiculous, I think. It’s not like you need his permission to do this. My conviction grows as I march up the stairs to the apartment. You can do whatever you want! HE certainly does, after all…

Upstairs, I open Naomi’s folder to make a start. Shortly afterwards Harry comes to say goodbye on his way out to see Ray. I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, papers splayed out around me, as he leans down to give me a long kiss on the lips.

‘I’ll be back soon… okay?’

‘Sure!’ I watch the door close behind him, surprised by the flash of relief I feel as I hear his footsteps receding down the stairs towards the street. This will give me at least two or three hours of uninterrupted time and space to read through Naomi’s documents.

I turn back to the papers and try to arrange them in some sort of order. There are various certificates issued by the prison, confirming Naomi’s participation in a range of activities – dance, singing, woodwork, Spanish class. Even this small selection is impressive. And they don’t look very difficult to translate – just a summary of her achievements. Like school, she had joked.

Then I notice, shuffled in among the certificates, a few sheets of crumpled paper ripped straight out of a notepad and filled with a tight, almost illegible scrawl in blue ink. I carefully pull one out and hold it up to the light, reading the signature at the bottom – All my love, Dad. P.S. Mum sends kisses. I stare at it for a moment, a confusing range of emotions passing through me, then slide it very carefully back inside the folder.

In spite of myself, I pull out my phone and check it one last time. Dad didn’t answer my call earlier. He must already be in bed, I’d reasoned then, as it went straight to voicemail. OR he’s deliberately ignoring your number, a more insecure voice tormented me. The voice message I left may not have made the most sense, but once I’d started there was no going back.

Looking at my insistently blank phone screen now, I feel a flash of embarrassment. What had I even been thinking, anyway? Dad doesn’t want to come to Ecuador. He probably doesn’t even remember that jokey comment he made just as I left his house, the last time we saw each other, about maybe coming out to visit us. The only communication we’ve had since then has been a very brief, polite email exchange the day after I arrived in Quito, in which I’d told him I was still alive and he acknowledged receipt of that information.

He definitely won’t have expected a slightly rambling, hesitant voicemail nearly two weeks later, asking if he would consider doing it for real, even going as far as to say I would like his company here. He’ll think I’ve gone mad… even so, a spark of hope remains at the back of my mind. He hasn’t replied either way yet… and the last few days and weeks have proven to me that anything can happen, especially here in Ecuador.

I find myself staring at the door Harry disappeared through only a short while ago, and feel a twinge of frustration that he just doesn’t understand what the last two weeks in Quito have meant to me, how much this trip has already changed me. He might have apologised for getting angry after the prison visit, but that’s a long shot from joining in my excitement about it. In the same way I didn’t share any of my research about volunteering with Harry before the trip, I now feel I can’t really talk to him about Naomi or the translations.

But that doesn’t really matter… does it? Harry and I have enough other things in common. We don’t have to understand each other perfectly in every area of our lives.

For the first time in ages, I find myself casting my mind back to when we met. From our very first few dates, the things that drew me to Harry weren’t necessarily being able to confide all my secrets to him or staying up late, having long, heartfelt conversations about our innermost feelings. I had my girlfriends for that. No, my attraction to Harry was more centred on things like his stability and our shared life goals. Well, that and the obvious floppy blond hair and bright-blue eyes and cheeky smile. During the years I spent quietly observing him (okay, lusting after him) from the back of the Spanish class, I’d realised Harry was not one of the typical university lads who went out and got wasted and brought home a different girl each night.

Then, when we did start dating, we both knew right from the start that it was going to be something serious. Most of my friends didn’t understand that. But then, none of them had ever come home halfway through their first week at primary school and found their dad’s car gone from the driveway, or seen their mum break down and sob hysterically in front of all the other mothers and half of the teacher-parents committee. Trust me, once that has happened to you, long-term reliability becomes a much more important quality in a boyfriend than being able to pontificate about your deepest emotions.

So I’d never actually told Harry about Joel, or my time at the solicitor’s office all those years ago. Well, he knew I spent my work experience shadowing a paralegal and that it shaped my decision to study law. But I never elaborated on the emotional impact it had had on me. And I’d never told him I still thought about Joel sometimes, or that the memory of his court hearing was enough to make me want to help more people like him, people at a disadvantage or those who needed a helping hand to get their lives back on track. Harry had always known I wanted to do the Law Practice Course and go on to be a solicitor, but he wouldn’t have understood my deeper reasons for this ambition. Even if I’d told him. Perhaps especially if I’d told him. So it had remained something private and personal to me, a dream I’d nurtured and held on to from within the secrecy of my own heart.

The only people I did talk to about my experience at the solicitor’s office were my parents. Mum didn’t see much past the joy and relief of hearing I wanted to study law and would therefore go on to have a Proper Career and Stable Job, giving her – in her own words – ‘one less thing to worry about’. But Dad, I remember with a fresh pang of emotion, had actually been pretty excited about it. That was back when he still made an effort to see me a couple of times a month, either taking me out for a meal or inviting me over to his place for Chinese on the pretext of helping me with my homework. He never really did help much, and my principal memories of those days are of sitting across the dining table from him making stilted, awkward conversation over the crispy duck pancakes and chicken chow mein, as I counted down the minutes until it was time for Mum to come and pick me up.

But on this one occasion, straight after my work experience finished, something made me open up to him. Maybe I was just so fired up with excitement and ambition that I forgot who I was talking to; maybe my seventeen-year-old naivety got the better of me. I ended up telling him all about the client interviews I was allowed to sit in on, the different sorry characters who passed through Bourne & Bond’s offices, and how thoughts of each new case would stay with me as I went to sleep every night, as I wondered what would become of them. I even told him about Joel and his court hearing, how I had watched in admiration as Tracey argued his case with such passion, as if she were fighting for her own son. How Joel had cried when the judge decreed he should be moved to the front of the queue for council housing and allowed to begin his life again.

That night I told my father I wanted to become a solicitor, and defend people’s rights the way I had seen in the courtroom that day. It makes me cringe a little now to remember the undiluted, youthful enthusiasm with which I raved to my father about my big plans for the future. But instead of reacting like the distant, rather bored person I had become used to, he responded with enthusiasm and even suggested we draw up a plan of action to help me work towards my chosen career. We spent the evening googling law qualifications, reading through careers advice websites and noting down the names of universities offering my chosen course. I never admitted it to him, but it was actually really helpful.

Dad wouldn’t remember any of this now, of course. Not long afterwards I went off to uni at the other side of the country and the Chinese takeaway nights stopped. By the time Harry and I finished our studies and moved down to Fenbridge, my contact with Dad was limited to birthday and Christmas phone calls and the very occasional meal out.

Over the intervening years since that evening, I’ve deliberately blocked out its memory, as a form of self-preservation. Only now, feeling so refreshed and emboldened, and – being honest with myself here – humbled, after meeting Naomi, do I feel able to see things differently. Perhaps it’s not too late for Dad and me, perhaps it is possible to have more…

Telling myself to stay positive and wait for his reply, I consciously push aside thoughts of both my father and Harry, turning my attention to Naomi’s papers.

An inexplicable shiver passes through me as I realise that, if I’m really going to do this, I’ll have to ring that Sebastian person we met outside the prison. Now, hours later, with the thrill of excitement from the prison visit gradually fading, it is beginning to feel like a crazy idea ever to have volunteered for this. What if he realises my Spanish really isn’t at professional level and politely tells me my services won’t be required? I’m not a lawyer or translator… just a girl who studied law and taught herself Spanish, a very long time ago…

‘What were you thinking?’ I ask out loud to the apartment, suddenly filled with insecurity. My own voice echoes slightly off the walls in the spacious, empty living room, but provides no answer. I open the folder again and stare at the crumpled letter to Naomi from her father, feeling something bordering on horror. This is someone’s life, a real human being with parents and family who miss her… what if I let her down?

Suddenly, Marion’s voice pops into my head: At least in Naomi’s cell no one has to sleep on the floor. I remember the tiny, cramped bedroom – it still feels wrong to call it a ‘cell’ – its memory providing a stark contrast to my comfortable surroundings. That room would fit inside this apartment nine or ten times. I stretch my legs out on the bed, resting my head back on the pillow, feeling ludicrously grateful and lucky that I am able to do such a simple thing.

Perhaps for the first time ever, I realise how fortunate my life has been – okay, so we might not have had much money at all in my early childhood, after Dad left and in the years when it was just Mum and me. Before Steve, and then later Chloe, came along. Mum had worked long hours in her job as secretary at the local council offices, often taking extra temp jobs in the evenings or at weekends. I sometimes barely saw her and it was normal for me to get up and make my own breakfast, then let myself in and get started on dinner, too. For such a long time it had felt like a disadvantage… I had seen all my friends and their normal families with two parents, two cars and holidays abroad every year, and felt hard done by. But I had never been hungry. I’d never been uncomfortable or unsafe. I’d never been so desperate to escape or change my life that I was willing to break the law.

I think of Naomi’s cramped little room again and feel an unexpected wash of shame. What must she think of me? Swanning out here to spend a few months exploring South America, leaving my family behind, with no commitments except making sure I get home in time to sit back down at my desk three months later, no questions asked. Despite all my angst and doubt about this trip, it hasn’t occurred to me before now that the simple fact of going travelling, of being able to put your life on hold and take off to explore the world, is in itself an incredible privilege.

Even as these thoughts march through my mind, I think back to Naomi’s warm smile and tight hug as I left, and I know in my heart she was not judging me. No more than I was judging her. I realise what I told Marion in the car on the way home was true – I genuinely did like her. It had just felt like I was chatting to another woman of my age, our different backgrounds and circumstances fading into insignificance.

I wonder what she’s doing, right at this moment?

Naomi had told us that ‘lockdown’ was at six every evening. After that, they weren’t allowed out of the corridor until six a.m. the following morning, for breakfast and roll call. Was she enjoying the last few moments of relative freedom, walking around the prison grounds? Or was she already preparing for the night ahead, trying to get comfortable in that terribly small space, squashed into bed next to someone else, thinking of her children?

Right, that’s it. I’m going to give these translations my best shot.

And I’m going to phone now and confirm I’ll do this, leaving myself no room to back out or change my mind, even if they do prove to be more difficult than expected.

‘I can do this,’ I tell myself out loud as I jump up from the bed and fumble for the jeans I was wearing this morning, shamefully still in a heap on the bathroom floor where I threw them earlier, after the rainstorm. I had been so fired up about phoning Dad, and telling Liza about the prison visit, that I’d not given my soggy clothes a second’s thought since I got back.

Holding up the jeans, I carefully pull out the damp, crumpled business card from the back pocket. It is on the brink of disintegration, but the phone number and neat capital letters saying Sebastian North, Consul are still faintly visible.

I sit down on the floor right there and dial the number before I have chance to bottle out.

It rings four, five, six times, and just as I’m realising in dismay that it is half past nine and I should probably just call back tomorrow, a gruff, tired-sounding voice answers ‘Buenas noches, Sebastian North?’

‘Hi! It’s Kirsty,’ I practically shout. ‘From the prison? I mean, the prison visit… today, with Marion.’

Oh God. Great start.

‘Kirsty! Hi!’ The voice warms instantly, and I hear a faint shuffling sound, as if he’s repositioning himself on the sofa. ‘How are you? Hope you found the visit okay today?’

‘I’m great!’ I reply, wondering too late why my voice seems to have become an octave shriller. ‘I’m calling because I’ve decided – I definitely want to help Naomi. With the translations. If you’ll have me… er, haha.’

There’s a brief pause where the only sound is the echo of my own craziness ringing in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut in horror. But if I am coming across as a psychopath, Sebastian is too nice to say so.

‘That’s wonderful,’ he says warmly. ‘There are certain processes we need to go through to get you on the books as a translator. It’s very simple – it just means coming to the embassy and bringing some papers – is that okay? Let me take your email and I’ll send you the details and our address.’

I recite my email address with the same feeling of childish embarrassment from this morning.

‘Great – can you come along this Friday morning? We’re closed to the public then, so I’ll have more time to see you.’ There’s a tiny pause. ‘To talk about the translations. And get all the papers signed.’

‘Friday is great!’ I say, feeling exuberant.

‘Okay, perfect.’ Sebastian’s voice feels very close to my ear. The silence on the line draws out between us and I realise I’m pressing the phone against my head so hard my ear is aching.

‘Er… so, you seemed to enjoy our typical Quito rainstorm this morning?’ He breaks the silence, and I hear a smile in his voice. Oh NO. So he definitely did see me spinning about in the rain like a loon. I desperately cast around my mind for a logical explanation, but find none, so opt for the truth.

‘I just suddenly felt so… free. And grateful… you know, after the prison.’ I close my eyes again and rest my head on my palm in embarrassment, thinking how Harry would probably snort with amusement at that.

‘Oh, I get it,’ Sebastian replies sincerely. ‘The first time I went in, years ago when I was new to the job, I got home and stuck on Metallica at full volume the whole afternoon. I think I even had a bit of a dance.’ Another pause, and what I think he intends to be a chuckle. ‘Prisons do funny things to you.’

Fervently grateful for his understanding, I manage to say goodbye and agree to attend the embassy at nine a.m. on Friday without causing myself any further embarrassment.

I lean back against the wall in relief and let my phone drop to the pillow beside me. Almost immediately it lights up again and buzzes furiously.

One new message.

I stare at it, hardly daring to breathe. Could this be…?

Sender: Dad.

As I click open the message I realise my hand is actually trembling a little, my heart filled with trepidation at the vast potential for pain and rejection contained within one tiny digital envelope. I can’t read it fast enough once it opens.

Dad: Hi K. Got your voicemail – good to hear from you. Were you serious about us coming to visit you?

I let out a long sigh. See? A perfectly innocuous message. No rejection. Actually, it seems quite positive…

I fire off a reply immediately.

I’m serious if you are.

Then, feeling I should elaborate a little, I send another one:

It’s great out here. Beautiful country. We’ll be in Quito about two more weeks. Then want to see jungle and Galápagos. You’re seriously welcome.

My finger hesitates over the button for a few seconds before pressing ‘send’.

I think back again to Dad’s casual comment the night we visited him. That he’d been thinking about a holiday, that he might come and visit us here. At the time I’d been filled with cynicism, thinking that if he rarely even came to visit us in the next county, what likelihood would there be of him travelling halfway around the world? But then, today, hearing Naomi’s anxiety about her father and desperate sorrow at not being able to see him again, something gave way inside me. Something made my perspective shift. When did I last actually invite my father to visit us? What would happen if I did?

For the first time ever, a feeling of privilege overrode any other feelings. Privilege, sheer good luck that we are both alive, and well, and free to see each other whenever we want. For the first time, it felt like a crime not to be making the most of that. Or trying to, at least.

Dad takes longer to reply this time. I realise I’m staring at the phone, incapable of doing anything else except will it to light up again. After what feels like hours, it does.

Dad: I’ll talk to Dorice tomorrow then phone you to discuss. Thanks for the idea. Best wishes, Dad x

Oh my God, he’s actually taken me seriously… this might actually happen. What have I just done? A swirl of emotions surges through me. Panic, excitement, hope… I haven’t spent more than a few hours at a time with my father since I was five years old. What on earth will I do with him for a possibly extended visit in a foreign country? What will we talk about? And have I really just done this without even mentioning it first to Harry?

I read the message again. Dorice. Of course. In my excitement and sudden motivation to contact Dad, I’d forgotten about her. And that the only reason Dad even mentioned visiting, however jokily, that night was that Dorice is a wildlife photographer and wants to visit the rainforest. My heart starts to sink a little. And who signs off a message to their only daughter ‘best wishes’?

But then, isn’t that why I’m doing this? To try and bridge the distance, the coldness between my father and me, which until today had seemed insurmountable?

As I stare down at my phone and think of everything that has happened today, of the prison and Naomi, Sebastian, and my father, I am overcome by the feeling I have just set in motion an irreversible chain of events.

Chapter Ten

It takes me two bus journeys and a taxi ride to reach the British Embassy. To my utter horror the first bus doesn’t even fully stop to collect its passengers, meaning I have to jog slightly to keep up with it then grab on to its greasy metal handrail and haul myself aboard, before it instantly picks up speed again and pulls back out into the early-morning traffic. Within seconds a young man is holding his hand out and demanding payment. I fumble clumsily in my pocket, heart still pounding from my perilous ascent, before handing him a pile of change and ignoring the tuts of fellow passengers trying to push past me to get to a seat.

By the time I catch the second bus I’m more prepared, with the quarter-dollar coin for my fare already held tightly in my palm as I scramble up the steps. I even summon the courage to firmly push past the cluster of other passengers by the doors at the front, and weave my way to the back of the bus to the one remaining free seat. I find myself right in the middle of a group of teenage students who keep staring at me, whispering and giggling, as if being the only blonde-haired, obviously foreign woman on the bus makes me a form of circus attraction.

By the time I’ve stumbled off the bus again and hailed a taxi by virtually standing in the path of oncoming traffic with my arm outstretched, argued with the driver over the fare, won, and been deposited at my destination, I feel like I could survive anything. Now all I have to do is work out which of the many tall, shiny buildings surrounding me is the British Embassy.

‘I wouldn’t get that out in the street around here, love,’ says a voice to my left, making me jump about a foot in the air and instinctively shove my purse back into the depths of my handbag. ‘Just warning you – it’ll be snatched in an instant.’ The middle-aged woman dispensing this advice pats me on the arm and continues walking without looking back.

I stare disbelievingly at my surroundings. This must be one of the most affluent parts of Quito – the wide, perfectly tarmacked road lined on either side with enormous palm trees, and shiny office buildings stretching up into the blue sky behind them. They’re not quite skyscrapers, but they’re a world apart from the worn residential buildings in Liza and Roberto’s neighbourhood. I see the names of several international banks and insurance companies glinting off polished signs and flashing neon billboards around me.

Looming ahead is a glossy, brand-new-looking shopping centre. It could be any mall back home except for the tall palm trees lining the road outside, which only serve to make it look more luxurious and elegant. Well-dressed businessmen and women bustle past, coffee-to-go cups clutched in their hands and mobile phones to their ears… then I spot the little old lady, wrapped in the bright colours of the Quichua indigenous fabrics, huddled on the floor, her hand extended in supplication, toothless mouth moving wordlessly.

I give her two dollars then keep walking, but more hesitantly now, clutching my handbag closely to me. As I approach the shopping centre the colourful illuminated signs of several global brands come into focus: Zara, Ted Baker, Tiffany & Co. An outdoor seating area is filled with the lively chatter of well-dressed people eating breakfast.

I stop and pull out the crumpled piece of paper with Sebastian’s email printed on it. Running my eyes down the checklist of items he’s asked me to bring – passport, copies of my qualifications, Spanish-language certificate from uni – I check the address again. ‘Millennium Building’, near ‘El Palmero’ Shopping Centre.

‘Excuse me…’ I edge up to one of the uniformed, armed guards standing outside the Tiffany’s store. ‘Which one of these is, um, Millennium Building, please?’ The guard arches his eyebrows at me in what I think he intends to be an intimidating gesture, except it doesn’t quite work because he is nearly a foot shorter than me, and slowly raises his arm to point at the building right next to us.

‘Oh, great, thanks!’ I reply, but the guard isn’t listening as he has turned away to shout angrily at a small child I hadn’t even noticed hovering beside us. I watch in horror as the little boy, no older than five and wearing filthy, ragged clothes, almost drops the wooden box he is carrying in his hurry to get away from the guard’s stream of unrepeatable Spanish. As he scrambles frantically on the floor to pick up the contents of the box, I realise they are shoe-cleaning brushes, and the stains on his T-shirt are from black and brown shoe polish.

‘You shouldn’t be working around here, now GET LOST!’ yells the guard, but the child is already sprinting away, zigzagging among the tables of well-dressed breakfasters. He seems completely invisible to them, but I know he will remain etched in my memory for ever. I shoot the guard a filthy look, then stalk off towards Millennium Building.

It’s at least fifteen storeys high and surrounded by even more armed guards than the Tiffany’s store. I draw up cold a few feet away, suddenly filled with nerves and remembering Harry still fast asleep in the apartment. I can hardly believe what I did this morning – slip out before he woke up, leaving a note by the bed. Just the briefest explanation that I’m going to the British Embassy to talk to them about Naomi. I can’t help but feel a little thrill of excitement. I bet he wasn’t expecting that. He won’t like it, that much I know, but in a strange way it feels kind of good to be standing here about to do it anyway.

‘But they’re CRIMINALS,’ he’d suddenly burst out last night, as I sat at the table with papers spread out around me, leafing furiously through Liza’s Spanish dictionary, determined to put the finishing touches to the almost-finished translation of Naomi’s certificates before my appointment at the embassy today. ‘I don’t know why you can’t do something fun – go out, do some sightseeing – while I’m at work.’

I had gone out – I’d met Gabi for lunch and gone for a walk in the park with Liza, and sunbathed on the roof terrace – but the urgency of my promise to help Naomi always overtook me, motivating me to press on with the translations to get as much done as possible before my meeting with Sebastian.

‘You said you’d support me, remember?’ I had replied pointedly, thinking back to our spat when I returned from the prison visit just days ago, and Harry’s apology. Okay, he hadn’t actually said it in THOSE words, but he HAD apologised…

‘All right, all right, sorry,’ Harry had huffed, his apology sounding a lot less sincere than the last one. Even though the last one had only been a note. ‘I just… don’t get it, that’s all.’

‘You don’t have to get it,’ I reminded him. Even though it would be nice if you did. ‘You just have to stop complaining about it.’ Then I had buried myself in the dictionary again, my determination only stronger.

Harry had muttered something to himself then, something about ‘having a lot to deal with at the moment’, but I chose to ignore it and determinedly didn’t even look up from the papers. Just how much can he have on his mind, really, when we’re here on holiday and he’s doing a job he took on a voluntary basis and claims to enjoy? Plus the fact that, if he really wanted my support with something, he should come out and say it to me straight, instead of muttering under his breath.

Now, standing outside the British Embassy, I look up at the impressive building and feel my confidence waver.

Can I really do this? Once you go in, there’s no turning back, I think, wondering for the hundredth time whether I am terribly out of my depth. This is the British Embassy, you can’t just walk in and waste their time… Then I remember Naomi’s hopeful face, and Marion’s encouragement, and the pleased surprise in Sebastian’s voice when I phoned him. He’d sounded genuinely delighted that someone wanted to help Naomi.

Ignore Harry and just go in… you’ve made it this far. Three weeks ago, the thought of taking two buses to the other side of Quito on my own would have terrified me. But then, three weeks ago I had never been inside a prison.

***

I have to take my shoes off and walk through an X-ray machine, then stand cringing while another grumpy security guard opens my handbag and rummages through the notebooks, pens, tissues, tampons and make-up items inside. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him I’m here to see the British Consul, making a raised-eyebrow, ‘yeah right’ expression as he yanks a phone receiver to his ear and impatiently punches out a number on the keypad in front of him, his eyes never leaving my face.

‘Señor Cónsul? Yes, there’s a girl here saying she’s… oh, really?’ He frowns, and I risk the beginnings of a triumphant smile. ‘Morgan, yes,’ he continues, scowling down at my passport in his hand. ‘I see. Okay.’ He turns his scowl back to me, and my smile widens. ‘He wants to talk to you.’ The guard thrusts the receiver into my hand with a huffing noise and turns away to carry on watching the wall of CCTV screens beside him.

‘Kirsty – I do apologise.’ Sebastian’s warm voice fills my ear. ‘Humberto has always been bad-tempered. He’s a good sort really, but…’ – his voice lowers a notch – ‘he’s been having some… domestic problems lately. So we all need to be a bit patient with him.’ I flick a nervous glance at the security guard, now frowning crossly at one of the screens showing two cleaning ladies who have stopped for a chat in a corridor somewhere. ‘So don’t pay any attention to him. Come on up, tenth floor.’

I gratefully pass the phone back to Humberto, flashing him what I hope is a comforting smile, then flee towards the lifts before he changes his mind.

I should have worn a suit, is my last panicked thought before the lift doors ping open on the tenth floor.

The first thing I see is the famous lion and unicorn logo and the words Consulado Británico embossed in gold writing above them. Yet another security guard sits at a small table beside the door, with a big sign-in book open on the desk before him, and he scrolls his finger down the list of names, presumably appointments, searching for mine. Before he can locate me, the door swings open and Sebastian is standing there, beaming, holding the door open wide and gesturing for me to go through.

‘But what about—’

Sebastian waves his hand dismissively at the guard and smiles at me again. ‘Don’t worry – I told him I was expecting you. I hope your journey here was okay, and you didn’t have any problems finding us?’

I start to reply, then find myself rendered speechless by his tie. Vivid purple, it has silver sparkly musical notes embossed all down the middle in a jaunty line, and a big plastic button at the bottom in the shape of an electric guitar, flashing yellow and purple light.

Following my gaze, Sebastian bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, that!’ He flicks at the tie with his hand, looking embarrassed. ‘God, I forgot to warn you. Sorry – it’s Theme Day today. A charity thing we do here once a month at the embassy, always on Fridays when we’re closed to the public.’ He stops to run his hands through his hair. ‘Can’t believe I asked you to come today of all days…’ He chuckles awkwardly and looks genuinely mortified. ‘It’s been going for years – everyone comes to work in fancy dress for the day and donates some money to our designated charity – this time it’s a local school. The themes have to be something typically British… last month it was Great British Sporting Heroes. Today it’s Rock ‘n’ Roll.’

‘Ah… I see.’

‘Some people get really into it. Like Diana, on reception.’ As we cross the small reception area towards the main entrance, Sebastian waves. A portly older woman, wearing a vast frizzy Led Zeppelin wig, raises her hand to us in solemn salute from behind the desk.

‘In the back office they don’t have any day-to-day contact with the public, you know – HR and Press Management and Counterterrorism – all their work is desk-based. So on Theme Day, they can go really wild. Diego from Accounts is dressed as Geri Halliwell, in that awful Union Jack dress from the Spice Girls. Which is ridiculous, really, as they’re hardly Rock ‘n’ Roll. They’re nineties Britpop.’

‘Um…. yes, indeed.’ I start to wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place and this is actually a loony bin.

Sebastian pulls a heavy wooden door open and indicates for me to go first. Instead of entering a room or corridor, I’m inside a small compartment, barely big enough for two people to stand side by side, empty except for a picture of the Prime Minister and another wooden door opposite me.

Without thinking I reach for it, but it doesn’t budge.

‘It’s an airlock,’ Sebastian explains, stepping into the confined space beside me. ‘I have to close this one before you can open that one. Government security precautions and all.’ We stand side by side for the two seconds it takes the door behind us to click shut, and I am close enough to notice the light hint of stubble on his jaw.

‘So… um… who are you supposed to be?’ I eye the hideous tie again, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

‘Ha, well, this was just a token, really. It’s harder for me, because I deal with the public, and a consular situation could come up at any time, so I have to tone it down a bit. It would be awful if someone came in with a real emergency – a mugging or kidnap – and the first thing they saw was me, dressed up as a Bee Gee or something.’

I blink. ‘Well, yes… quite.’

The door in front of us pings open, and we’re in a small waiting area with sofas, a small desk, potted plants and a water machine. A huge poster opposite shouts at me in capital letters to keep my passport safe and always use travel insurance, and another beside it asks in even bigger, violent red text ‘WHERE WOULD YOU TURN IF YOUR MENTAL HEALTH DETERIORATED ABROAD?’

Very good question, I decide as I pull the folder containing Naomi’s certificates from my bag, and realise my hands are shaking.

‘So… my apologies, but is your name Kirsty or Kristie?’ Sebastian asks. He’s looking at me intently across the desk where we have sat down. ‘I thought Marion introduced you as Kirsty… but then Liza and Roberto have been referring to you as Kristie…’

They’ve all been talking about me? I suddenly have goosebumps.

‘Sorry, yes, my name is actually Kirsty.’ I slide my passport across the table to him, feeling more and more like I’m attending a job interview. ‘But I soon realised I had the choice of being called “Krusty” by everyone, or resigning myself to being called Kristie or Christina for the rest of my stay here.’

Sebastian is laughing. ‘Yes, there are some names that just don’t translate. Luckily my parents chose one that is pronounced the same way in both countries.’

‘Are you British, then?’ I ask, feeling a bit silly. Seeing him properly for the first time now, unencumbered by umbrellas and Marion and torrential rain, he doesn’t look British – not with that caramel skin and jet-black hair. But his accent is perfect, more ‘Queen’s English’ than mine. And something about him doesn’t quite look Ecuadorian either. For a start, he’s far too tall. I’ve got used to towering over most people here, but just now, as I stood in my flats, this man was a good head taller than me. And no Ecuadorian or Brit I’ve ever met has eyes quite that colour – a really bright kind of amber green. I realise I’ve been holding eye contact for slightly too long as I try to figure this out. Feeling even sillier, I look down at my hands.

‘I have a British passport, yes,’ Sebastian says, seeming not to notice. ‘I was born in Portsmouth. My father was British, and my mother is from here, Quito.’ He seems to be wondering whether to carry on. I notice the past tense he uses to refer to his father.

‘We lived there until I was eight. Then things… went wrong, and my mother and I moved back here to Ecuador. So I am officially a dual national… a hybrid model.’ He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘Wow… so… it must be great having a job where you can help other fellow citizens,’ I say stupidly, not really knowing what to say.

‘Ha, well… they’re all people going through the most distressing part of their lives, whether it’s a mugging or illness or even the death of a loved one.’ He frowns. ‘It is fantastic being able to help people. But let’s just say, in this job, I don’t always see people at their best.’

Don’t I know how that feels, I think, recalling my brief contact with the customers who have passed through Home from Home’s legal department over the years. I might not have much to do with them past the initial reception and, if there’s time, getting them a sneaky cup of tea and a biscuit before they’re taken through to be interviewed by the solicitors… but each person has stayed etched in my memory. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Sebastian, dealing with people in the midst of real crises on a daily basis in his job.

‘Have you met any other Brits since you arrived?’ he asks, oblivious to my train of thought.

I tell him about Ray and Gabriela, and our first night out in Quito with the other British people in the bar.

‘Ah yes. The Expat Scene.’

‘Something in your tone tells me that isn’t really your thing?’

‘Well, Ray and Gabriela are great people. Really special. But I don’t click with the rest of that crowd… I suppose I’m not really British, at least not to them. I haven’t lived there for over twenty years, so I can’t really join in their conversations about missing baked beans and EastEnders and buckets and spades.’

‘Buckets and spades?’ I can’t help snorting with laughter, then immediately regret it as he looks embarrassed.

‘Yeah, was that completely off target?’ Luckily Sebastian is laughing, too. ‘See, I have no idea what it means to be British. I get my ideas from postcards and Bond films and the members of the public who come through the door here, who definitely aren’t representative of normality…’ He stops and looks at me for a few seconds, frowns slightly, then says, ‘Excluding you, that is.’

I’m not quite sure how to take that.

‘I have been to the UK as an adult, but only for work trips and a holiday once or twice to visit my grandparents, before they died.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess I didn’t really fit in there. My dad remarried and has a whole new family, so I have little blond-haired, English half-brothers out there somewhere… I stopped going back to visit after a while.’

I feel a sudden, inexplicable affinity for this man, this stranger, sitting opposite me with his awful tie and English accent and latino good looks.

‘Sorry! I don’t know why I’m… telling you my… whole… er…’ Sebastian trails off as he realises I’m not listening anymore and am staring wide-eyed at the shelf behind his head.

‘Is that Galaxy chocolate?’

He looks a little sheepish. ‘Yeah… my aunt in Birmingham sends it over from time to time in the diplomatic bag. She’s the only one of my dad’s family who really bothers to keep in touch. I save the chocolate for the prisoners mostly. They love it. And I keep some in here for the really upset people, you know, those going through a crisis.’

I notice the chocolate is next to a pack of man-sized Kleenex tissues and a bag of PG Tips.

‘But I do help myself sometimes… would you… er… would you like some?’

My expression is all the answer he needs.

It’s ridiculous really. I’ve been here less than a fortnight but already I feel like a deprived castaway, miles removed from civilisation and decent chocolate. Like in that Leonardo DiCaprio film where they all live on a remote island in Thailand, then he goes on a trip back to the mainland and everyone else gives him a list of things they need – soap, teabags, batteries, ammunition.

My mouth embarrassingly full of chocolate, I finally force myself to remember what I came here for and produce Naomi’s folder from my handbag.

‘I really don’t know if I’m going to be much help,’ I apologise, suddenly feeling very silly and out of place. ‘My Spanish is a bit rusty and I’m actually not fully qualified to practise law in the UK… I have a law degree but haven’t yet, er, finished training…’ I stop, suddenly hearing how pathetic I sound. ‘But I’m here because I want to help Naomi,’ I finish, with more conviction, forcing myself to sit up a little straighter.

‘Hey,’ Sebastian says, his tone suddenly gentle. ‘I think it’s pretty amazing you’re here at all, on your holiday, offering to do boring legal stuff for a prisoner you’ve only just met.’

Detesting myself, I blush.

He looks at the copies of my qualifications, then reads through the certificates I have translated so far, frowning and nodding to himself, and I stupidly feel almost as nervous and self-conscious as I did the day I went out for lunch with my dad and his then girlfriend to tell them my A-level results. Except, this time, no one interrupts me in mid-sentence and calls the waiter over to order a cappuccino.

‘This is excellent.’ Sebastian has gone very serious again. ‘Honestly, I’ve seen some interesting attempts at translation in my time, from supposed professionals here. But this is spot-on, you’ve captured all the terminology perfectly. I hope you didn’t spend too much time on this?’

‘No, no, course not!’ I lie, with what I hope is a convincing smile. ‘So, what do we have to do next?’

Sebastian gives me about a hundred forms and confidentiality agreements to sign, and explains that, once all the documents are translated, I’ll have to go to a public notary and swear some kind of oath, then he’ll submit everything to the UK authorities.

‘Oh, and… I’m afraid… Naomi’s full sentence also needs translating,’ he informs me with a sympathetic wince, laying a voluminous document on the table between us. I leaf through it – forty-seven pages in total – and realise it would probably be half the size if not for the flowery legalese I have seen many times before in these types of documents at Home from Home, when checking through and proofreading them. Except, of course, in English. It will take time, but once I’ve cracked the terminology it should be fairly repetitive and straightforward.

‘I can provide Galaxy chocolate on tap to help you get through it, if you like?’ Sebastian is looking at me with a Puss-in-Boots appealing expression, as if to say please don’t back out now, and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Never mind Galaxy, have you got any Bailey’s?’ I ask, already signing the documents.

Sebastian laughs. I’ll email you an electronic version of the sentence, if that helps. To save you carrying all this lot home.’

‘Well… I suppose that’s it then,’ I say, picking up my handbag as if making to leave, but not actually moving.

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Sebastian doesn’t get up either. ‘Thank you so much for this.’ He looks down at the papers in his hands. ‘And, er… if you need any help while you’re here, you know, sightseeing tips or anything, or if you fancy going to… anywhere in particular in Quito, just give me a call, okay?’ As he stands up and indicates for me to follow, he hands me another of his business cards.

‘That’s amazing, thank you – I didn’t realise the embassy did that sort of thing.’ I cling on to the card and think to myself that I must try to keep it somewhere safe and dry this time.

‘Er, no… yes. Yes, yes we do,’ he replies confusingly, not quite meeting my eye. ‘Now if I could just get the…’ He reaches past my shoulders to push open the heavy outer door again.

After what feels like another excruciatingly long wait squashed next to each other in the airlock, we reach the reception area and I turn to shake Sebastian’s hand just as he bends to kiss me on the cheek. Both muttering ‘Oh, sorry’ in a terribly British way, he then extends his hand to shake mine as I lean up to kiss him on the cheek, and end up banging my cheekbone against his ear while his hand awkwardly clasps my elbow.

‘Thanks again for everything,’ he says, holding the door open for me. I mutter something senseless to his shoes and flee the embassy.

***

Out on the street again I lean back against the wall of the building and take in big gulps of fresh air. My heart is pounding and my legs are actually trembling a little. And I don’t think it’s just from the sudden descent from the tenth floor to ground level, altitude or not.

I did it! I entered the British Embassy, was accepted as a formal translator, and got out again without being laughed out of the building, causing a security alert or completely embarrassing myself. Well, apart from almost kissing Sebastian’s ear as we said goodbye. My cheeks burn just at the memory of it. But the most important thing is that Naomi now has her translator. There will be no more delays to her release process. I’m going to do this!

It doesn’t even bother me that I am now committed to translating her whole sentence, something I would never have imagined when I first spontaneously volunteered to help her, sitting there in her prison cell. Right now, I feel I can achieve anything. I step out confidently into the street, actually looking forward to the challenge of my return journey. Not even the craziest Ecuadorian bus driver can dampen my spirits now.

Back at Liza and Roberto’s, before I even have the chance to put my key in the lock, Liza opens the door looking positively overjoyed to see me. ‘Kristie, querida!’ she gushes. ‘How did it go?’

The grin on my face is all the answer she needs.

‘Praise God!’ she exclaims, bouncing a little on the spot and reaching out to clasp my hands in hers, then dramatically drawing the sign of the cross over me several times. I’m so swept up in the excitement that I find myself bouncing with her and squeezing her hands back.

‘Now, come inside – this calls for a hot chocolate and biscuits.’

‘Oh, thank you, Liza, I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just going to go upstairs and get changed…’

As I open the apartment door upstairs, I jump at the sight of Harry, sat on the sofa by the window, staring stonily at the door.

‘When were you going to tell me your father is coming here?’ he says coldly, by way of greeting.

I stop dead, taken utterly by surprise. ‘Wh… what? He’s not… I mean, I don’t know if…’

Harry wordlessly holds out my phone to me. ‘You left this behind.’

I stare down at the small, inoffensive item in Harry’s outstretched hand, still not understanding its meaning. ‘I left it here because they told me no phones are allowed inside the embassy, and it was just at risk of getting stolen on the buses.’

‘Well, your father called.’ Harry’s tone is icy. ‘From a travel agent. He told me he’s booked a ticket to come here next week. With some woman called Dorice. He seemed surprised I didn’t already know about this. It sounded like you’d been planning it for some time.’

‘Harry, I…’ Lost for words, I sit down heavily on the end of the bed, still staring at my phone.

Dad has actually booked a ticket?

Despite Harry’s obvious fury with me, I can’t help feeling a little surge of elation. Dad has actually BOOKED a ticket!

‘I saw his number come up on your phone and answered it, thinking for a moment that something had happened.’ Harry’s tone is severe. ‘It turns out that all that’s happened is, you’re making arrangements with him behind my back.’

‘Harry, look…’ I attempt, despite the fact he’s already striding away from me towards the door. ‘I was going to tell you. Honestly. But it was just an idea – a few days ago I asked him if he’d like to come and see us here, but I never really thought he’d do it, let alone at such short notice! I meant to tell you sooner that I’d talked to him about it, but we’ve both been so busy over the last few days…’

‘You’ve been busy,’ Harry corrects me coldly. ‘I actually had the day off today. I was going to ask if you felt like going out somewhere.’

‘Harry, please don’t—’

‘Check your email,’ he interrupts me tersely. ‘Your dad said he’d email you the flight details. Meanwhile, I’m going out. See you later.’ Then, with that, the door shuts hard behind him.

Chapter Eleven

I don’t know how long I stare at the door, unshed tears clogging my throat, frustration flooding my heart. It’s been three days since I exchanged those messages with my father, and I haven’t heard anything from him since. The message I sent him last night, casually asking if he’d thought any more about it, went unanswered. What are the chances, I ask myself, that he would phone this morning, of all times, when I deliberately left my phone at home? I bury my head in my hands in exasperation. Just when I felt I was making progress with my father, reaching out to him after so long… in doing so I have only managed to push Harry even further away.

But Dad is coming, I remind myself. Despite everything, a shiver of elation runs through me. Dad is coming here! I must contact him. Harry said he was going to email me flight details… oh my God, this is really happening!

In that moment I realise I have two options. I can stay here in the apartment, moping, waiting for Harry to get home from wherever he’s gone. Or I can carry on with what I had planned to do when I first got home from the embassy – ask Liza to borrow her computer, print off Naomi’s sentence, and get started on it right away. And, now, read the email from my father.

Harry isn’t going to come back any sooner, or be any less angry with me, whatever I do. I stand up and try to summon back the feeling of optimism and motivation that filled me as I left the embassy.

Sod him, I think defiantly, getting up and heading towards the door. If he wants to get angry and storm out before even hearing my side of things, then let him. I’ve got a sentence to translate and a visit to arrange.

‘There you are!’ Liza exclaims, ushering me inside. ‘I’d started to wonder where you’d got to… come in, come in, Roberto and I just started watching The Colour of Sin.’

Liza leads me into the kitchen. Roberto is at the table with a steaming mug of tea between his hands, staring transfixed at a little boxy television as a passionate argument unfolds between a glamorous, dark-haired young couple.

I’d heard a bit about the telenovelas – Latin American TV shows – from Gabi. They basically sounded like UK soap operas but with more attractive characters and even less plausible storylines.

‘Hello, Kristie, sit down, have some tea. Maria is about to tell Carlos about her affair with his sister,’ Don Roberto pats the chair beside him, not taking his eyes off the TV. ‘Then you can tell us all about how it went at the embassy.’

‘Um, actually, Liza, Roberto, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind me using your computer to print something off? I want to get started straight away on the …’ I falter as the woman on the TV screen starts screaming hysterically, while the man grabs a knife from somewhere and holds it dramatically against his own wrist, face screwed up in an exaggerated grimace. ‘Er… on translating the documents,’ I finally manage.

Liza is beaming at me kindly, regardless of the carnage taking place before us on the TV. ‘That’s wonderful, dear. Let me show you where the computer is. As I said to Harry, it’s very outdated – Roberto and I only really use it for keeping track of the handicraft sales, and playing solitaire of an evening – but it works well enough.’ She indicates for me to follow her.

So Harry has been using the computer, has he? Interesting. I think fleetingly that he’d never mentioned coming downstairs to borrow the computer, let alone what he might need to do that for, when we have a perfectly good laptop in the apartment that he insisted on bringing with us…

Liza is in front of me holding open one of the doors leading off the main living room. It’s a spare bedroom, virtually empty except for an ancient-looking wooden bed with flowery covers, and an even more ancient-looking desktop computer on a mahogany desk opposite.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then, dear – just call us if you need us.’

As the computer gradually whirs and clunks its way to life, I glance around the room. It has a dusty, unused feel to it – very different from the other pristine parts of the house. My eyes come to rest on the little bedside table, empty except for a complicated lace cover draping down its sides, and a framed photograph of a woman.

I glance at the door to check Liza has truly left, then – succumbing to my curiosity – lean over and pick up the picture. A pretty girl, no older than eighteen, smiles back at me from behind a sweeping fringe of glossy brown hair, wearing a navy shirt that looks like school uniform. Just from the quality of the photograph I can tell it was taken a long time ago. Is it my imagination, or do I recognise Liza’s slightly crooked smile in her face… Roberto’s twinkling eyes?

Feeling suddenly guilty, I put the photo back down and turn sharply away. In the short time I’ve known them Liza and Roberto have never mentioned any children, grown-up or otherwise, and Harry and I have not asked. It is certainly not my place to go snooping around looking at photos, or speculating about their private life. And anyway, she could be their niece.

I turn back to the computer, which has finally woken up, loading what looks like Windows 97. I open up my email, my heart starting to race faster as I see there is, indeed, a new message from my father.

All thoughts of Harry temporarily wiped from my mind, I open it.

Dear Kirsty,

It was good to talk to you the other day. I’ve tried to phone you several times since, but I think the time difference and poor signal have conspired against us.

Anyway, it was really nice of you to suggest that we come out and see you there in Ecuador. You’ll remember I told you Dorice is a professional wildlife photographer – and it would really mean a lot to her to visit a country with such wonderful photographic opportunities.

I pause, gritting my teeth. I don’t really care what it would mean to HER, I find myself thinking crossly. Keep reading, my more rational side tells me. Give him a chance.

She has already travelled to South Africa, Australia and many parts of Asia photographing their flora and fauna. Now she is really excited about the opportunity to visit South America. Of specific consequence to her are the Galápagos Islands with their unique native species, and the Ecuadorian cloud forest’s rare indigenous hummingbirds and poisonous frogs.

Bloody hell, get to the point! I shout silently at him in my head.

Therefore we have decided to take you up on your offer. Don’t worry, we will be completely independent, and make our own hotel booking in Quito. You told me you’re only going to be in Quito another few weeks, so I took the liberty of going ahead and booking a flight, arriving early next week – you’ll see the booking attached.

Oh my God… he’s really done it!

Flights were significantly cheaper if we booked today, so I hope you don’t mind us just going ahead. We’ll be in Ecuador for ten days in total, which we intend to divide between Quito, the Galápagos and the cloud forest. This is still to be negotiated with Dorice.

Negotiated?

Anyway, I’ll leave you now and had better get on with packing my suitcase

Love,

Dad.

I stare at the email for several long moments, hardly believing its content. Had my father, retired assistant manager and owner of the world’s most drab furniture, really just used a smiley face in his email? And signed it off Love Dad?

Impulsively I pull my phone out and dial his number.

‘David Morgan?’ The voice that answers is clipped and professional.

‘Dad, it’s me!’ I practically shout. ‘I’ve just got your email!’

‘Oh, hi, Kirsty.’ The professional tone stays in place, but I refuse to let that dampen my spirits. ‘I hope this is okay. It was a bit of a last-minute decision to book the ticket today, but… Dee really wanted to do it.’

‘Yes, it’s fine, I’m really excited about it, too,’ I tell him, yearning to hear some of my enthusiasm reciprocated. ‘Do you want me to start looking at hotels for you? Planning things to do in Quito?’

There’s a brief silence, then I hear my father muttering something in the background, and a woman’s voice replying. Everything sounds suddenly muffled as if he’s got his hand over the receiver.

‘Listen, Kirsty, sorry, but I can’t stop,’ he says, returning to the line. ‘We’re just about to go out. Plus, this must be costing you a fortune. But I’ll see you next week. And until then let’s keep in touch over message, okay?’

‘Right, yes, of course, I…’ I look down at my phone and realise Dad has already gone.

Oh well, we’ve got plenty of time to talk if he’s going to be coming to Quito for a whole week. I’m not quite sure what he meant about negotiating that time with Dorice… briefly, I wonder what she’s like. But the main thing is, Dad is coming out here… and I made it happen! Well, I had the idea for it, anyway…

I decide I really must talk to Harry as soon as he’s back, calmly and firmly, to explain just why this is so important to me. Once I’ve apologised for springing it on him, he will have to understand…

Until then, I turn my focus to Naomi’s sentence, feeling tentatively hopeful about Dad’s visit and emboldened to face Harry when he gets home. I send the document to print, and as the pages slide one by one out of Liza’s ancient, dusty printer, I pick them up and start to read.

Within minutes, I’m utterly engrossed. By the second page, I lose myself in the word-by-word transcript of Naomi’s arrest and subsequent hearing, the lurid description of her capture at Quito airport documented as a series of events down to the hour and minute, all transporting me to that moment so vividly I feel I am there, experiencing the horror of being caught, all myself.

I read the description of how an X-ray machine had picked up on the small packages in Naomi’s stomach. How she’d been locked in a room until they passed naturally, with no human contact apart from a cold, professional observer. How in the hearing she’d begged and sobbed and pleaded against the sentence, imploring the judge to consider her children, to remember that this was her first ever offence of any kind, to believe she had only made the decision out of ‘financial desperation’; how her hysteria meant she had to be dragged from the room afterwards. Tears blurred my vision as I came to the stark biometric data of her arrest report: female, twenty-six-years old, Caucasian race. No distinctive physical features except caesarean section scar on abdomen (recent).

I work through the document, making notes, underlining the words I don’t understand, ready to start typing it up on the laptop tomorrow.

At some point Liza pokes her head round the door to let me know that she’s left some dinner out for me and Harry, and that she and Roberto will be going to bed shortly.

Is that the time already? She and Roberto always go to bed really early, but even so… I finally put the sentence document to one side and stand up to stretch. Harry still isn’t back. I tell myself he must just be with Ray, but even so feel a wrench of worry. We never usually stay angry this long…

Just then, I hear a noise outside and realise it’s the sound of someone heading up the stairs, shortly followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock upstairs. Thank goodness… it must be him.

I gather up the papers and switch off the light, after casting one last, curious glance at the photo of the young girl with Liza’s smile. Darkness is just falling outside and the lights of the buildings in the valley below us are twinkling up at me in the half-light. It’s such a beautiful evening, it can’t be the evening for an argument, it just can’t. I fix a conciliatory smile on my face as I open the door to the apartment.

‘Hey,’ I call, hearing the sound of Harry cleaning his teeth in the bathroom.

‘Hey,’ he mutters, his mouth sounding full of toothpaste. I wait for him to come out.

‘I was at a bar with Ray and Luke,’ he tells me, appearing from the bathroom with his hair standing slightly up on end and a towel over his shoulder. ‘They were playing old sixties Latin American music… it was weird.’

‘Right. Harry, listen…’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Dad. I honestly didn’t think he was going to go ahead and book a ticket. It was just a crazy idea I had after the prison visit… I left him a voicemail asking if he wanted to come out here.’

‘But why?’ Harry is frowning at me, looking at me like I’ve descended in a time machine again. ‘You hardly ever see your dad. And you don’t have anything to talk about with him when you do see him. Why would you want him out here with us, in the middle of our travels?’

‘Well, we’re not actually travelling anywhere at the moment, are we?’ I remind Harry. ‘And I don’t know if you’ll understand this, but meeting that prisoner, Naomi, really made it hit home to me that life is precious. Time keeps on passing and I barely know my father. What if now is the time to do something about that?’

‘But…’ Harry’s frown deepens. ‘All he ever does is make excuses, reasons for not inviting us over to his or for not ever coming to visit us.’

I swallow, the truth in Harry’s words hitting me hard. ‘I know. But what if I can be the one to break that cycle? To invite him somewhere? When was the last time we actually phoned him up and invited him over, just for the sake of it, not because it’s Boxing Day or graduation or because we’re going travelling… but, because we actually wanted to?’

Harry turns away from me, shrugging.

‘They’re only going to be in Quito for a week, anyway,’ I continue determinedly. ‘And it coincides perfectly with the remainder of our time here. We’ve been here two weeks now… so by the time Dad leaves, we’ll be free to move on to our next stop, right? Machu Picchu, the Inca trail…’

Harry turns round again, rubbing his eyes blearily. ‘You don’t have to convince me, Kirst. It’s already clear your dad’s coming out here, whatever I think. I just…’ He sighs, and sits down. ‘I just didn’t expect all this when we decided to go travelling.’

‘All what?’ I stare at him. ‘What did you expect, then?’ I feel suddenly emboldened. ‘Weren’t you the one who told me life is too short, we should be striving for what we want, following our dreams, and all that? Well… that’s what I’m doing, Harry.’

Harry runs his hands through his hair and gets up, walking towards me and taking my hands. ‘You’re right. Forget I said anything… look, if this is really what you want, I’ll support you.’ He leans down to kiss me softly on the lips, and I get a vague waft of beer. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt, for your dad to let you down again…’

I squeeze his hand and smile firmly. ‘Well, that’s a risk I have to decide to take for myself.’

Despite the bravado in my voice, as I turn away to get ready for bed I can’t help wondering why increasingly these days Harry is looking at me like a total stranger.

Chapter Twelve

Ray and Gabriela arrive in a characteristic explosion of noise and energy.

‘OVER HERE!’ I hear Gabi squeal just as their ancient Chevrolet screeches round the corner of Liza’s street, unidentifiable rock music thumping from the open windows. I’d been sitting on the curb outside the house for twenty minutes already, getting increasingly impatient.

‘Quick, get in!’ Ray leans out of the window, lowering his shades and dramatically revving the engine, causing it to spew out a thick stream of black smoke into the road behind. ‘Terrible traffic, there have been more protests about the prisons in the town centre and loads of roads are closed. But it’s okay – I know a back route.’ He revs the engine again.

‘He thinks he’s Sean Connery in a Bond movie,’ explains Gabriela, rolling her eyes apologetically, leaning round from the passenger seat to kiss me on the cheek. No sooner have I shut the back door behind me than we’re off with a squeal of tyres and more black smoke.

‘Seriously, cariño, we’re just going to pick up Kirsty’s dad from the airport, not escape a mob of angry terrorists,’ Gabriela insists, but Ray’s shades are back down over his eyes and his jaw set in concentration.

‘Hey, are you okay?’ I feel Gabi peering in concern at my face, and wish I had remembered to put on sunglasses as well to hide my puffy eyes.

Just then my phone rings again and I dive for it, grateful for the distraction.

Liza’s shrill voice pierces my ear.

‘YOU DIDN’T COME DOWNSTAIRS TO SAY BYE!’ she shouts accusatorily. ‘I MADE EMPANADAS!’ I open my mouth to apologise but her tirade continues. ‘WE’RE INVITING YOUR FATHER FOR DINNER THIS EVENING!’ she informs me, getting louder. Why is it that older people feel the need to yell at the top of their voice when using a mobile phone, as if technology had not advanced any further than holding a plastic cup to your ear and shouting?

‘DOES HE EAT LASAGNE?’

I hold the phone away from my ear. ‘Yes, Liza, I think so, but honestly you don’t have to go to any trouble. I’m sure Dad will be tired after the flight and just want to…’

‘GREAT! BRING RAY AND GABRIELA AS WELL!’ Then she hangs up, leaving me no further chance to object.

It takes us nearly three hours to get there. Endlessly punctuated with awkward roadside toilet breaks for poor Gabi, and, eventually, me as well, the journey is a nightmare of twisting country roads and bumpy detours. Twice we come to a dead end due to road closures and have to turn back. It would be a beautiful drive, as we leave the city behind us and reach an unspoilt horizon of clear blue sky and rolling green hillsides – if it were not for the painful rattling of the clunky little car and pitiless sunlight blazing in through all the windows, slowly welding us to the leather seats. With each passing mile, Ray becomes less Sean Connery and more Shaun the Sheep, slumping further and further down in his seat and smoking dejectedly out of the window.

By the time we finally clatter to a halt outside the shiny new airport, the sun is lower in the sky and a radio announcement is cheerfully informing us that the crowds of protestors have been dispersed by police and the main bypass to the airport is now open again. I still haven’t heard anything from Harry.

While Gabi runs off to the toilet again, Ray and I hurry to look at the big winking boards displaying all incoming flights.

‘The fourteen-fifteen from Madrid, right?’ Ray is nudging me. ‘It looks like it’s already landed!’

But I don’t need him or the board to tell me that as, already, like a sniper honing in on his target, I’ve spotted my father. A head taller than most of the people in the crowd also flocking out of the sliding doors away from immigration, his salt-and-pepper hair and determined, striding gait are unmistakable. He’s wearing a dark-blue jumper I bought him about four Christmases ago, in the Tesco sale, I think, and dragging two enormous unwieldy suitcases that keep bumping into each other as he walks. It strikes me that he looks more tired, and older somehow, than when I last saw him.

My heart starts to pound. Will we hug each other in greeting? Our sporadic visits usually begin with only an awkward cheek-kiss. But when you’re meeting someone who has just crossed an ocean to visit you, surely that warrants a hug…

A moment later Dad catches sight of me and begins laboriously steering the suitcases in my direction. He can’t let go of them to wave, so the only sign of recognition on his face is a slight raising of eyebrows and a curt nod.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, suddenly feeling shy, then lurching forward to catch one of the suitcases just as it starts to teeter and wobble precariously. Well, that precludes any hugging, but I’m sure there will be another opportunity.

‘Hi, love.’ He nods at the suitcase. ‘Thanks. Harry hasn’t come with you?’

Great, he’s picked up on Harry’s absence straight away…

‘No, Harry had to work this morning at the language school, but my friends Ray and Gabriela kindly offered to drive us instead…’ I trail off as Dad turns away from me to shake their hands and for the first time I notice his companion, following several feet behind him with a mobile phone glued to her ear.

She is only about five foot three and very petite, with a lot of vividly dyed red hair piled up on top of her head with a clip. Dressed head to foot entirely in khaki, I can’t help but imagine her immaculate clothes adorning the pages of a designer outdoor-wear catalogue, sported by women much younger than her, grinning at the camera from a windswept mountain scene.

As she marches up to my father, in what I notice are bright-turquoise, pristine, child-sized hiking boots, she clicks the phone shut and says to him in a businesslike tone, ‘They can have a driver here in five minutes.’

Driver?

‘Dorice, this is my daughter, Kirsty, and her friend Ronald.’ He pronounces her name strangely, elongating the vowels: Doreeees. Is that even a real name?

‘Ray,’ I correct him, shaking Dorice’s perfectly French-manicured hand, strangely incongruous against her ready-for-anything combat gear. ‘What driver?’

‘Um…’ Dad flicks his gaze uncomfortably from Dorice to me, then back to Dorice, then at Ray, finally letting it come to rest on the floor somewhere over by the bureau de change. ‘Kirsty and her friends have come to pick us up,’ he mutters almost inaudibly, and it takes us all a few moments to realise he’s talking to Dorice.

What’s going on? Surely my dad, experienced businessman and independent bachelor, can’t be acquiescing to this… person?

Dorice and I stare each other out for a few tense seconds, then eventually she, also, lowers her gaze. ‘Well, I must sit in the front,’ she insists, pouting. ‘I get terribly car sick in the back.’

Ray breaks the tension by stepping forward and offering to take the suitcases from Dad.

‘Thank you, that’s so kind,’ Dorice beams at Ray, before turning to my father and hissing, ‘David, the equipment!’

‘Oh, yes, right,’ mutters my father, mumbling a further apology to Ray and taking back the larger of the two suitcases. ‘Photographic equipment,’ he says to Ray, by way of explanation.

‘Extremely expensive photographic equipment,’ Dorice adds, striding after my father as he begins hauling the grotesquely large suitcase after him again. I find myself wondering crossly why ‘the equipment’s’ monetary value means my fifty-five-year-old father has to be in charge of carrying it instead of twenty-years-younger Ray, but I don’t get the chance to ask as my father and Dorice are already halfway towards the airport doors ahead of us.

Ten minutes later we have all managed to wedge ourselves into Ray and Gabriela’s Chevrolet. Dorice occupying the front seat means that my father, Gabriela, Gabriela’s ballooning belly and I are all crammed into the back, with one end of the largest of the suitcases pressing uncomfortably into our necks. I glare at the back of Dorice’s head, already wishing she had gone straight into the cloud forest. And stayed there.

Luckily the main roads have reopened so it takes us less than an hour to get back to inner-city Quito. Nobody speaks much on the journey. Dorice stares stiffly out of the window the whole way, and Ray seems quite happy with the radio on and one arm hanging casually out of the window in the fading afternoon sunshine. Gabriela dozes off soon after we set off and my father and I are obliterated from each other by her sleeping bulk. Despite my growing sense of anticipation about my dad’s arrival over the last few days, I suddenly cannot think of a single thing to say to him.

As we finally stop outside their hotel, a fancy-looking building tucked away in a quiet, wealthy sector of the city, I lean awkwardly around Gabriela and smile at him.

‘Liza and Roberto would like to invite you over for dinner tonight. They’re our landlord and lady, although they’ve become more like friends. I know you’ll want to rest and freshen up here first, but…’

‘That would be lovely,’ Dad replies, smiling back.

Momentarily I forget about Dorice’s haughty presence in the front seat, and feel a surge of hope. This is going to work out…

Back at Liza and Roberto’s, as soon as we open the door, the wonderful, rich, savoury smell of baking lasagne meets us, closely followed by Harry, wearing an apron splattered in red sauce.

‘How did it go?’ he asks, bending to kiss me and inadvertently getting sauce on my top. ‘I just got back from the school. So, what’s she like?’

‘Hmmm, you’ll see soon enough,’ I tell him, stepping past him into the kitchen. How on earth would you describe Dorice?

‘Right, what needs doing in here?’ I ask the kitchen at large.

The room is even more chaotic than usual, every work surface taken up with dishes and utensils in various stages of use, colourful vegetables spread out on chopping boards, plates and wine glasses piled on the table ready to be laid out. A light salsa beat pulses in the background from the ancient radio, and Liza is swinging her hips to the music as she stirs something on the stove. She turns and sees me and exclaims joyously,

‘Kristie! Sweetheart, about time. Try this please?’ She thrusts a wooden spoon dripping cheese sauce towards me. Unable to protest, I sip the sauce and realise it is absolutely delicious. ‘Good? Great. Now, if you could get on with the salad, please. And this needs chopping.’ She presses a large aubergine into my hands then turns back to the stove.

‘Er, Liza, you really didn’t have to go all this troub—’

‘Nonsense. Your father is visiting. I killed a chicken specially. Now, Harry, can you please watch this sauce while I see where Roberto’s got to with the dessert.’

***

Dad and Dorice show up two hours later in a private cab from the hotel. Dorice is wearing a different pair of khaki combat trousers and a soft, expensive-looking coral fleece with about six zip-pockets up each side, topped off with matching pink lipstick. Thankfully Dad has changed out of the Tesco jumper – I feel an unexpected pang of guilt for ever buying it for him – and is now wearing a cream shirt that looks in good need of an iron, and clutching a bottle of apple juice. He looks more tired than I have ever seen him look before.

‘Wanted wine, but all shops, no sale…’ he fumbles in broken Spanish to Liza as he hands over the apple juice and they exchange cheek-kisses.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Ecuadorian licensing laws are complicated and you won’t find a bottle of wine for love nor money anywhere after five o’clock,’ Liza witters on, taking the bottle from him and indicating for him to sit down. Dad is nodding politely but I can tell he doesn’t understand a word.

Ray and Gabriela arrive just behind them, looking refreshed and smiling despite our pointless ordeal earlier. Ray immediately starts chatting animatedly to Harry as they carry plates and glasses out from the kitchen to the dining table.

‘Kristie, be a good girl and take this out to the table,’ Liza puffs, slapping a pair of oven gloves into my hands then a vast, oozing lasagne dish on top of them. Nearly buckling under the weight, I stagger out of the kitchen towards the dining table, but something I hear Liza say stops me just outside the doorway.

‘Roberto, do you think we should have invited Sebastian?’

Hearing Sebastian’s name I can’t help but hover to listen, edging closer to the doorway, straining to hear over the clanging of kitchen implements and ignoring the feel of the heavy lasagne getting slowly hotter in my hands. Liza is fussing over a salad with her back to me, Roberto beside her rummaging in the kitchen drawers for cutlery.

‘I’m not sure that would have been a good idea,’ Roberto replies, his voice muffled as he bends over the drawer. ‘I think he’s still very…’ His voice is drowned by the metallic sound as he gathers up an armful of knives and forks. I lean as close to the crack in the doorway as I dare, nearly losing my balance with the hefty dish.

Liza won’t give up. ‘But it would have been nice to cheer him up. After everything that happened I don’t think he…’

Suddenly my fingers are burning despite the oven gloves and I’m forced to jerk away from the door and rush to thud the dish down heavily on the dining table, blowing on my hands in pain.

What had they been going on about… after everything that happened? Everyone else seems to have dark secrets around here… surely not lovely, friendly, silly-tie-wearing Sebastian, too?

I don’t have much time to dwell, as Roberto has come in to lay the table and propose a toast to ‘los viajeros’. Making sure everyone’s glass is filled, he raises his own high and claps my father on the back. ‘Welcome to Ecuador, and above all, congratulations on your marriage!’

Wait… what?

As everyone clinks their glasses together and chants ‘welcome’ and ‘congratulations’ in both English and Spanish, my eyes meet Harry’s over the table for the first time of the evening, and I realise there has been a horrible misunderstanding.

When explaining my father’s visit to the staunchly Catholic Liza and Roberto, I’d referred to my father and his ‘wife’, for fear of delving too far into the reality that this is actually a woman I’ve never met before and who will probably only be around five minutes before being replaced by a newer model. I never thought my white lie would actually see daylight, as my dad only speaks basic schoolboy Spanish from forty years ago and everyone will rely on me to translate everything.

To my immense irritation I see that Harry is turning a brighter red than the tomato topping on the lasagne, trying to control his silent laughter. Perhaps I’ll get away with it, I think, as everyone lowers their glasses and starts to tuck in. But then I notice my father, considerably perkier than when he arrived, is also laughing heartily. To my horror he leans across the table and says in a stage whisper to Roberto:

‘That’s great, thanks,’ he guffaws, ‘but we’re not married! What’ve you been telling everyone about us, eh, Kirsty?’ He laughs again and clinks wine glasses enthusiastically with Roberto, who is laughing along but looking at me strangely out of the corner of his eye. Oh God… I plaster a good-natured smile on my face and try to divert everyone’s attention to Liza’s homemade chicken lasagne in the centre of the table.

‘Um, yes, great, please help yourselves, it’s getting cold…’

Dorice, however, is staring down at her plate with a look of wide-eyed alarm on her face.

‘Oh dear, oh no, oh dear me, no…’ she mutters, lifting the top off the slice of lasagne with her fork.

‘Love, what’s wrong?’ Liza jumps up and bustles over, and Dorice turns her delicate face up imploringly.

‘I can’t eat cheese.’

What? Who on earth can’t eat cheese?

‘Yes…’ Dorice is nodding tragically. ‘It makes me dreadfully ill. Plays havoc with my digestive system, gives me terribly painful bowels. I’m sorry, I can’t eat this.’ And she pushes the plate of lasagne away, not looking remotely sorry.

Miserably I translate for Liza, omitting the word ‘bowels’, and she is immediately galvanized into action, fussing around, piling more salad on to Dorice’s plate and going off to grill some extra chicken.

‘You could have told me,’ she whispers fiercely as I trail miserably after her to the kitchen to help. You don’t get it, I didn’t even know the bloody woman existed until a few weeks ago, I just manage to stop myself from saying.

When eventually I sit back down again, Gabi squeezes my hand and gives me an encouraging smile, as if to say ‘don’t worry, it’s nearly over’.

Feeling like a marathon runner seeing the ‘20 mile’ sign loom on the horizon, I take a deep breath and prepare to translate Dorice’s long and complicated description of her son’s job in ‘The City’ to a politely nodding Roberto. I notice crossly that Harry and Ray at the other end of the table are engrossed in something on Harry’s phone, and my father is looking more and more embarrassed with every passing adjective Dorice uses to describe her son’s ‘burgeoning’ financial career.

‘Er, yes, well, that’s very nice,’ he eventually interrupts awkwardly, before turning to Liza and Roberto and attempting to ask in Spanish, ‘You… to have… children?’

I stop chewing and my breath catches in my throat. The question that has been at the back of my mind since I got here, but that it somehow got too late to actually ask. Suddenly the only sound at the table is of Dorice’s knife obliviously sawing away at a slice of aubergine. I see Roberto’s hand reach out to cover Liza’s, in a gesture so natural and instinctive that I know immediately he’s done it a hundred times before, in a hundred situations like this.

‘We had a daughter,’ he says softly. ‘Abigail. We lost her when she was at university.’ I flick a glance at Liza whose face is set in a long-practised, expressionless mask. ‘That was eleven years ago,’ continues Roberto. ‘No, please don’t worry…’ He smiles graciously at my father’s mortified apologies. ‘It’s fine to ask. People often ask.’

I remember the photo of the pretty young girl in the spare bedroom. Her slightly crooked smile and thick, shining, brown hair, just like Liza’s. Suddenly I feel cold and desperately tired. Even Dorice has put her knife and fork down and looks subdued.

‘Your daughter is a credit to you, David,’ says Liza finally, clearing her throat. She nods in my direction and only then do I realise she’s talking about me. ‘The way Kristie has settled in here, made friends, and not to mention speaking such excellent Spanish – you should be very proud.’ There’s a tense moment when no one speaks, and I can feel the blush rising hotly up my cheeks at Liza’s words.

Then my father clears his throat. ‘Thank you, Liza… it means a lot to hear that.’

I turn my head slowly to gape at him, hardly daring believe my ears, but he’s already turned away to Roberto, who has got to his feet, jovial and smiling again, to offer everyone dessert.

As everyone, including my father, clamours to start piling their plates up and pass them over to him, I realise the moment has passed.

‘Wait, we forgot to say grace!’ Liza suddenly exclaims, letting her spoon fall to the table with a clatter.

‘Oh, come on, let people finish their desserts,’ I hear Roberto mutter, but she’s not listening and has scraped her chair back and got to her feet. Roberto puts his cutlery down, too, with a sigh, and I notice Harry and Ray rolling their eyes at each other, but despite that, everyone gets to their feet as well.

‘Let’s all hold hands,’ decrees Liza. ‘I think now is a perfect time to say thank you to God for all that we have in our lives.’ I take Gabriela’s soft hand in my right, and Dorice’s icy cold one in my left, her large ring digging uncomfortably into my palm. Liza looks around at us all, standing obediently round the table, then continues. ‘Thank you, Lord, for Kristie’s father, David, and Dorice, whose journey brought them safely here to spend some quality time with their precious daughter.’ Please let it work out that way, I find myself silently adding to Liza’s prayer. ‘Ray and Gabriela, on the threshold of beginning a family together.’ With a mind of its own, my right hand squeezes Gabi’s and I feel her squeeze it back. ‘And finally, thank you for this house, this table, and this food, that Roberto and I share together with so much love.’

Everyone mutters ‘Amen’ and I find my voice joining theirs. As we all sit back down, I think of Liza and Roberto’s daughter, Abigail, and feel suddenly humbled that they are still able to feel such gratitude about anything, let alone all the things happening in other people’s lives around them.

As everyone is leaving, I go over to help Dad and Dorice into their coats.

‘See you tomorrow then? For a tour of the old town in the afternoon?’ I smile warmly at them, already filled with what feels like childish hope and excitement at the thought of showing Dad around this city that has become home for me over the last few weeks.

Dorice nods and graciously leans up to kiss me on the cheek. But as she disappears in front of him down the stairs, Dad turns to me, his brow knitted together crossly.

‘Thanks for stitching me up with that “marriage” stunt,’ he blurts out. ‘I suppose that was your and Harry’s idea of a joke?’ He looks genuinely cross, and I’m so shocked I feel incapable of forming a reply, so just stare at him, mouth half-open.

‘Anyway, see you tomorrow,’ he mutters, looking down, then heads off down the stairs after Dorice, one arm still hanging out of his jacket.

I’m so taken aback that I don’t know what to do with myself for a few moments and just stand there, holding on to the open door, tears of disappointment prickling behind my eyes. He’s only been here a matter of hours, and already my grand reconciliation is hardly going to plan. Until now it had seemed, however briefly, to be getting off to a good start. He had looked genuinely moved by what Liza said about me earlier. And something about seeing him hauling Dorice’s ridiculous luggage around, and his fumbled attempts to speak Spanish with Liza and Roberto, had already softened me towards him. I suppose I had dared hope, just for a moment, that he had been feeling the same towards me.

I blink back my tears and close the door, firmly telling myself not to give up at the first hurdle – we have all day together tomorrow, and I’m determined to make that more of a success.

‘Kristieeee!’ Liza’s voice is calling from the kitchen. It still takes me several seconds to realise she is addressing me with that name. ‘PLEASE CAN YOU GET THAT?’ Snapping out of my reverie about Dad, I notice the telephone, right next to me on the hallway table, is ringing.

‘Er, Liza and Roberto’s house?’ I say in Spanish, feeling childish.

‘Is Liza there?’ a woman’s voice shouts, sounding muffled. ‘Please, can I talk to Liza?’

‘Oh, yes, sure, hang on, just let me…’

‘Wait! Kirsty?’ I hear in English. I realise the voice is thick with tears, and a split second later, I recognise that it belongs to Naomi.

‘Oh, Kirsty, please will you come to see me? Marion’s away in the US visiting her son… the embassy man has already been twice this month, I can’t keep asking him… I’m just so alone. It’s my dad…’ She lets out a gasping, desperate sob. ‘I got a phone call this morning…’

As I listen grimly to the rest, Liza comes and stands before me in the hallway, holding a tea towel and looking worried. After another few moments, I replace the receiver and turn to her.

‘It’s Naomi. Her father was moved to a hospice this morning – they think he hasn’t got much longer. I’ve agreed to go and visit her tomorrow.’

Chapter Thirteen

I wake up with a start, filled with a sense of urgency that at first I cannot place. Then, as I become aware of the sound of rain drumming on the apartment skylight and the dimly lit room comes slowly into focus, the memory of last night’s phone call from Naomi comes crashing down on me.

Even as I recall the terrible news about her father and her heartbreaking sobs, I shiver at the memory of my hasty promise to visit her today… by myself. That means getting past the guards at the door and walking down that interminable corridor at the prison entrance all on my own, this time unshielded by Marion in all her bulk and fearlessness, like a lilac-clad Sherman tank. She has visited the prisons so many times already that if she felt any nerves when we visited Naomi last week, she certainly didn’t show it. Likewise all the other inmates must be so used to her that, as we trod the gauntlet of the prison entrance past all the other women, I noticed something similar to grudging respect in their expressions as they watched her. Not all of them were lucky enough to be visited regularly by a charity volunteer, but Marion and her flowing purple cardigans and staunch determination had become a regular fixture on Saturday mornings inside the prison.

What will happen to me, without her? I could get lynched, or taken hostage, or forced to carry out illegal substances and be arrested at the gates…

Even as my fears start to spiral, Naomi’s desperate voice fills my head and halts them. She needs me to do this. Marion is in the USA. Gabriela could give birth any day now. Liza has already made it clear she will never enter the prison. Naomi is going through something terrible, all on her own. There simply is no one else.

I consciously wrestle with my fears, replacing them with grim determination and a surge of unexpected bravery. I can do this. And what’s more… I realise I actually want to. Despite what feels like a significant likelihood of getting stabbed. I want to be strong for Naomi.

Plus, if I get up now, I can even make some good progress on the translation of her sentence before visiting hours start, and take it to show her for encouragement.

Feeling inspired by the knowledge I can actually do something positive in this situation, I jump out of bed, only then noticing Harry behind the breakfast bar, fussing about in the kitchen.

‘Morning, you – I got up early to make us breakfast!’ He holds an egg-covered spatula aloft as evidence. ‘There’s another one of those rainstorms going on – looks like the middle of the night outside. Isn’t it cosy?’

I’m already scrabbling for the laptop and barely hear him.

‘What are you doing?’

I look up and realise the easy smile is already fading from Harry’s face as he takes in the pile of papers, now permanently stacked up on my bedside table, and the laptop already whirring to life at the foot of the bed.

‘Visiting hours don’t start until nine – I’ve got an hour or so to make progress on the translations, before I go to see Naomi later.’ I briefly explain to Harry about Naomi’s call last night and my promise to visit, already half expecting another lecture about choosing to spend my time helping a load of dead-end criminals. In so many words, that’s what he said before I went on the first visit with Marion last week. But, to my surprise, Harry doesn’t say a word, and when I look up he’s focused very intently on measuring water into the coffee machine.

I turn back to the laptop, and have been typing away furiously for several minutes when he finally breaks the silence.

‘Liza got pretty intense last night, didn’t she?’

I frown up at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘All that praying stuff. Thanking Lord Jesus for everything and everyone. I didn’t think she was like that.’

I stare at him. ‘Like what?’

‘You know, one of those religious people who carries on believing, and going on about it, even though they’ve been through terrible tragedies. They lost a daughter, and still manage to believe in God!’ He barks out a cynical laugh.

Irritation surges within me and I feel my cheeks getting redder.

‘I don’t agree,’ I hear myself saying. ‘Can’t you see, it’s what has stopped them from getting bitter? It’s kept them going.’

Harry is frowning at me now. ‘And since when have you been such a devout believer?’

I rub my eyes and force myself to meet his accusatory gaze head-on.

‘I’m not, Harry, and that’s my whole point. I admire their faith. If they can keep hold of it, despite what they’ve been through, and in doing so still find it in themselves to love others and host dinner parties and take in random travellers for practically no rent…’ I wave emphatically at the space around us. ‘Then that makes their faith a good example for me, even though I don’t share it. It’s something to learn from.’

‘Oh, okay, okay, no need to get cross with me over it,’ says Harry with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I see what you mean.’

As I turn back to the computer screen and determinedly keep typing, I decide that he really does not.

But I don’t have time to worry about that now, as I want to print out the first ten pages of Naomi’s sentence, now successfully translated, then get ready and leave with plenty of time to arrive for the start of visiting hours. Not only do I want to see Naomi as soon as possible, but I don’t want to be late for Dad afterwards… I’ve agreed to be at his hotel for late morning, and after last night I feel anxious not to let him down.

Today has to go well.

I pull out the USB stick from the laptop and run to the door.

‘I’m just going downstairs to use their printer,’ I call to Harry, who has spent the last ten minutes arranging and rearranging his hair in the hallway mirror, a tub of gel on the worktop beside him. I fleetingly think this is rather unlike Harry, who usually just rolls out of bed to begin every day, but I don’t allow myself time to dwell on that.

‘Right, babe – I’m leaving in a minute,’ he replies. ‘But I’ll call you to meet somewhere as soon as my classes finish, okay?’

I give him a hasty kiss before trotting down the stairs clutching my USB stick.

Liza is nowhere to be seen, and Roberto is at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. He smiles and waves me through to the computer room without looking up from his crossword.

I load up the document and hit ‘print’, then lean back in the chair and wait as Liza and Roberto’s prehistoric bubble-jet printer painfully rasps its way across each page, line by line. I force my eyes to focus on its laborious progress as each page is slowly disgorged on to the tray, anything but turn around and see the picture again… the picture of the smiling, pretty girl I now know to be Liza and Roberto’s beloved, lost daughter.

But a familiar zooming, whooshing sound coming from the computer’s ancient speakers distracts me. A window has opened up automatically on the screen before me, a little egg timer spinning around briefly before the whole screen is filled with the Skype home page.

Liza and Roberto use Skype?

But the photo that has loaded up before me is not of Liza or Roberto. It is of Harry.

I stare in disbelief at my boyfriend, grinning back at me from the little profile picture next to the familiar blue Skype icon. It’s a photo I took of him years ago, on a rainy trip to Devon with his parents. He’s standing on a windswept hillside wearing that awful bright-red waterproof coat he had for years and years, hair blowing all over the place, smiling warmly back at the camera. At me. I feel suddenly dizzy with nostalgia and longing. That had to be at least two or three years ago, not long after university, before things between us got… however they are now.

Before I fully realise what I’m doing, I move the mouse to click on ‘call history’ at the top of the screen, my hand trembling slightly. As the egg timer goes round and round again, I realise what this means – Harry must have come down here, to Liza and Roberto’s flat, and asked to use the computer and made calls on Skype and not told me. I try to reason with myself that he was probably just calling his parents, or some other relative or friend back home… but if that were the case, why would he go to the trouble of coming down here, and – let’s face it – probably downloading Skype on to this computer, when we have a perfectly good laptop upstairs in the apartment?

A cold shiver of suspicion starts to snake its way down my back.

The call log is a long list of green icon after green icon – dialled calls, one after the other, all the same number.

Saturday, 12th November 09:05

Saturday, 12th November, 09:12

Saturday, 12th November, 11:41

Saturday, 12th November, 11:55

Why does that date ring a bell in my mind? Yes! It was the day I went to the prison with Marion. Hadn’t Harry had to give a class that morning? I can’t remember whether he had been working or not… but either way, it would seem he spent most of the morning sitting here, making calls that were repeatedly left unanswered. My confusion deepens as I keep scrolling down the call list.

Friday, 18th November, 09:22

Friday, 18th November, 09:35

Friday, 18th November, 10:08

The day I went to the embassy. Sebastian had asked me to go on a Friday, when they were closed to the public. The list stretches on to over fifteen attempted calls, all in the three-hour space of time I was out of the house, traversing Quito to reach the British Embassy.

I reach the very last calls in the list.

Thursday, 24th November, 19:26

Thursday, 24th November, 19:30

Thursday, 24th November, 19:32

The night before Dad arrived. Just two days ago. He’d gone downstairs to borrow a corkscrew from Liza. We had a bottle of wine, which I didn’t enjoy because of Harry’s comments about me doing the translations. He’d taken ages down there, then told me Liza wouldn’t stop chatting.

I realise I’m shivering.

All the calls are to an Ecuadorian mobile number, I recognise the country code and ‘99’ prefix meaning it is unmistakably a mobile. None of them lasted more than a few seconds…either they were picked up briefly or cancelled upon answer. Whomever Harry keeps trying to get hold of, they don’t seem to want to talk to him.

I press my fists into my eyes and lose myself in the oblivion of the dark, swirling shapes. None of it makes sense – why would Harry keep calling someone, when they never answer or just cut him off? Why would he secretly use Liza and Roberto’s computer, always waiting until I’m out of the house, or unsuspectingly, naively waiting for him upstairs?

What if these calls are related to Harry’s shouty phone call from our first day here, the one he told me was a travel company? Some deep, sinister instinct tells me there has to be a link between the two.

Harry’s smiling, windswept photo grins out at me from the computer screen and I stare back at it, as voices swirl and clamour through my mind – Marion, driving back from the prison, telling me Naomi wanted to change her mind, but they don’t let you… then Harry himself, shouting down the phone in Spanish, You don’t understand! A sense of foreboding and horror swelling inside me, I stare at the photo and silently ask, Oh Harry, just what is it you are up to here in Ecuador?

***

The prison looks particularly dismal today, in the overcast residues of the downpour. I stand outside and gaze up at it for a moment, the big ugly white building with stained walls and coils of barbed wire crowning its perimeter. I experience an involuntary shiver of fear at the thought of stepping over that threshold on my own. It had taken all my mental strength and determination to get myself ready and out of the apartment, then on to the right bus to bring me here to the most rundown part of the city, despite my discovery of Harry’s illicit phone calls. Frustratingly, he had already left when I went back upstairs to get changed, so I was left with no choice but to press forward with my journey to the prison, except now with a vortex of uncomfortable, unanswered questions churning in my mind.

Now, at the prison gates, I forcibly push all that to the back of my mind for now and focus on Naomi, and the reasons I am doing this. I like her, I want to help her. Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted to do with my life – help people who are less fortunate than me? I think of Joel, and the courage it must take to stand up in court and defend people like him with all the odds against them. If I am ever going to practise law myself I will have to do the same – and worse. Not all cases are won, as Joel’s was. But I will have to dust myself off and fight again, and again, after each one… regardless of whatever turmoil my own life may be in at the time.

Standing on the threshold of the prison, feeling alone and exposed, I realise that, if I go in now, things will never be the same for me. This is not just a routine visit, alongside Marion, and I am no longer just another volunteer passing through. My involvement now goes beyond that… I am visiting Naomi as a friend, out of my own personal determination to help her. Even as I realise this, I think back to my last day at Home from Home before leaving for Ecuador. I would never have imagined that within a few short weeks I would be stepping inside a prison, on my own, to help someone. And once I’ve done this, will I ever be able to go back? Will I be able to press on in my admin job – because, let’s face it, it is an admin job – and settle for leafing through the case folders at the end of the day, only dreaming about being involved directly? Will I have the courage to finally strive for more?

I take a deep breath, step forward and knock on the big iron door before me.

The shutter halfway up the door slides back, a pair of eyes blinks at me, then it slides shut again and the door swings open. A miserable-looking guard wearing a big green raincoat over his uniform nods when I say Naomi’s name and lets me in, glancing at my passport and giving a cursory rummage through my backpack, which is stuffed with chocolate bars and apples and teabags. As I cross the threshold, the step down takes me by surprise and I land heavily in a huge puddle, splashing muddy water up the front of my jeans. My heart hammering in my chest, I slowly pick my way across the courtyard dotted with more puddles reflecting the grey sky and looming dirty prison walls.

‘Kirsty! Over here!’ I look up, clutching my bag protectively to my chest, and it takes me a few moments to recognise the owner of the voice. A tall, elegant girl is leaning against a wall in front of me, flanked by a few other, more ordinary-looking women, all smoking. She’s wearing skin-tight leather trousers showing off very long, slim legs, and a turquoise leopard-print top with long sleeves, also clinging to her enviable figure. It’s Naomi, but she couldn’t look more different to the scruffily dressed, almost childlike girl I met last week.

‘Come over, then!’ she calls, grinning and making an impatient flapping gesture with the hand not holding the cigarette. I resist the urge to run flat out towards her and fall gratefully into her arms. Play it cool, I tell myself, walking as calmly as possible across the courtyard towards her and her group, feeling the eyes of the other women following my every step. I can’t help feeling as nervous as if I were in the school playground and the cool girls had just called me over to hang out with them. Not that I would even know what that felt like.

Naomi teeters forward in her stiletto heels to meet me halfway and wrap me in an enormous hug.

‘You look… amazing!’ I exclaim, unable to hide my surprise. I had been dreading seeing what state she’d be in after the news of her dad, and certainly hadn’t expected this. ‘How are you… how do you feel?’

‘Oh, I’m great,’ Naomi says with a dismissive wave, sending her cigarette flying disdainfully across the courtyard. ‘No point moping about, is there?’ She grabs my hand. ‘Come on, let me introduce you to the girls.’ Then she stops, turns and looks at me again, frowns, and says ‘Wait, Kirsty, are you okay?’ She is peering closely into my face now, so close that I can see the electric blue mascara painstakingly deployed on every lash. ‘You look a bit… rough. No, I’m just going to come out and say it – you look awful.’

Taken completely aback, I look down at my mud-soaked jeans and baggy hoodie, and raise my hands to touch my make-upless face and tied-back hair.

‘Well, it was raining all morning, and I had to travel halfway across Quito…’ I begin defensively. Naomi is holding on to both my hands now.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she says, more gently. ‘I meant you just look… so… stressed. Different to last time. Has something happened?’

Already feeling myself relax in Naomi’s company I am almost overwhelmed with the desire to open up, to tell her how confused and worried I feel about my discovery on the computer this morning. Not only that… but also the underlying sense of loneliness that, if I’m honest with myself, has lingered with me ever since we got here… living side by side with Harry yet feeling further away from him than ever. I really had thought getting out of our daily routine and exploring a new culture together was exactly what our relationship needed. But ever since we arrived in Ecuador the differences between Harry and me have only become more pronounced. More… painful.

To my utter horror and mortification, I realise tears are dribbling unbidden down my cheeks.

‘Right, you’re coming with me,’ Naomi says, sounding appallingly like my mother and tugging on my arm for me to follow her.

Instead of taking me to her room, Naomi continues dragging me by the arm further down her corridor to a small kitchen area at the end. The tiny space is almost entirely taken up with a folding metal table, at which is sat a middle-aged woman in a dressing gown, staring morosely at an unopened Pot Noodle in front of her. A saucepan of water has just started to boil on the little gas stove, the only other item of furniture in the draughty, cramped room.

‘Buenos días, Paula,’ Naomi says briskly, pushing past. ‘We’re just going up to the…’ She flicks her gaze upwards. ‘You know what to do if anyone asks.’

Paula doesn’t look up, even when my bum grazes the back of her head as I squeeze through the gap between her and the wall. ‘Um, sorry, perdóname,’ I mutter as she makes no effort to slide her chair in and let me past.

‘Paula’s a crackhead,’ Naomi tells me matter-of-factly as she indicates for me to follow her. ‘But she won’t say anything about where we’re going.’ She opens a door at the back of the kitchen and we step out on to a flimsy metal fire escape.

‘Where are we going?’ I peer nervously down at the prison courtyard several floors below us, especially the two guards standing directly beneath our feet.

‘The roof.’ Naomi grins wickedly. ‘So you can’t have a full-on crying meltdown yet. You’ve got to pull yourself up.’

Without waiting for a response she whips round, steps up on to a wooden crate I suspect has been left here for this very purpose, reaches above her head and grabs hold of a ledge just above us. She makes a grunting sound and for a moment her stiletto-clad feet flail in the air, level with my face, then her voice is above me, laughing, and she’s lying on her stomach, extending a hand over the edge to me.

‘Come on then!’

I take her hands and do my best to launch myself off from the crate. For a few dizzying seconds I feel nothing below me and only Naomi’s skinny hands gripping my wrists. Then I’m landing on my stomach next to her and rolling over to see the cloudy, grey sky above us, and hear my own laughter joining Naomi’s.

‘Oh, wow, this is actually the prison roof,’ I say stupidly as we haul ourselves to our feet.

‘Yep. Well, the roof of wing B, anyway.’ Naomi releases my hands and brushes the dust off her front. ‘And it’s only accessible from the kitchen on our corridor. I don’t think it’s possible in the other wing – I’ve never seen anyone else up here.’

I follow Naomi’s gaze to the identical roof of wing A running parallel to ours. Our vantage point is just a small rectangle of asphalt with a scattering of gravel, cigarette butts and the odd crisp packet, but it allows a perfect panoramic view of the prison grounds, Quito, and beyond. Lifting my gaze higher than the grey prison courtyard and its smell of cooking wafting up from below us, I drink in the view of the city stretching out beyond it, sunlight just peeking through the clouds after the rain to glint off car windscreens and shop fronts, and the expanse of dark-green mountains rising up behind it all.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Naomi says quietly, coming to stand beside me. ‘From up here, I feel like I’m actually in Ecuador… experiencing it properly. Seeing the country’s beautiful side.’ She turns and spins on the spot, taking in the whole view – the tall spires of the cathedral outlined on the horizon in the south, the flashing billboards of cinemas and shopping centres in the north, and all around us the mountains. ‘Up here is the closest I ever feel to being free.’

Naomi stops spinning and laughs. ‘God, that was cheesy, wasn’t it?’ She nods at my bulging hoodie pocket. ‘Are you going to get that chocolate out then?’

I dig out a chocolate bar and throw it to her.

‘Ohhhhh…. Twix,’ Naomi murmurs, flopping down on the floor and ripping open the packet. ‘How I’ve missed Twixes.’

I can’t help but laugh. She looks totally ridiculous, taking great ravenous bites out of the chocolate bar, her mouth chewing exaggeratedly half-open like a cow’s and her face radiating bliss.

‘I’m sorry about just now, downstairs,’ I mutter, sitting down beside her. ‘I certainly didn’t mean to come here and pour out my problems to you.’

Naomi smiles. ‘Don’t worry. You’re far away from home, your family, friends… I know how hard that is, trust me. You don’t have to be in prison to feel lonely, and need someone to confide in.’ She pauses to take another big bite of chocolate. ‘I’ve bawled my eyes out to Marion and Gabi so many times over the years. Even that poor bloke from the embassy has had me snivel and sob all over him before.’

‘Sebastian?’

Even through my anguish, I feel a strange jolt of something when saying his name out loud.

‘That’s the one – poor bastard. It was awful.’ She puts her hands over her face in exaggerated shame. ‘The day he came to tell me about Maya being in hospital, with her appendix, I just couldn’t get a grip on myself. Got big black mascara tears and snot all down his shirt – he just sat and hugged me. And I don’t think they’re supposed to do that.’

For a moment I leave aside my own pain to imagine Sebastian crouched alongside Naomi in the tiny floor space of her cell, holding her as she cried for her daughter.

Naomi fumbles in a back pocket for something.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘Um, no, course not. It’s your… roof.’

She lights the cigarette and closes her eyes in bliss, exhaling a plume of smoke. Then her eyes flick open again and she puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry! How rude of me. D’ya want one?’

I haven’t smoked a cigarette since I was fifteen and my friend Chantal and I used to hide in the public toilets by the beach after school, huddled over our illicit purchases, trying to light them against the evening sea breeze that came in through the broken window. It had lasted about two weeks, then someone walked in on us and I jumped so quickly into one of the cubicles that I dropped the cigarette and burnt a hole in the sleeve of my school jumper. Later that evening my mum saw it, and that was the end of that.

Oh, to hell with it.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Right, I’m going to light this for you and then you can tell me what’s happened… if you want.’

I lean forward and let Naomi light it for me, then take a clumsy drag. It tastes just as disgusting as I expect it to, but the dizzy feeling spreads pleasantly from behind my eyes down into my toes. I watch the smoke float away on the breeze. I think of Harry’s strange behaviour since we arrived in Ecuador, the phone calls, the secrecy, and decide to spare Naomi the details. After all, I’m supposed to be here to comfort her, not the other way around. Nevertheless, the desire to open up to her is almost overwhelming. I realise how much I’ve missed having someone to talk to – my friends, Chloe, even my mum. I look over at Naomi, sitting cross-legged on the prison roof, waiting patiently for me to talk. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to talk to her a bit….

‘I just thought it would be different,’ I say eventually, choosing my words carefully. ‘You know, coming here with Harry. I thought it would do our relationship good, but actually it’s like he’s become a different person out here.’ I take another drag of the cigarette to hide the wobble in my voice. ‘And now, today, I’ve become sure he’s hiding something from me.’ Saying the words out loud makes them more real, cementing the terrible fact in my mind. I swipe my sleeve across my face to hide the tears that are now spilling over. ‘I don’t know what yet, and I’m going to have to confront him…’

‘He’s not into drugs, is he?’ Naomi chuckles, leaning over to punch me playfully on the leg.

I know she’s only kidding. I know she’s just trying to cheer me up. But even so, I can’t quite bring myself to laugh back. Three weeks ago, I would have laughed out loud at the very idea. But then, three weeks ago, Harry and I were still safely coexisting in Fenbridge. Since arriving in Ecuador, I’ve begun to realise anything can happen.

‘Anyway, sorry, Naomi.’ I straighten up, deciding it’s definitely time to change the subject. ‘I came here to cheer you up. Not pour out my woes.’

‘But you have cheered me up!’ Naomi’s face lights up. ‘You brought me Twix bars, for fuck’s sake! And… it’s been really nice to just, like… hang out.’ She shrugs at the space around us. ‘With someone who’s not, you know, from here. It’s like a bubble in this place, the same faces every bloody day. And there are only so many conversations you can have about who has to wash the dishes, who blocked the toilet, whose turn it is to send out for cigarettes… without going totally mad.’

I feel disproportionately happy to hear this. We smile at each other, and suddenly I am filled with something more than just the pity and admiration I felt towards Naomi on my first visit here. I look at her with a new trust, and the face smiling back at me is suddenly no longer that of a prisoner, a person from a different world… it is the face of a friend, a contemporary, someone I could be having a drink with at the pub. Someone also here in Ecuador, far away from home, facing a situation so far out of her own control and understanding.

‘So… how is your dad doing?’ I finally brave the question. ‘Is there any… news?’

Naomi’s smile fades and something about her face visibly hardens. Looking down and realising the chocolate wrapper in her hands is now empty, she drops it and fumbles for another cigarette.

She takes a long drag, staring fixedly at mountains on the horizon, her hazel-brown eyes suddenly cold.

‘They’ve said he’ll probably only last another week or so,’ she says finally, still staring into the distance. ‘It’s reached what they call the “end stage” faster than expected.’

‘God… I’m so sorry,’ I whisper uselessly.

‘His organs are starting to fail,’ she continues matter-of-factly. ‘So it’s just a case of “keeping him comfortable” now, that’s what Mum says.’

Abruptly she yanks something else from her back pocket and shoves it into my hands.

‘Look, this is us in Great Yarmouth, years ago. I was still living with them then, just before I met my ex and got pregnant with Dario. My sister took the picture. That’s the last holiday we went on as a family.’

I look down at the photo, remembering it from my visit last week, when it had been stuck up on the wall beside the bunk beds. In it, Naomi is wearing a bright-purple hoodie and beaming back at the camera, with none of the hardness in her face that I now see. Standing between her parents she has one arm around each of their shoulders. Both shorter than her, and smiling awkwardly at the camera in that way only older people can, they look like anyone’s parents – normal, kind, safe.

I hand the photo back to her. ‘You know, you can talk to me whenever you want. I can come and visit again.’ Said out loud the words sound empty, but I mean them from the depths of my heart.

‘Thanks.’ She stares down at the photo for a few more seconds, then slides it back into her pocket. ‘I know it’s silly to carry it around with me all the time, especially in a place like this. But it helps me feel closer to them somehow.’ We sit in silence for several more minutes, watching the traffic lights change colour in the town centre below us and the line of cars snake its way out of town towards the mountainside in the distance.

‘Hey, I’m sorry about that phone call last night.’ Naomi finally breaks the silence. ‘I was just having a low moment.’ She pulls herself into a crouching position and starts gathering up the chocolate wrappers from the floor. ‘I really love my dad. He was always the one I was closest to, more than my mum, you know?’

I really don’t, I think wistfully.

‘But you can’t let yourself mope. If I’d carried on today the way I was yesterday… fuck. That’s why I tarted myself up this morning.’ She stands up and makes an exaggerated pirouette, laughing. ‘In this place, once you sink into a depression you just don’t get out of it again. I’ve seen it happen.’

Fleetingly I think of Paula, probably still in the kitchen below us with her Pot Noodle. ‘You’re incredibly strong.’

She chuckles again. ‘You want to see strong? Come on, let’s go and introduce you to some of the girls. You haven’t got much longer, it’s nearly lunchtime and they’ll come round kicking out the visitors soon.’

We scramble back down on to the fire escape, past Paula, and back into the maze of corridors towards the main prison courtyard. As we head along the outdoor corridor containing the handicraft workshops I notice heads turn to stare at us, probably wondering whether I’m the latest arrival and what I’m in for. I stick close behind Naomi, although the feeling of nerves and vulnerability I experienced on the first visit with Marion has receded; already I feel more at ease here. Naomi seems to know everyone, waving and stopping to greet people with cheek-kisses and fist bumps.

We stop outside one of the workshop doors and Naomi leans around it, yelling ‘Arianaaaaaaa!’

After a few moments a young woman comes out, scowling and dusting off her hands, which I notice in horror are covered in a thick white powder.

Surely it can’t be… cocaine?

‘Jesus, do you want to shout any louder, woman?’ she says to Naomi in thickly accented English, then the two women are hugging and clapping each other on the back.

‘Eeeeeek! You’re covering me in flour!’ Naomi shrieks, pulling away and frantically dusting herself off. Only then do I notice that the other woman is wearing a dark-blue apron and a hairnet over her long, dyed-red ponytail.

Flour. Of course. It’s only flour.

‘Kirsty, this is Ariana, she’s from Italy.’ We exchange a soggy, floury handshake. ‘She’s here for the same thing as me.’ Naomi answers my unspoken question.

‘Er, I do not think so!’ Ariana laughs. ‘I was carrying half the amount you were. And it was not inside my stomach.’

Naomi punches her playfully on the arm. ‘What, and strapping it to your bra is a much cleverer idea?’ She turns to me.

‘Ariana was a “newbie” like me,’ she explains, laughing cynically. ‘One offer from the wrong person, one very tempting offer, the chance to fix your financial problems and start again… that’s all it took for us stupid suckers. Sneaked around for months… lied to our families… got caught on the first run.’

Something about Naomi’s words sends a shiver through me. Lying, sneaking around… who has been doing that lately?

‘I did not just lie to my family,’ Ariana chips in and shakes her head, presumably at her own foolishness. ‘I created a whole pretend life for myself. Because it took so long to organise – the collection, the flight, the dates. I took the bus to Roma every weekend and told my parents I had started art school.’

There it is again, a cold slither of something down my spine. Suspicion, fear… Harry’s face swims before my eyes, my memory filled with the desperation in his voice as he begged me to agree to come on this trip. It would certainly explain the weird phone calls, his determination to come on this journey, his erratic behaviour before we left and secretive ways since… Even as my more rational side tells me to stop being silly, to get back into the real world, my fears only grow as I listen to the very real women before me telling me their indisputably true stories.

‘…Whereas there are people in here who got away with it loads of times,’ Naomi continues, oblivious to the inner torment and suspicion she has sparked off in me. ‘People who kept going back and forth – Bolivia, Colombia, Venezuela. Made their money and paid off their mortgages. They still got caught though, in the end.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘Meanwhile others were involved right from the top – not mules like us, but the people running the mules. Years of surveillance and planning before they get caught and put in this place.’ She scowls, scuffing her foot against the concrete step in front of us. ‘Although, to be fair, most of them aren’t in this place – most of the bosses are in the men’s prison, just biding their time until they can get out and carry on.’ Naomi doesn’t try to hide the bitterness in her voice. She turns back to Ariana. ‘Is Marta in there with you? She wasn’t at singing this morning, and she never misses it. I’m worried about her.’

Ariana disappears back into the room, which, after peering my head around the door I realise to be a combined kitchen, bakery and storeroom. Sacks of flour and rice line the walls, and a group of women stand around a table in the middle, wearing the same blue aprons, rolling out and kneading dough. Others pass back and forth carrying pots of water, tubs of tomatoes, whole lettuces, and heavy-looking, sealed cardboard boxes. The overall atmosphere is one of focused, contented hard work. I get a sudden flashback to my brief stint in the kitchen at Burger King in my first year of university. I stuck it out as long as I could, but in the summer it got to over forty degrees out the back, and the sight and smell of the burgers plopping out of the never-ending rotation grill dripping grease and fat eventually became too much for me. I feel a flush of admiration for these women, barely chatting and all totally absorbed in their tasks, which I do not know whether they are even getting paid for. Watching them, I find it utterly impossible to imagine they are all drug traffickers, thieves, or worse…

Ariana reappears with a small, middle-aged woman beside her. Something about her immediately does not seem to fit in here. Her dark hair is highlighted gold and styled into gentle waves. Under her apron she’s wearing a dark-green polo neck, a little silver crucifix pendant visible at the front. As we exchange the customary cheek-kiss I notice she’s wearing a full face of make-up, including perfectly applied lip liner, which for some reason reminds me so poignantly of my mum that I have to swallow back a lump in my throat. I really must phone her.

‘Marta…’ Naomi’s tone is much softer, none of the boisterous camaraderie she displayed with Ariana. She makes a small gesture to me and leads Marta by the arm to a space a few feet away, just out of earshot. I watch them talk, or rather, I watch Naomi talk, leaning down solicitously to her friend and speaking with wide eyes and emphatic gestures, seemingly giving some kind of pep talk. I remember the no-nonsense way she marched me through the prison earlier. Marta doesn’t seem to be replying much, but I see her nodding and occasionally reaching up to touch the little cross around her neck. I get the impression she is either about to burst into tears, or shout at Naomi to leave her alone.

Finally, Naomi seems to have finished and is rubbing Marta briskly on the arms while nodding her head insistently, their faces inches apart. She seems to be saying ‘Okay? OKAY?’ Marta is nodding furiously and dabbing at her eyes, then she reaches up and envelops Naomi in the longest hug I’ve ever seen. When Naomi finally disentangles herself and bounds back over to me, Marta turns and walks down the corridor away from us, without saying goodbye, her apron still on.

‘What was all that about?’ I’m relieved Naomi is back at my side, as Ariana went back to work several minutes ago and I was starting to feel the eyes of several of the women in the kitchen boring into me. Every time I looked up I would see them glance away, but not before I noticed a large woman with a tattoo of what looked like a killer whale on her arm mutter something to the girl next to her, then let out a throaty laugh. I realise my newfound bravado about being inside the prison definitely only applies when Naomi is within a three-foot radius of me.

‘That’s Marta,’ Naomi explains unnecessarily. ‘She’s going to be here until she’s past sixty.’

We stand and watch the small, neat woman walking slowly away from us.

‘What did she do?’

‘Do? Marta? She is one of the few people here who literally did nothing.’ Naomi starts to steer me away from the doorway and prying eyes, in the same motherly way she just handled Marta. ‘Come on, you need to get out of here soon before they start looking for you.’

As we cross the rest of the corridor towards the prison exit, Naomi tells me matter-of-factly that Marta used to live in Spain, and had been back in Quito visiting her adult children when some men broke into her house and held her whole family at gunpoint, insisting she carry a large quantity of cocaine back to Spain with her the following day.

‘What do you mean – some men? Who the hell were they? How did they know she lived in Spain? How could they get away with…’

Naomi is shrugging. ‘She never told us much more than that. There must have been a connection somewhere, somehow. But Marta only ever gave us her brief, dignified version of things. And she doesn’t seem the sort to lie, does she?’

‘No.’ I realise my legs are trembling.

‘Her family has done a lot. She’s seen a number of lawyers. But any advance in her case is going to take a long time. It seems like they were powerful people, the fuckers that got her in this situation. That changes everything.’

We’ve nearly reached the main exit now, and I see grumpy raincoat man look over at us, frown at his watch, then start to plod across the damp courtyard towards us.

I suddenly remember the printed-out translation I brought with me, now crumpled and slightly damp in the depths of my handbag. Even so, I take it out to show Naomi, feeling inexplicably shy.

‘Oh my God, you’re actually doing this for real, aren’t you?’ she cries, holding up the wodge of paper and spinning around on the spot. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me.’

She stops to scowl at the guard, who has left his glum vigil at the prison door to step closer to us, sternly holding up a hand and indicating to Naomi not to go any further.

‘Yes, yes, keep your raincoat on, I’m not going to escape,’ Naomi taunts him in Spanish. ‘Looks like this is where our paths must divide,’ she says drily, then hugs me. ‘Thank you, Kirsty,’ she mutters into my hair. ‘Seriously. For coming today, for all you’re doing for me. Don’t let that stupid boyfriend get you down. And please come back to see me any time you need to talk.’ She pulls away and her bright-blue eyes flash into mine, suddenly appearing childlike again. ‘Or just come back and see me anyway.’

I promise I will, and to bring more chocolate as well. As I turn to leave, Naomi thrusts a crumpled envelope into my hands. ‘That’s for Gabi, give her my love – I hope she’ll send a photo once the baby’s born.’ I shove the letter into my pocket away from the guard’s invading eyes, then impulsively hug her again.

I step over the prison threshold into the rain-soaked streets to go and meet my father, and wish, for a strange, fleeting moment, I could stay inside.

Chapter Fourteen

The journey from the prison to Dad’s fancy hotel makes my hazardous trip to the embassy the other day seem like a gentle stroll in the countryside. I have to change buses in the bustling central terminal, fighting my way through noisy families, groups of tourists dragging heavy backpacks, and street vendors wielding piles of newspapers and bulging bags of fruit. A woman with a screaming child strapped to her back and a whole branch of fresh bananas in her arms plants herself firmly in my path, virtually ordering me to purchase one. Seeing my bus lumber to a stop just behind her, I dodge past her and make a run for it.

Heart pounding with adrenaline and nerves, I manage to climb aboard just as the bus lurches haphazardly out of the terminal and slots itself in among the oncoming traffic. There are no seats left so I’m crammed alongside six or seven other people in the tiny amount of standing room at the back, clinging on to the greasy handrail each time the bus grinds to a stop. Ignoring the elbows and handbags jabbing into my ribs, I press my nose to the window and stare out at the bustling city around us. The sky is cloudless and azure blue again as if the rainstorm had never happened, and I can virtually see the puddles on the pavement sizzling and drying up before my eyes in the humidity.

By the time I arrive at the Royal Colonial Suites hotel, my clothes are sticking to me and I’m panting from the midday heat and altitude. I stare up at the elaborate building in awe, wondering at my father, who appears to have spared no expense on his holiday with Dorice. An impeccably suited security guard opens the hotel’s outer door for me and I gaze around the spacious courtyard, taking in neatly laid breakfast tables with immaculate waiters dotting between them, interspersed with palm trees strung with coloured fairy lights ready to burst alight in the evening.

I spot my father sitting in the shade of one of the palm trees near the hotel entrance, engrossed in what could be a guidebook on the table in front of him. He looks like a typical middle-aged British holidaymaker – faded orange T-shirt mismatched with khaki combat shorts, unfashionable brown leather sandals fastened on the end of excruciatingly white legs. I feel a sudden, unexpected rush of affection for him, closely followed by a flash of nerves after his parting comments to me last night. Our first evening spent together in Quito could have got off to a better start…

‘Hi, Dad.’ I pull back the cushioned wicker chair opposite him and sit down. ‘I’m so sorry about the time – something came up last night, an emergency with a prisoner I’ve been helping, then I had to catch two buses…’

Dad is already waving away my rambling apology. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been enjoying the sunshine and doing some research.’ He indicates the guidebook. ‘And in fact, I think I should be the one apologising to you…’ He looks away awkwardly, and I follow his gaze across the courtyard to where a waiter in a bow tie is going from table to table, topping up coffees. ‘About last night… I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry. If I’m honest, since we arrived things have been a bit…’ He trails off, and glances over at the hotel entrance, as if expecting us to be interrupted at any moment. Then his expression changes and it’s as if he visibly decides to put aside whatever he was about to say. ‘Never mind that. Have some coffee… So, is this the same prisoner Liza was talking about last night?’

‘She was?’

‘Yes.’ Dad slides a basket of croissants across the table to me, ‘When you were helping Roberto clear the table. She just told me briefly that you’d actually been to visit one of the prisons?’ As he speaks he starts to gather the guidebook and papers on the table in front of him together, folding them carefully inside a plastic wallet. Is he actually listening? Was that an invitation to tell him more about what I’ve been doing? I take a deep breath and decide it was.

‘Well… as Liza maybe mentioned, there’s this British girl in the prison,’ I begin carefully, wondering how much to tell Dad. The memory of that failed dinner out, years ago, looms in my mind again. I’d accepted his invitation, optimistically thinking he wanted to congratulate me on my promotion at Home from Home, but instead he levelled all sorts of awkward questions at me about my career path. What if by telling him all this now, I’m just opening myself up again for more criticism? Not that, since then, he’s ever shown an interest in my work again.

This is a new start, I remind myself. You invited him out here for a reason… now it’s up to you to make it work.

‘Her name’s Naomi,’ I continue. ‘She’s only a few years older than me. I visited her last week, along with a volunteer who works for Liza and Roberto’s charity. And, this might sound crazy, but… we got along really well.’ I pause, remembering Naomi’s kindness to me this morning, a lump forming unexpectedly in my throat. She had seemed genuinely overjoyed with my visit – and not just because of the Twix bars – but actually it was me who had left feeling like a different person. I feel a flush of embarrassment for pouring out my problems to her, but at the same time I know in my heart she didn’t mind. Sitting on the roof sharing an illicit cigarette with her had felt just like a chat with any friend from back home, even though we had been on the roof of a prison in Quito rather than in a coffee shop or bar.

I realise my father is leaning forward, waiting for me to finish with an expression of actual interest on his face. ‘So… I went back to visit her today. Last night after you left, she phoned up because—’

I don’t get to finish my sentence as a shrill voice suddenly pierces the air behind us, making both of us jump.

‘Well, that’s sorted that out. That will teach them to put us in a room with a… Oh! Hello, Kirsty!’

Dorice wafts towards us in some kind of green kaftan contraption looped around her slim shoulders, and tight denim shorts displaying – I think absently – exasperatingly toned legs for someone of her age. ‘Thank you for coming to meet us, I’m so looking forward to this outing.’

Do I notice a flash of something like annoyance cross Dad’s face as Dorice approaches? It’s gone too quickly for me to be sure, then Dorice is leaning over to kiss him before enveloping me in a kaftan-cloaked hug.

‘No problem. I was just telling Dad I was running a bit late this morning because I was visiting a girl in the prison…’ I flick a glance at my father, wondering whether there will be an opportunity to finish telling him about this morning. But he’s already got to his feet,

‘Um, okay. Anyway…’ I turn back to Dorice, swallowing back a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘I’m just going to pop to the loo, then how about we head off to the Basilica? That’s the big cathedral not far from here – it has wonderful views of the city. Then we could get some lunch near there, and maybe take a bus tour if we have time…’

Dorice is nodding briskly.

‘That sounds lovely, Kirsty. Now, the ladies is just up there, by reception, on the right…’ She indicates the main hotel building, and pats me on the arm.

I feel a flash of relief. Maybes she’s all right, after all, I think as I head up the steps into the main building.

Then something, something makes me stop on the bottom step, and glance back out of the corner of my eye to their table.

Dorice has turned towards my father, her face contorted into a look of complete rage.

Almost falling off the step in surprise, I hold on to the brass railing next to me and allow myself to lean as far back as possible without falling over, straining to hear.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to spend this whole week trailing around after you two!’ she hisses, her face twisted like a gargoyle, lip curling and eyes flashing in anger. ‘I need to be WORKING! There is no wildlife to photograph in Quito. There is nothing for me in Quito, except—’

My father interrupts her, but infuriatingly all I can hear is the low rumble of his voice, and I can just make out the movement of his arms as the rest of him is obliterated by the fronds of a large palm tree.

‘I don’t CARE about Kirsty!’ Dorice screams in return, her voice carrying over the courtyard towards the other breakfasters who turn and glance uneasily in her direction. I think Dad notices this as suddenly he comes into view, stepping forwards, gesturing for her to sit down.

‘We came here on the understanding that I was going to work,’ Dorice is hissing now, barely audible, looking at my father with an expression of pure venom. ‘I did not come here to spend every day in Quito with YOUR DAUGHTER.’

There’s Dad’s voice again, quieter, placatory, imploring.

‘Fine. One day – just ONE – then I’m taking the early-morning flight to the Galápagos. You can either come with me, or not.’

Looking down, I realise the knuckles of my hand on the railing have turned white, and my legs are shaking. I press myself back against the wall, breathing deeply, trying to supress the surge of fury that has risen up my throat like bile. How dare she speak to him like that? Is this what Dad had just been trying to tell me when he started saying things have been weird since they arrived? I remember Dad’s email when he told me they were coming here… he’d said something strange about having to ‘negotiate’ with Dorice how much time they’ll spend in Quito with me…

I hurry to the bathroom, then fix an obliging smile on my face. So Dorice wants to play it this way? Filled with defiance, I trot back down the steps and take my father’s arm. Ignoring his startled expression, I gather up the guidebook and papers and stuff them in my handbag then say purposefully, ‘Right, I hope you’re ready. We’re going on a tour of the old town!’

***

The cathedral looms above us, its twin gothic spires glinting in the sweltering afternoon sunshine. I tilt my head back to take in its magnificence, the pointed arches running along its length and the intricate detail of the many pinnacles reaching up to culminate in a simple cross, outlined against the blue sky. The taxi Dorice insisted on catching has deposited us on the steeply sloping ground at its feet, in a small square of grass populated only by some wilting trees, a few other groups of sweating tourists, and a peacefully sleeping drunk. Two hundred yards away at the cathedral doorway I can make out groups of women in the impossibly hot-looking colourful Quichua shawls, selling candles and roses to tourists as they enter. A few feet away from the salespeople, huddled on the floor in plainer clothing, are two shapeless figures, only distinguishable as human beings when they raise their hands to each passing tourist in supplication. As we slowly climb the grassy hill towards them, I realise they are an elderly couple, white hair poking out from underneath their traditional Quichua black bowler-style hats. Several tourists stoop to press some coins into their hands, but many more walk straight past them as they pass through the doorway to the church.

‘So… here we are!’ I grin, spreading my arms wide, feeling slightly ridiculous. The silence between my father and Dorice lasted the length of the taxi journey and now extends excruciatingly into the hot air around us, threatening to suffocate me.

‘Did you know this is the largest neo-gothic cathedral in the whole of the American continent?’ I babble, fumbling with Dad’s guidebook in one hand and wiping the sweat from my forehand with the other.

‘If we get closer, you’ll see they have gargoyles in the form of native Ecuadorian animals, like iguanas, giant Galápagos tortoises…’ The drunk, a few feet away from us under the shade of one of the trees, makes a grunting sound and turns over, almost rolling away down the hillside.

‘Er, shall we go over this way a bit…’ I try to steer Dad and Dorice away from him and further up the hill. ‘Look, if you feel like it, we could go right to the top…’ I point up to where miniature tourists are just visible as coloured dots, snaking their way up the spiral staircase on one of the pinnacles above us. ‘We can climb up, and get some fantastic photos of the city from the top…’

The last thing I see is the hard, impassive line of Dorice’s mouth before something thuds into me and I’m in the air. I see a flash of sky, city, grass, hear the sound of someone yelling my name, then hit the ground hard, a searing pain shooting across my shoulder and down my back.

‘What the…’ I reach out and feel grass between my fingers, then a hand on my arm, and look up unsteadily to see Dad’s frowning face inches from my own.

‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ He’s gripping my arms tightly and peering into my face with an intense expression.

‘My handbag…’ As my legs begin to shake violently I finally make sense of what has happened, looking up at the figure sprinting away from us, already on the other side of the park, then down to the angry red wheels on my shoulder where the bag’s strap grazed my skin, and the guidebook still clutched uselessly in my hands.

‘He took… that man took my handbag.’

‘Our passports were in that bag!’ Dorice exclaims shrilly, clasping her hand to her mouth dramatically.

Still holding my arm, Dad shoots her an absolutely filthy look, making frantic ‘shut up’ gestures. Despite the panicky feeling of shock that is only just starting to subside, I can’t help thinking ha – take that!

Then I realise with a sinking feeling that my own passport was in the bag, too, after I had to show it at the prison door this morning.

Suddenly freezing to the spot in fear, I notice a figure shuffling towards us across the grass. It takes me a few heart-stopping moments to realise we are not being mugged again. It’s just one of the Quichua ladies who have been selling candles in the church doorway.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks in broken Spanish, finally coming to a stop in front of us. Her face is barely visible under her black bowler-style hat, but I can make out heavily wrinkled skin and a look of genuine concern. She’s wearing a bright-green shawl around her shoulders, the long embroidered skirts typical to the Quichua dress, and strings of tiny gold beads around her neck. I notice the rest of the group is watching avidly from a few metres away in the doorway, and get a fleeting, bizarre image of them bickering over who should come to talk to us:

‘No, Violet, it’s your turn, I went last time.’

‘But you speak the better English, Doreen.’

‘Why don’t we ask Gladys, she’s the eldest. Go on, Gladys, go over there, you never go.’

‘Um, yes, we’re fine, thank you for asking.’ I smile down at the woman – she barely comes up to my chest – and also turn to smile and give a bit of a wave to the group in the doorway.

‘Tourists – you need to be careful around here,’ she continues, then reaches forward, pats me lightly on the arm, inclines her head at Dad and Dorice, and turns to begin her slow ascent back up the hill to her outpost in the church doorway.

Watching her go I remember what Rodrigo, the taxi driver on our first day here, said about the indigenous Quichua people being in many ways like outsiders in their own country, and I feel a rush of affection and solidarity for this little old woman who recognised another outsider in me.

‘So what do we do now?’ Dorice asks loudly, standing with her arms folded and staring at my father, obviously expecting him to provide an instant solution.

‘Well, I think Kirsty could probably do with a drink and a sit down,’ he replies pointedly, starting to lead me by the arm towards the cathedral’s main entrance. ‘Then I’m sure we’ll figure out a plan of action from there.’

Chapter Fifteen

The cathedral café is pretty much like any cathedral café in England. People around us queue for overpriced coffees, pastries and postcards while I dial Harry’s number for the fifth time, squeezing my eyes shut and willing him to answer. The insistent ringing sound echoes in my ear and drains away the last of my hope. No one has spoken since we sat down except for Dad ordering me a cup of sweet tea and a large slice of chocolate cake, and Dorice haughtily offering me her mobile phone. My own phone, of course, was in the handbag.

I press ‘dial’ again in growing desperation. My legs have stopped shaking now and the mark on my shoulder has faded to a dull throb. I just need Harry to pick up the bloody phone. He’ll know what to do. He’ll ask Liza or Roberto to come and get us, or call Ray, or at least go online and cancel my phone and credit cards. Harry, PLEASE, I will him silently. With every unanswered ring I can feel myself sweating under the heat of Dorice’s scrutiny and obvious anger. I wonder absently how long she’ll be able to maintain the crimson facial tone without actually exploding messily all over the other people in the café.

‘It’s no good,’ I sigh, dropping the phone back on the table. ‘He’s not answering.’

‘Yes, we can see that,’ remarks Dorice, turning her eyes heavenwards. ‘So what now? Don’t we need to cancel our passports urgently? I mean, every moment we spend sitting here they could be being used on the black market…’

‘Oh, give it a rest,’ Dad snaps irritably back at her.

Without even realising I’ve done it, my hand drops to my pocket where Sebastian North’s business card is still safely tucked. I pull the card out and stare at it for a moment. He did say to call him if I needed anything. And we have had our passports stolen… would it be such an unreasonable thing to call the British Consul?

On a Saturday afternoon?

On his mobile?

Swallowing, I reach for Dorice’s phone again.

‘Give me one more call… I’ve got an idea.’

He answers on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath.

‘Sebastian… er, hi. It’s Kirsty.’ I just manage to stop myself saying ‘from the prison’ again. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to bother you on a weekend. But… we’ve had a bit of a problem and I was wondering if you could help.’

‘Kirsty! No problem.’ He sounds like he’s shouting to me from down the end of a tunnel. ‘Hang on a minute – don’t go anywhere…’ I hear a rustling sound, a whistle, Sebastian’s voice shouting something, then the slam of a car door before he is back on the line sounding clearer.

‘Sorry about that – what’s happened, are you all right?’

I briefly explain the events of the last twenty minutes, skimming over the part where I actually got knocked to the ground by a speeding bag-snatcher.

‘Oh, you poor thing – awful bad luck for that to happen on your dad’s first day out here, too. I’m so sorry.’ I realise, with relief, he really sounds like he means it. ‘Look, I’ll be there in ten minutes. You need to do a police report to get new passports – I’ll help with that. And I’ll bring all the forms. Just sit tight where you are and I’ll be there right away. You’re at the cathedral, right?’

Dizzy with relief I nod, then realise he can’t see me nodding and say ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ about a hundred times before hanging up the phone. I can barely believe it – he’s coming all the way here to help us. I remember Naomi saying something like ‘not all consuls are as accommodating as ours’. She was right – this man really is dedicated to his job.

I barely have time to explain to a sceptical-looking Dad and Dorice before Sebastian himself bursts in, panting slightly, his eyes skimming the café for me. It takes me a moment to realise it’s actually him, as he could not look more different to the smartly suited man I encountered at the prison and embassy. His hair is messily sticking out in some places and flattened down in others, as if he’s just recently removed a baseball cap. He’s wearing what I can only describe as Serious Running Clothes, shorts and a T-shirt clinging slightly to his broad chest, and there’s a spread of dark stubble across his jaw.

I am suddenly rooted to the spot by a wave a self-consciousness, and only manage to raise an arm stiffly to get his attention, completely incapable of using my voice. Sebastian catches sight of me and breaks into a huge, relieved smile.

‘There you are! Thank goodness.’ He shakes my father’s and Dorice’s hands heartily, then leans over the table to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.’ It takes all my self-control to defy the hot flush of colour creeping up my cheeks. ‘Kirsty, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to go outside as they won’t let me stay in here with him…’ He gestures behind him and suddenly I spot the large, floppy-eared black dog, panting happily on the end of a lead and staring up in adoration at his owner. Even as Sebastian says this, I notice the more grumpy-looking of the waitresses already making her way through the tables towards us, frowning and gesturing.

‘I’m so sorry, we’re just leaving.’ Sebastian flashes her his most charming smile and indicates for us to follow him.

***

It takes less than ten minutes to get to the nearest police station in Sebastian’s dusty Land Rover, which, I noticed as we left the café, he had parked illegally across the cathedral lawn at a haphazard angle, carving muddy skid marks into the grass.

‘You caught me off duty, I’m afraid!’ He smiles at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘We like to go out for long runs in the park on Saturday mornings. Luckily we were really nearby when you called… Oh dear, sorry about Lewis – just push him off, honestly, don’t let him…’

‘It’s fine,’ I laugh, as the dog tries to climb over on to the back seat and into my lap, his tongue swiping at my ear. ‘I love animals, it’s no problem.’ I feel Dorice stiffen in her seat beside me and notice she has edged as far away from me as possible to press herself up against the window. ‘Er, I think you’d better sit – that’s it, good dog.’ I resist the temptation to let him climb across me and do his worst to Dorice’s silk pashmina. ‘Lewis… that’s really his name?’

‘I know, I know. Silly name, really. Not my idea… the name came as part of the deal, I’m afraid.’

I feel the atmosphere gradually thawing as Sebastian chats to my father in the front about his job, Quito, and the state of the UK economy. Although he turns round to Dorice and me to involve us or ask a question as often as driving will allow, it’s hard to hear much with the noises of the traffic around us and Lewis constantly scrabbling against the leather seats to press himself as close up against my side as possible. But my father seems to be chatting back, and nodding, and in response to something Sebastian says about the Prime Minister, I even see him throw his head back and laugh.

The police station is a tiny building wedged between an internet café and a laundrette, with a crooked sign above the door saying ‘Tourist Security Police’. Inside, three policemen are sitting in an impossibly hot, windowless room, all typing avidly away at their computers. Sebastian hangs back at the car, having what looks like a very serious conversation with Lewis through the open window, before locking the doors and turning to follow us inside.

‘He absolutely hates being left in the car,’ he mutters to me in the doorway. ‘I should probably be stricter with him, but…’ He turns to look up at my father, Dorice, and the three policemen, with an apologetic wince. ‘All I can say is, I’m sorry.’

I soon understand why as an ear-shattering howl wracks the air. It’s so loud and mournful that it reverberates in my skull for several moments afterwards. Just as the last echo of the terrible noise dies away, Lewis begins another one.

‘Seriously? This is just because you’ve left him in the car?’

Sebastian nods, looking mortified. ‘He wasn’t always like this… but he’s a bit… he’s been through a lot lately.’ He turns to the nearest police officer, who is cowering behind his computer with his hands over his ears. ‘Right, three stolen passports. Can we get this over with as quickly as possible please?’

It takes eight attempts to get my name right in the system, but finally we are each presented with a freshly typed report detailing the theft of our passports, stamped with an elaborate royal blue ‘Tourist Security Police’ seal at the bottom. Dorice hardly speaks, despite closing her eyes with a long-suffering expression every time Lewis howls. While we’re waiting for the reports to be printed Sebastian sits with my father in the corner, working his way through a pile of papers. Just as I go over to see what they’re doing, he scrapes his chair back, gathering the papers together and smiling.

‘That’s the forms filled in for your emergency passports… I should have them ready for you early next week.’

Oh God – the passports! I hadn’t even thought of that.

‘Then perhaps, Kirsty, you could… drop in and pick them up?’ I’m about to respond when the police officer who seems to be in charge marches over, hands us photocopies of everything, then physically begins to steer us all towards the door. ‘That’ll be all. Now please can you remove that infernal animal from anywhere near our property?’

As soon as Lewis catches sight of Sebastian, he stops trying to destroy the rear car seats and instantly drops to the floor, his head resting on his paws and wide eyes staring up at us quietly.

‘Crazy animal – you’re going to have to get over it at some point, you know,’ I hear Sebastian mutter to him before opening the door for me. ‘So, let me just give you the passport application forms to fill in. Then I can drop you back at the hotel, or wherever you like?’

‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ I say, at the same time as I hear my father ask, ‘Have you had lunch?’

Oh no.

‘Because – I don’t know about you – but we’re starving.’ Dad indicates Dorice, who is busily reapplying lipstick in the wing mirror. ‘And we’d love to buy you lunch, it’s the least we can do after how much you’ve helped us.’

‘Um, Dad? We’ve already taken up enough of Sebastian’s time. I’m sure he wants to get home and back to his fam—’

‘I’d love to.’ Sebastian is beaming. ‘That’s very kind of you. In fact, we’re not far from La Ronda – a great part of the old town here, very traditional, if you fancy some Ecuadorian cuisine?’

La Ronda… it takes me a few moments to realise why the name seems familiar. Then I remember my late-night reading sessions of Harry’s old guidebook, and its description of this part of the historic town centre. It had been an Inca road, I recall, used to carry water from its source to the heart of the city, which after the Conquest was preserved as one of the oldest parts of Quito. Now it’s a popular tourist area filled with cafés, restaurants and art shops. With a pang I think of my travel folder, still barely opened on the bedside table in the apartment, and the scribbled wish list I had made, including the traditional café I had wanted to visit so much… what had it even been called?

I’m suddenly filled with irritation at Harry for his reluctance to go out and try new things. Filled with a sudden determination, I turn to Sebastian.

‘That would be lovely, thank you. In fact… I’ve read about a restaurant in La Ronda. With its own recipe for those corn cakes… what are they called… humitas?’ Suddenly the name of the place comes back to me. ‘I think it was called Café Pichincha.’

Ten minutes later we’re sitting round a wooden table in the restaurant’s outdoor courtyard, perusing an elaborate seven-page menu of traditional Quiteño dishes. As we strolled down La Ronda’s main street, peering in the windows at brightly coloured woollen shawls and glinting copper and turquoise jewellery, I felt myself starting to enjoy it. Just then, for a moment, walking through Quito’s old town in the sunshine beside my father, my discovery of Harry’s secret phone calls this morning had seemed to lose importance. And so what if I’d just had my bag ripped from my shoulder in the middle of the day? It could be replaced. At least I’m out, seeing the city, doing what I came here to do and experiencing Ecuador.

Gentle classical guitar music floats to our ears from the live band playing in the street outside, and I recline comfortably in my chair waiting for Dorice to finalise her decision from the menu. Dad and Sebastian are deep in conversation again, but I’m watching with interest as Dorice struggles heroically to maintain the neutral expression on her face as she scans the menu listing grilled guinea pig, baked plantains, fried pork and corn empanadas.

‘I’ll just have a caesar salad, please,’ she says at last, with martyred sigh. ‘With no dressing. Or croutons.’

I’ve ordered ‘Llanpingachos’ – which, after three attempts, Sebastian had to pronounce for me – cheesy potato cakes topped with fried egg, served with fresh avocado and spicy sausage. And, of course, a side order of the cheesy corn cakes the restaurant is famous for. Dad, to my surprise, requested the ‘Ecuadorian King’ sharing platter, with a mini sample of every traditional dish available on the menu, all to himself.

‘This whole part of town comes alive at night.’ Sebastian gestures around him to the other open-air cafés and restaurants around us, now populated with only a few other families enjoying late lunches. ‘If you like, we can come back here one evening.’ He turns to me. ‘Of course, bring your partner – sorry, what was his…?’

‘Harry,’ I mutter, thinking I should probably try to call him again to let him know what happened. But as the incredible platters of colourful food are laid out before us, I realise I don’t really want to. Not yet. And, judging by earlier, he probably wouldn’t answer anyway.

‘So, dare I ask how you’re getting on with those translations?’ Sebastian asks me, dropping a piece of his fried pork on the floor for Lewis, who is now sitting meekly under the table at our feet.

‘Is this the work you’re doing for the prisoners?’ my father asks, leaning forward and putting down his glass of mango juice.

‘Er, yes,’ I reply tentatively, sending up a silent prayer that he won’t say anything critical in front of Sebastian.

‘Frankly, Kirsty has come to the rescue,’ Sebastian jumps in, ignoring my squirm of embarrassment. ‘It’s so hard to find a reliable translator who will meet our deadlines here. And we’re talking long, tedious legal documents. The fact she’s spending time doing that during her holiday, well, I think it’s amazing.’ He turns to smile at me, and I only just resist the urge to climb under the table with Lewis.

My father has put down his cheese empanada and is looking at me, chewing thoughtfully.

‘Yes… Kirsty has always put helping other people before her own wishes,’ he says finally, in a tone that implies this is not necessarily a positive thing. ‘So, is that what drew you to this line of work?’ He turns to Sebastian. ‘An altruistic inclination?’

If Sebastian picks up on my father’s tone, he chooses to ignore it. ‘Truthfully speaking, no. I started working at the embassy straight out of university – over ten years ago now, actually.’ He stops and frowns a little, as if wondering whether that could be right. ‘It was one of those jobs that seems to happen by accident… I’d been working there as an intern, then they offered me a permanent vacancy… and as a graduate, I was desperate for a job anywhere, really. After studying international relations, a job at the British Embassy seemed like a dream come true. Even if I did spend the first two years doing admin and photocopying.’ He pauses, and slips a piece of empanada to Lewis. ‘But, as the years went by and I moved up to Consul, I did grow to appreciate the altruistic side, yes. It’s a wonderful thing to feel you’re making a difference to the world as part of your day job. The prisoners are what I feel most strongly about, I suppose. Although we can’t do much to change their situation, sometimes we’re the only ones there to look out for their basic rights.’

As Sebastian talks, I find myself sneaking little glances at him… the way his hands move for emphasis, how his eyes widen when he begins talking about the prisoners. His eyes.

‘And you get to know them, over the years,’ he continues. ‘You watch them go through their ups and downs and family dramas, and stop seeing them in the context of whatever they did wrong – you just see them as people.’

My father is nodding, looking closely at Sebastian, his extravagant Ecuadorian platter going cold in front of him. ‘And what about the future? What’s the next step for you… Ambassador, United Nations envoy…?’

Sebastian is laughing and blushing. ‘Ambassador would be a bit far, I think.’ He fiddles with his knife and fork, suddenly serious. ‘I have had job offers. But you get into a routine…’ He pauses for a long time, lost in thought. ‘What I’d really like to do, actually, is go back to study. Specialise in human rights, but not just in the context of this country – it would be great to study in Europe, particularly in the UK, and get a real global perspective. I actually got a place at a university in Spain last year, and nearly went. But, you know… things happen in life to get in the way.’ He frowns to himself, then looks up at Dorice, who has been completely silent throughout this whole exchange, with varying expressions of distaste passing over her face at the sight of each item on my father’s plate. ‘I’m so sorry, that’s quite enough about me… do tell me more about your plans for this trip. I understand you’re a wildlife photographer…’

The sudden animation on Dorice’s face at this newly presented opportunity to talk about herself somehow reminds me of an electronic device being powered back on after a long period of inactivity.

‘Well, I have been working as a freelance photographer, yes, since my retirement from the visual arts industry…’ As she regales Sebastian with stories of trips to Africa and New Zealand and her photographic conquests of lizards and albatrosses, I allow my mind to drift from the conversation and think about everything Sebastian said. It’s so easy to look at another person doing a great job, seeming to live life in their element, and think they have everything they could ever want. It would never have occurred to me that Sebastian would want to do anything other than be the British Consul. And what could have happened in his life to interrupt those plans?

I don’t get the chance to ask as our lunch is cut short by another sudden, violent rainstorm. We hastily pay and run back to the car, Lewis splashing delightedly in the puddles already forming among the cobblestones.

‘I don’t know how to thank you for today,’ my father says warmly, pumping Sebastian’s hand, as we pull up outside the hotel.

‘It was a pleasure,’ Sebastian beams. ‘Kirsty has may card… any time you need anything.’

Dorice shakes his hand politely, then laboriously pulls her raincoat up and over her head, completely obliterating her face, before sprinting the short distance from the car to the hotel entrance. Dad and I follow behind, leaving Sebastian to wait in the car with Lewis.

‘I’ll see you in the room, David – this weather will make my hair go terribly frizzy.’ Dorice sighs, then turns to me. ‘See you later, Kirsty.’

Left alone in the hotel lobby with my father, we turn to face each other, the old awkwardness between us suddenly present again.

‘So, um…’ Dad gazes after Dorice, clipping her way determinedly across the room towards the lifts. ‘As you know, we’re leaving for the Galápagos tomorrow, for three days. Dorice has a special avian photography tour booked.’

‘Oh… that’s nice.’

‘Then we’ll have a weekend in the cloud forest, before returning to Quito next week.’

I nod, suddenly feeling an acute, plummeting sense of disappointment… their trip is flying by. Once they’re back in Quito we’ll only have a few more days together… and so far a significant proportion of the time I’ve spent with Dad has been inside a police station!

‘Dad…’ I swallow, realising now is my last chance to try and do something about that. ‘I know that was your whole reason for coming here – for Dorice do her photography stuff. And that’s fine. But, the thing is… I really want to spend some time with you.’

There it is, I said it. I’ve put my feelings out there to my father for the first time in… how long? Ever?

Dad is staring back at me, his expression grave. ‘I want that, too, Kirsty,’ he says quietly, and my heart leaps. ‘Which is why I was about to ask you…do you want to come with us?’

My head snaps up to look at Dad.

‘What?’

‘Come with us – to the Galápagos. And the cloud forest, too, if you want. I’ve already told Dorice… I mean, discussed it with her… we’d both love to have you along.’

That, I very much doubt. I think, but remain diplomatically silent.

‘We’ve already booked the hotels, and it wouldn’t be a problem to add another room on… Harry can come, too, of course, if you want, if he’s not busy. If money’s a problem, you don’t need to worry—’

‘It’s not that, Dad.’ I stop him, holding up my hand. ‘It’s not money, or time, or Harry, or anything else… Actually… the fact is, Dad, I’ve got important things to do right here in Quito.’ The words are out of my mouth before I’ve fully realised this for myself. ‘Thank you for the invitation and everything, really… but I have to stay.’ Even as I allow myself to be tempted by Dad’s offer, by the thought of finally seeing the Galápagos Islands, and above all the possibility of having three more uninterrupted days to spend with him, to start over again trying to break the ice between us, to really reach out to him… I realise I can’t do it. Naomi’s father only has weeks left to live, maybe less. If I put the translation of her sentence on hold to go off to the Galápagos, that could delay her final hearing, and ultimately her possible return home. As much as I want this time with my father… I want to help Naomi even more.

‘I made a promise to someone, Dad,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I would love to go with you… but I need to stay here and finish my work for Naomi.’

Please understand.

Dad is looking at me strangely, half frowning, and for a moment I think he might even be angry. But then he steps forward, and pulls me towards him in a hug.

For a moment I just stand there, not quite sure what to do, allowing him to press my face into the damp, nylon pocket of his raincoat. Then, slowly, I lift my arms up and hug him back.

‘In that case,’ he mutters into the top of my head, ‘I’ll speak to Dorice. See if we can’t come back to Quito a bit sooner, have another day out together. How does that sound?’

I pull away from him, grinning.

‘That sounds great, Dad… really great.’

Ten minutes later I’m alone with Sebastian, driving through the rain back to Liza and Roberto’s.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, after we’ve been going along in silence for several minutes. I’ve suddenly realised how drained I feel after the day’s events. A whirlwind of emotions churns through me. Inevitable disappointment at having to turn down Dad’s offer, but at the same time a firm conviction I am doing the right thing. Elation at his parting hug, and a spark of hope that, despite today’s setbacks, it’s not too late for us. And in the background, the memory of the bag thief running away from me keeps replaying in my head, filling me with the unexpected and unfamiliar urge to talk to my mum.

‘Yeah… I’m fine.’ I turn to Sebastian and smile. ‘Just looking forward to getting in and having one of Liza’s hot chocolates.’ I pause, feeling suddenly shy. ‘Thank you so much for all you did today.’

‘It’s really no problem. All part of the service.’ He makes a jokey saluting gesture with his right hand.

As we pull up outside the house, Lewis pushes his nose through the gap between the passenger seat and the car door to nuzzle my ear. I reach up a hand and stroke his head.

‘I’m glad you’re staying here. Liza and Roberto are great, aren’t they?’ He pulls on the handbrake and turns to look at me. ‘Do you want me to phone up and check they’re home? Or… your boyfriend? You probably shouldn’t be alone after what happened.’

‘I’m fine, honestly. Liza and Roberto will definitely be home, anyway. It’s time for The Colour of Sin.’

Sebastian laughs. ‘Oh, they haven’t changed then.’

I reach to unbuckle my seatbelt, then something stops me. ‘You’ve known them a long time, right? Liza and Roberto?’

‘Since I started in the Consular Section eight years ago, yes… they’ve always been there behind the scenes, helping to sell the prisoner handicrafts and often sending donations for the girls. Why?’

‘Do you know what happened to their daughter?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can consider the consequences.

Sebastian’s face stiffens and he drops his gaze to the steering wheel.

‘I mean, I know she died, they told me, but…’

‘Not how?’

‘No. And she must have been only, what… twenty or so?’

‘Eighteen.’ Sebastian’s voice drops to a near whisper. ‘She died inside the prison.’ He lets those words hang in the air for a moment, as he seems to be deciding how to go on. ‘She’d been there under a year, wasn’t even sentenced yet… it was before I started this job. I never met her.’ He takes a deep breath and I realise how different he looks without his usual easy smile. More tired, somehow. ‘I’m not sure of the details of her offence, except that it was drugs. Got in with the wrong crowd or something. Liza and Roberto are hardly from the kind of family who… anyway, it seems irrelevant, all that, now.’

I’m nodding and shaking my head at the same time, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak.

‘From what I understand she was getting bullied in there. By a group of women. They knew she was from a good family and I think they were extorting money from her. She didn’t tell her family much. They only found it all out afterwards, at the inquest.’ He pauses, visibly gathering himself together. ‘Then one of the other girls found her, in her cell. An overdose of prescription painkillers.’ He flicks a glance at me, as if wondering whether to continue. ‘The official investigation concluded it was suicide. But Liza and Roberto and a few women from the prison – Abigail’s friends – never fully believed that.’

After a long, horrified silence, Sebastian clears his throat roughly. ‘Things have changed since then,’ he continues more gently. ‘Liza and Roberto had a lot to do with that. They campaigned, went to the press, and eventually started up Alma Libre, with the help of a few other women, volunteers from abroad, like Marion. But… she was their only daughter. And I think they had her quite late in life. It completely devastated the family.’

My mind is filled with images of Liza and Roberto – bickering in the kitchen, huddled together over their telenovelas, passing empanadas and hot chocolate to me across the table. Then Liza somehow becomes my mother, standing in the doorway ordering me to tell her where I was going and who with, sitting up in her dressing gown as I get home after a night out, arms folded, the same pained expression on her face, all through my teenage years and long after. She was always there, worrying away in the background and I had only ever seen it as an irritation, a hindrance to my growing independence. All she was doing, I realise now with a sudden, calm clarity, was trying to protect Chloe and me from the horrors of the world, the horrors Liza and Roberto and their daughter were exposed to in full sickening detail.

Chloe! A chill runs down my back at the thought of my little sister, only a few years older than Abigail had been, her silly grin and ever-changing hair colour and big, generous personality right now living in the centre of London with two girls she hardly knows… how many times could she have been offered drugs? What would she do if she were promised, tomorrow, a sum of money that would take her out of the constraints of her daily life and open the door to her wildest dreams, at the simple price of just one journey… one small package?

‘Kirsty?’ Sebastian whispers, looking up and taking in the tears streaming silently down my face.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay this time. He just places his hand ever so gently over mine, warm and reassuring against my ice-cold fingers.

A thousand nerve endings tingle to life in my hand and I sit back very carefully in my seat, hardly daring to breathe, even as my tears continue flowing.

Then Lewis sneezes loudly in my ear, and Sebastian and I both jump and burst into nervous, emotional laughter.

‘Crazy mutt.’ Sebastian removes his hand and pushes his hair back from his face. ‘Look, do you want to go and get a… drink… I mean, non-alcoholic, of course, it could be a coffee or something, just until you’re…’

‘I’m fine, thank you, honestly… in fact there’s something I really have to do.’ Even as I’m saying it and wiping away the tears, I am fumbling impatiently for my handbag and phone. ‘I’ve got to ring my mum. Right now.’

Sebastian watches me without judgement or comment as the realisation slowly spreads across my face that I no longer have a handbag, or phone. It takes me a few seconds to realise why he’s holding out his hand towards mine.

‘Are you sure?’ I look down at the mobile phone in the palm of his hand, feeling guilty. ‘You’ve done so much for me today already…’

‘Use it.’ Sebastian pushes the phone into my hand. ‘It has local rate calls to the UK anyway. You should talk to your mum… don’t leave for tomorrow something that you want to say today.’ His words remind me of something Naomi said only this morning, and I take the phone, suddenly yearning to hear my mother’s voice. I beam my thanks at Sebastian and jump out of the car, punching in her number impatiently.

Mum answers on the first ring, and I feel a pang of guilt at the relief immediately evident in her voice.

‘Kirsty! Thank goodness. It’s been over a week since your last message, you know…’

I recall her flustered voicemail and the guilt intensifies for not having called her more frequently since we got here.

‘…and I just haven’t been sleeping well, what with your sister back at university now, too, getting up to God knows wha—’

‘Mum…’ I interrupt her gently but firmly. Something in my tone brings her flow of anxiety to a stop.

‘Mum, I’m sorry. Sorry for not calling you back the other day. Sorry for not being in touch more often.’ I take a deep breath and search for the words I’ve felt swelling inside me for days now. ‘I know you’ve been worried and I want to say…’ I cast my eyes up to the clear blue Quiteño sky behind Liza and Roberto’s house and blink back a further outburst of tears. ‘I want to say how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. For me and Chloe. I think I probably haven’t told you this for a long time, if ever, but… it means so much to me. God knows where I’d be if it wasn’t for you.’ I shudder, thinking of Abigail, so young and alone inside the prison. So filled with desperation that she felt there was no way to go on. ‘I love you, Mum. I know I’m impatient with you sometimes and I want to apologise for that, too. It’s taken being away from you, really, in such a new and strange place, to realise how much I appreciate everything, and…’ My voice wobbles pathetically, and I struggle to force out the last part. ‘To realise how much I miss you.’

There’s a stunned silence on the line, then I hear a muffled sob.

‘Mum, please don’t…’

‘No, it’s okay,’ Mum insists, her voice unsteady, too. ‘I just didn’t expect you to… I didn’t expect this.’ I hear her sniff and audibly pull herself together. ‘I nearly missed the phone… I was just getting ready for bed. Steve’s downstairs watching the end of The Great British Bake Off.’

I can’t help but laugh at this piece of irrelevant information, even as fresh tears fill my eyes at the thought of their cosy little house, Mum fussing about upstairs in her dressing gown, and Steve with his feet up and a cup of tea in front of the TV. My longing to be there with them almost overwhelms me.

‘It wasn’t easy, you know,’ Mum says, her voice more sober. ‘Bringing you up by myself. I loved you desperately all the way through, of course, but it wasn’t bloody easy.’

I hold my breath, waiting for to her to say more, feeling strangely like this is the first time my mother has been really honest with me for a long time… perhaps ever.

‘I know I fuss,’ she continues. ‘And I know it drives you girls mad. But all I ask is for you to understand a little where I’m coming from. After your father… left, it was a real struggle for me, in those years before I met Steve. Making ends meet, bringing you up and trying to put on a strong front for you… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. But it affected my nerves, I can’t pretend it didn’t, love.’

‘I know, Mum,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.

‘Anxiety is an actual condition, you know,’ she adds, her tone a little defensive now.

‘I know, Mum,’ I repeat, actually realising it properly for the first time.

‘I take pills for it, you know, love.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

‘Don’t apologise, darling. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty. Just… please look after yourself. Live your life. Be happy. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to know you’re happy.’

‘I will, Mum… I am. I promise.’ Even as the words leave my mouth I feel a massive sense of relief, of liberation, a knowledge that something has shifted both inside me and in my relationship with my mother.

Then I’m brought back to reality by a brisk knocking sound above my head and Liza leaning out of the window summoning me upstairs for a hot chocolate.

Chapter Sixteen

When I first met Harry, or should I say when Harry first came and spoke to me in the Student Union bar, I was finishing off an essay about intellectual property rights that was due the next day. We went out for a drink that same night; I don’t think Harry even finished the beer he had bought on the way over, and I know that when I went back to my room to dump my laptop and papers, I didn’t even give myself time to change or check my reflection. I just followed him. Later we continued chatting obliviously while pub staff stacked chairs around us and gradually turned the music down, then actually came over and told us they were closing. We scooped up our coats and bags without interrupting the flow of conversation and moved on to the nearest bar. I couldn’t tell you which bar it was or what we drank, I just remember the feeling of being totally captivated by this man, his stories of people and places I had never heard of, his smile and his laugh and his confidence. As we finally stumbled back across the campus lawn in the early hours, clinging to each other in a dizzy flurry of laughter, a feeling of wonder began to spread though me. Wonder that this funny, dynamic, well-travelled man, who could date anyone at the university (and, I reflected later, probably had), ultimately chose me.

I floated back to my room on a cloud of disbelieving elation and, as it grew light, hammered out the rest of the essay in about two hours then showered, changed and walked straight to the law department to hand it in. Over the years at university I’d watched several friends stay up all night to finish work at the last minute, and always considered it very short-sighted and disorganised. But now I didn’t care. Even as I performed these tasks a part of my brain was already elsewhere, focused on higher things, whizzing away, planning the next months and years of my life, certain in the knowledge that after tonight nothing would ever be the same.

Now, as the first pale rays of daylight filter through the blinds behind me and I finally push the laptop away from me in exhaustion, the translation of Naomi’s sentence and other documents finished at last, I look over through the open bedroom door to where Harry is sleeping and try to evoke those feelings. I had been only twenty-two yet filled with an utter, guileless certainty that this was the person finally worth dating, the person I wanted to build a life with. At the time it felt very grown-up, set against my friends’ many dramas and indecisions over dates and boyfriends, to feel such complete certainty about spending your life with another person; only now, so many formative years later, do I realise how very young indeed I had been.

I stare at the soft rise and fall of Harry’s chest, the form of his shoulders silhouetted against the wall. His features are just coming into focus as the Quito dawn explodes around us.

‘It doesn’t last, you know.’ My mother’s voice creeps into my mind, and I can even picture her pursed-lipped expression as she gears up to deliver her well-known lecture.

‘That ‘honeymoon’ feeling. It doesn’t last.’

I knew it off by heart. Chloe and I had been subjected to it at regular intervals since we were old enough to know the difference between boys and girls. Only now, thinking back to my mum’s words on the phone yesterday, can I really begin to understand the reasons behind the sermon.

‘REAL happiness comes from working at a relationship. Staying together through thick and thin. If you go off in search of passion and excitement, nothing will ever last.’

Of course Mum would say that; she had brought up a child completely on her own. It was only natural for her to value stability and consistency over romance. It wasn’t easy, you know… all I wanted was for you to grow up without it spoiling your childhood. Mum’s words from last night echo in my mind, the extent of her dedication and sacrifice over the years really sinking in. I rub my eyes and gaze out at the first rays of sunlight glinting off the cathedral roof far below us in the city centre.

It seems incredible I’ve never properly realised any of this before. Never stopped to think about what it must have been like for Mum during all those years of just scraping by, being both mother and father to me, somehow coping despite the infrequent visits and only sporadic contributions from my father. How could I have been so immature? To have spent years wrapped in growing resentment towards my father, but never really thought about the effects on my mum.

Only now, with the time and distance afforded by being on the other side of the world, can I really appreciate what it must have been like for her.

I stare down at the bulky document of Naomi’s sentence and feel an even stronger sense of empathy with her. After so many years imprisoned far away from her family, how she must desperately yearn to see them again and give them a hug… I’ve not even been gone for a full month, but would give anything to see my mum right now.

I think back to all the times I’d endured her lecture about relationships, and wonder at how much I have let it shape my decisions over the years without even realising it until now. How her voice would ring in my ears whenever I got asked out on a date. How it had both taught me to be cautious and sensible, yet also sown seeds of fear.

For all her melodrama, I know Mum always had the best intentions. She didn’t want to see her daughters left in the same position she was, barely in her mid-twenties and bringing up a child alone. She always made sure to remind me that Dad left when I was small, for another woman. Always made sure to inform me when another of his relationships failed after that. Even before the age of social media she somehow managed to receive the information before I did, every time, and on one occasion I even got home from school to find her discussing his latest relationship break-up with our neighbour Mrs Bunn over coffee. It was like she had some kind of internal radar for his failures.

She had been deeply cynical that first summer at the end of university when I arrived at the front door, beaming, with a tanned, grinning Harry in tow, and the news that we were moving in together. Only as the years passed and Harry duly showed up to every family meal did she start to relax.

And it hadn’t lasted. What my mother described as the ‘honeymoon’ feeling. That sense of yearning to see the person, of shivery excitement at the sound of their voice, of wonder and amazement that they are with you. I had thought it was normal. As the years passed and Harry and I intertwined our lives with increasing determination, I never stopped to ask myself if it mattered that we didn’t stay up late talking any more, or that with increasing frequency during an argument I would find myself staring at him from across the room and finding the same incomprehension mirrored back at me in his eyes.

For years, our life together never felt like anything less than a success. We were together, we had made a home, and above all I had stayed with the same person. The person I chose. I was not becoming my parents. Just that knowledge alone was enough to fill me with relief, and a form of contentedness, as I considered my life and arrived home to our little house and woke up beside Harry every day.

Looking over at Harry now, I feel a stirring, uncomfortable conviction, an uneasy sensation that has been with me since we arrived in Ecuador, and perhaps even before. Deep down, over the last few years, I had known something was not quite right. I stare at Harry’s sleeping form and finally admit to myself that I came on this trip hoping it would bring us together again, back to that simple, enchanting certainty of our first years together. Instead, being in a foreign country has somehow magnified everything I was feeling before and brought it into a horrible, vivid new focus. I ask myself whether I would still feel this way if it were not for Harry’s strange behaviour and secrecy over the past nearly three weeks since we arrived in Quito, and realise with a shiver that I do not know the answer.

My thoughts turn to the experiences I’ve had and friendships I’ve made since we arrived here. I think of Liza and Roberto, Ray and Gabriela… they all seem happy. My mother may have drilled it into me my whole life to value stability and consistency over romance. But… what about having both?

Harry turns in his sleep and makes a low murmuring sound. Something inside me clicks and I realise that now is my chance – to try one more time to fight for what we have… or, at least, what I know we used to have. To confront him about the phone calls that have been eating away at me since I stumbled upon his Skype account. I could ask him now, or I could get up quickly and slip out of the apartment before he wakes… I watch him stir again, then slowly rub his eyes and sit up.

I stay put.

‘Oh, morning, Kirst,’ he mutters, hauling himself out of bed and stumbling past me to switch on the coffee machine, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re up early.’

‘I’ve been up all night,’ I tell him, nodding at the documents and laptop splayed out around me on the kitchen table. Suddenly filled with a surge of determination, despite my exhaustion, I scrape my chair back and turn to look at him.

‘Harry, I need to talk to you.’

Something about my tone makes Harry put down the box of cereal he’s just taken from a cupboard, and turn to stare at me.

‘Okay… is it something that can wait until after coffee?’

I ignore the attempt at a jovial tone in his voice. ‘Actually, no. Look – I was using Liza and Roberto’s computer the other day to print something.’ I pause and watch him, half expecting him to clasp his hands over his mouth in horror, to begin stammering and pleading for forgiveness as he realises he has finally been discovered… but he doesn’t. He just carries on standing there looking at me with a mildly confused, indulgent expression.

‘…and when I switched on the computer, your Skype account opened automatically.’

Harry’s face remains blank, but he comes around the breakfast bar to sit down at the table beside me.

‘Who were you phoning, Harry?’ I make myself meet his eyes straight on, and force my voice to remain even and firm, despite the adrenaline shooting through me. What if this is all a terrible mistake and I’m making a fuss over nothing? A doubtful inner voice presses me. Or… what if I’m completely right to be suspicious, but the answer is something that’s only going to hurt me?

‘There were rows and rows of calls, all to the same number, always when I’ve been out of the apartment,’ I press on, knowing I can’t go back now. ‘What’s going on, Harry? Is there something… up with you? Something you need to talk about?’ My voice fades out as I watch Harry’s facial expression gradually change from blank and enquiring to frowning and defensive, then annoyed.

Before I’ve even finished speaking he’s pushed his chair back impatiently and turned away from me back to the kitchen.

‘Seriously? That is what you wanted to talk about?’ He begins loudly removing plates and cups from the cupboard. ‘A few phone calls?’ Crash. A cereal bowl is put down heavily on the worktop. ‘A few phone calls for work that I chose to make when you were out, in order to have more time with you when you’re here?’ Bang. The fridge door is slammed shut. ‘That didn’t occur to you, did it?’ he asks crossly, still not looking at me. ‘That I was busy working?’ He stops for a moment, glaring down at the box of cornflakes on the counter in front of him.

Smarting, I stare up at him. ‘Harry, why are you being so…’ I can’t even find an appropriate word. ‘It seemed weird to me, that’s all. It seems weird to me, still. I mean, we have a laptop here, with Skype on it… why would you always use Liza’s computer, and only when I’m out? Or, even worse, when I’m up here waiting for you and you tell me you’re downstairs chatting to Liza?’ I make a real effort to keep my voice pleasant, conciliatory, even as I stand firm and face Harry. ‘And I think I have every right to ask you this. To try and…. Understand.’

‘Do you have the right to go snooping through my call list?’ Harry hisses, shrugging off my outstretched hand and turning away from me. ‘And confronting me like you think I’m doing something wrong?’

‘I’m not… I wasn’t… oh God, this is hopeless… Harry, where are you going?’ I stare in disbelief as he turns his back on me and marches towards the bathroom.

‘Anywhere, away from here, okay?’ He mutters crossly. ‘Away from the bloody Spanish inquisition.’ Then the bathroom door is shut abruptly in my face.

I stare at it, my eyes stinging and a lump rising in my throat. The sound of running water, closely followed by vigorous, angry tooth-brushing reaches me from the other side of it. Fleetingly I consider going after him, pushing the door open and yanking the toothbrush out of his hands and demanding that he gives me a proper answer. But eventually common sense and dignity prevail and I turn away, blinking back my hurt, indignant tears.

Harry may not realise it, but all he has achieved by this unprovoked outburst is convincing me further he is up to something. And that if I am ever going to get to the bottom of it, I am going to have to bloody well find out for myself. Actually talking to each other seems to be beyond us now.

Suddenly feeling almost overwhelmed by sadness and tiredness, I turn back to the kitchen table and the open laptop and pile of paperwork staring back at me from it.

All my hard work.

Naomi’s future.

Not for the first time since we arrived in Ecuador, I find myself overtaken by a feeling of defeat, of wanting to curl up and dissolve into tears, because of Harry… closely followed by the knowledge that I can’t, at least not yet, because there is something far more important, something bigger than me, depending on me for success.

With a surge of determination, and one last glare at the bathroom door, I yank the USB out of the laptop and gather the papers together, striding towards the door and the welcome sanctuary of Liza and Roberto’s apartment.

Whatever happens with Harry, it will have to wait. Because now, finally, after so much hard work, I have something very important to do.

Liza is at the kitchen worktop, noisily massacring a pineapple. When she hears me let myself in behind her, she stops hacking and puts the knife down to come over and wrap me in a hug.

‘Kristie! How lovely! What’s got you up so early?’ She beams, then starts fussily brushing a smudge of pineapple juice off my pyjama top. Then she steps back and frowns at me. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, absolutely fine, Liza,’ I say firmly, aware my cheeks are probably bright red and my eyes are still shining with unshed tears.

‘I’ve finished translating Naomi’s documents,’ I inform her, hearing the triumph creep into my voice. ‘So I was wondering if I could use your computer to print them off.’

‘Well, of course, sweetheart! What great news, you must have worked so hard.’ Liza glances at the USB stick dubiously. ‘We must tell Sebastian immediately – shall I phone him?’ She eyes the USB stick and mobile phone in my hand again, with the suspicion one might view outlandish gadgets from a future era. ‘Unless you want to… contact him that way.’ She waves at the phone. ‘You youngsters have your ways, I’m sure. And meanwhile, you must sit down and have some breakfast. No, I insist. Señora Perez from next-door-but-one gave me this pineapple yesterday. She brought a batch of them from her daughter’s villa on the coast. It’s perfectly ripe. Go on, sit down.’ She turns back to the counter and lops off the last of the pineapple’s outer skin with a decisive thwack.

I sit down helplessly at the table and stare at my mobile phone.

7:15 a.m. Is that too early to phone someone to tell them you’ve finished translating the documents for the person in prison whom you are both trying to help return to their home country? What kind of social rules apply in these situations? Finally, unable to bear it anymore, and telling myself that the sooner I give Sebastian the papers the sooner Naomi will be able to go home, which more than justifies any unhinged behaviour on my part, I fire off a text message:

Translations finished! What next?

I stare at it, wondering too late whether I should have thrown in a smiley face or something to make it sound friendlier, then my phone starts flashing with an incoming call. Oh my God.

‘Good morning, you!’ Sebastian’s warm voice fills the kitchen as I realise my phone is on loudspeaker. ‘That’s amazing news! Have you really finished the whole sentence?’

I glance over at Liza, noticing the sudden absence of thwacking sounds, and realise she is standing with her arms folded and eyebrows raised, listening openly.

‘Um… let me just…’ I stumble to my feet and go to stand a little way outside the kitchen doorway, turning my back on her. ‘Yes, the whole thing is done. I actually finished about an hour ago… It was a long night.’

‘Oh, wow! You pulled an all-nighter? I haven’t done one of those since university… hope it wasn’t too tedious for you?

‘Tedious? No way!’ I remember the vivid, emotive descriptions of Naomi’s arrest and the transcript of her subsequent court hearing, in which she’d sobbed and begged the judge to think of her children before sentencing her, and how tears had flowed from my own eyes in compassion for her as I read. ‘It was fascinating, actually. And moving.’ I stop, wondering too late whether Sebastian will consider me a bit mad. ‘I would appreciate a second pair of eyes though. To proofread, you know. Check the grammar, verb endings, that kind of thing.’ I close my eyes, realising I’m rambling but somehow unable to stop. ‘It was actually quite fun, once I got stuck in. Looking up all the legal terms and finding the best way to phrase things.’

‘Wow, a fellow nerd.’ There’s a warm chuckle in Sebastian’s voice. ‘Well, it’s great news that you’ve done it. I’ll check through everything for you and submit it to the Ministry straight away. When do you want me to collect it? I can send a driver this morning if that’s convenient.’

‘Oh… of course. The sooner the better, for Naomi’s sake.’ I suppress a pang of disappointment at the thought of handing the documents to an unknown driver. I don’t know what I had expected – a candlelit dinner invitation, Sebastian poring lovingly over every word of my translation, our heads edging closer as we sat huddled over a bottle of wine, highlighting and underlining… Get a GRIP, I tell myself. This is a professional relationship – the only thing you have in common is the desire to help Naomi.

‘Kristie?’

I realise the phone has gone silent and look up to see Liza standing in the doorway, where she seems to have been shamelessly eavesdropping the whole time, still holding the knife dripping pineapple juice and wearing a businesslike expression.

‘Tell him we’re going to the handicraft shop in an hour to deliver some products,’ she says bossily. ‘He can send a driver to collect it from us there. Now for goodness’ sake stop chatting, I’ve made you English Breakfast Tea and it’s getting cold.’

***

Unlike the prison, the handicraft shop is very much how I imagined. A tiny whitewashed store squashed between a laundrette and a shabby-looking Chinese restaurant, its one small window out to the street crammed with carved statues and picture frames and chess sets, and more of the brightly coloured woven hammocks I recognise from my first day in Liza’s kitchen. During the short fifteen-minute drive we’ve descended into the southern end of Quito where the streets are narrower and dirtier, the buildings more crowded together, and the people carry weary, resigned expressions as they trudge past us to work or school. Liza pulls the car up on to the very narrow pavement and looks carefully around her before going round to open the boot and unload our cargo.

As I get out, another vehicle skids to a sudden halt a few feet in front of us. My heart catches in my chest as I recognise the dusty blue Land Rover, the diplomatic plates, and the bouncing black dog pressing his nose energetically against the rear window.

‘Hey – let me help with those!’ Sebastian bounds out of the driver’s side and presses a button to lock the car behind him with a beep and flash of lights. He lifts the first box effortlessly out of the car and follows Liza to where she is fussing to get the shop door unlocked.

‘Hey, Kristie,’ he throws me a wink over his shoulder, and I can’t help but giggle at his use of my ‘Ecuadorian’ name in Liza’s presence. As Sebastian hauls the remaining boxes into the shop, refusing any help from Liza or me, I go over to his car and push my hand through the slightly open window, stroking Lewis’s ears. He rests his head on the back of the seat, closes his eyes and makes a little huffing sound.

‘Wow, he doesn’t usually let people do that,’ Sebastian says, coming up behind me. ‘Too hyperactive. Look… I hope you don’t mind me dropping by in person to collect the documents. But all our drivers were, well, really busy, and it seemed easier this way.’

Mind?

‘No, course not! I’ll go and get them now…’ I hurry back to the car, conscious that Sebastian is on work time at the moment and must already be in enough of a hurry if he has had to drive all this way to the south of Quito to collect the documents himself, in the opposite direction to the embassy.

We go inside the shop and I hold out the carefully stapled folder to Sebastian, feeling suddenly hesitant. Lewis follows us and settles down on a cardboard box in the corner with a contented sigh, his eyes never leaving his master.

‘It’s all in order… the certificates are first, then the sentence…’ Sebastian moves to take it from me, but, ludicrously, I find myself clutching it back to my chest, my heart rate suddenly quickening. ‘Look, I won’t be offended if it’s no good. Really. Or if you need to hire someone else to edit it all. I used a legal dictionary and everything, but, you know, my Spanish isn’t…’

Sebastian’s quizzical expression melts into a smile and he sits down on the table opposite me, his legs swinging from the edge. ‘Kirsty…’

I look up from the folder where it is still clutched to my chest. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m sure you’ve done a great job. Really. From the first certificates you translated I was left in no doubt about that. Now, if I could just…’ He reaches his hand out and gently prises the folder away from me. ‘I’ll check through it all myself this afternoon. Then I just need you to sign a declaration before a notary… I’ll let you know where to go and how… and they’re all ready to be submitted to the Ministry.’ He looks down at the folder, breaking into a smile. ‘And with all the supporting documents I’ve prepared – medical reports from the UK about Naomi’s father and his condition, petitions from all her family members to consider the case on compassionate grounds – it won’t be long at all before they call her final hearing.’

A shot of adrenaline jolts through me, as I realise all over again the significance of what we are doing. ‘And that’s when they’ll decide whether Naomi’s sentence is reduced… whether she might go free?’

‘Yes. In principle, if they decide in the hearing to reduce her sentence, it’s just a case of sending a formal notification to the prison and issuing her release warrant… then she’s out.’

I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, not knowing how to voice the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me. Again, I remember Naomi’s spontaneous tears and heartfelt hug when I offered to help her. To think I might actually have managed to get her home sooner… why had I ever doubted my ability to do the translations?

‘I know – pretty intense, isn’t it?’ Sebastian’s voice is gentle. ‘I’ve already been through this process with three others, from the men’s prison… but no one, I think, has affected me like Naomi. What with her dad and everything.’

‘God, is there any news on that?’ I hadn’t dared ask Liza or Gabi if they’d heard anything.

‘Yes… he’s still in the hospice. Her mother calls me every few days now. Hanging on by a thread, it seems. They’re all convinced he’s waiting for her… oh!’

Sebastian jumps up guiltily at the loud, irritated, throat-clearing sounds coming from the other end of the room. I look up to see Liza, arms folded, standing by the small cash register at the far end of the shop, all the bags we unloaded from the car in a disordered pile at her feet.

‘Am I going to get some help unpacking all this?’ The tone of her voice leaves no room for argument.

It takes Sebastian and me about twenty minutes to unwrap the various items and find room for them on the shelves lining all four walls of the tiny shop. We work away in companionable silence, Sebastian only pausing every so often, to throw a treat to Lewis, or intervene, laughing, just in time to stop him destroying a cardboard box or ball of newspaper. For me, the methodical, manual work is a perfect distraction from Harry’s angry outburst this morning. We hadn’t exchanged a single word before I left the house with Liza, and I only went back upstairs to grab a change of clothes then stomp back out again, ignoring Harry’s searching gaze as I close the door behind me. If he thinks he can speak to me like that…

As we work, Liza fusses and grumbles to herself at the till.

‘Oh, I wish Gabriela was here,’ she mutters. ‘I can’t make head or tail of what she’s written here…’

Sebastian and I exchange glances and roll our eyes as we take one end each of a large, bright-purple hammock to unfold it from its packaging.

‘Are you sure you don’t have to be at the office?’ I ask guiltily. ‘Not that I… want you to go or anything.’

He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘They won’t miss me for an hour or so. It’s not like I haven’t been putting the hours in…’ After we’ve draped the hammock artistically from one end of the shelves, he bends to unwrap a wooden photo frame. ‘Hey, Liza, is this one of Marta’s?’

Liza looks up distractedly from tapping on the till keys, and squints at the frame. ‘Yes, I think so. Everything should be labelled underneath with the prisoner’s initials.’ She looks over at me. ‘So we know where to direct any proceeds from selling the items, you see.’

I step closer to Sebastian to admire the detailed carving all around the edge of the rectangular frame. It’s just bare wood, rough and unvarnished, but the intricately carved pattern of interwoven vines and flowers must have taken hours of work.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ I gasp, wondering at how something so simple and perfect could be produced inside a place so bleak. ‘Is that the Marta… that Naomi knows? The older lady?’

‘Yep.’ Sebastian turns the frame over in his hands and carefully places it on a shelf, right in the front window. ‘She doesn’t take part in the workshops much. But when she does, everyone can see she has talent. She used to sew as well… giant colourful tapestries that took months to complete.’

I remember the diminutive, quiet lady, and Naomi’s story of how she was forced to carry the drugs which put her in prison.

‘How much would that frame cost?’ I ask Liza, realising at the same time I left the house with nothing more than the folder of documents for Sebastian, and have no money on me at all.

‘Oh, I expect we’ll charge about twenty dollars for that, tops,’ Liza replies. ‘One of the higher-end products, for sure.’ She sees my horrified face, and explains, ‘Don’t forget – everyone knows these things are made by prisoners. They know we’re not here to make a big profit. People come here for cheap gifts, or tourists occasionally drop in for the sheer novelty value. We have to keep the prices low in order to have something at least to send back to the girls at the end of each month.’

I make a mental note to find my way back here and buy the frame for twice the asking price.

Sebastian has gone over to the back of the shop to arrange some big wooden carvings of famous people and cartoon characters, painted in gaudy colours.

‘I recognise these a mile off – the two French girls do them, right?’ He’s dusting off a waist-high statue of Michael Jackson. ‘They always try ambitious projects. I’ve got to admire them for it. Although… not sure I’d want this in my living room.’

‘What about these? Who makes them?’ I hold up a carved tree-shaped object, full of little holes along its rudimentary branches. ‘And what actually is it?’

Sebastian comes over and takes the object from me, then stands it up on the end of a shelf. ‘It’s an earring tree – see…’ Then he reaches up and gently unhooks my own earring from my ear, before looping it through one of the holes on the tree. ‘Naomi used to make these, actually. And her cellmate, Victoria. This might even be one of hers… yes, look.’ He turns the tree over to show me the little red sticker bearing the initials ‘V.R.Y.’ ‘This is one of hers.’

My hand automatically goes up to my ear, tingling from Sebastian’s unexpected touch. ‘Pregnant Victoria?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. Sorry – didn’t mean to steal your earring.’ He looks suddenly embarrassed.

I smile awkwardly, a strange, warm feeling spreading through me as I realise

Sebastian seems to recognise all the handicrafts and their creators. I turn away hurriedly to continue unpacking the box of earring trees, hoping he doesn’t see the expression on my face.

‘So…how’s your father getting on? Did they make it to the Galápagos okay?’ Sebastian finally breaks the silence.

‘Oh, yes, thank you – he let me know as soon as he arrived that it all went smoothly, they had no problem travelling without a passport once they showed the police reports and that letter you did… thank you so much again for that.’ I smile at him in what I hope is a convincing way, not wanting to tell him that all I have heard from my father since he left for the Galápagos two days ago was a one-line email, saying ‘We’ve arrived. It’s too hot, and the internet keeps going down. I’ll be in touch soon about our return date to Quito. Love, Dad.’ At least he’d stopped signing off his emails ‘best wishes’, but even so, it felt like a bit of an anticlimax after his warm farewell hug in the hotel lobby. I’d replied as cheerfully as possible, sending him a few links to restaurants and museums we might go to once he’s back in the city. I’m determined to make our last few days together in Quito unforgettable…

Sebastian is holding my gaze for a little longer than normal, and turning over another earring tree in his hands. ‘That’s… great,’ he says finally. ‘You must be looking forward to seeing him again.’

Just then my phone buzzes to life on the table and makes us both jump.

I see Harry’s name pop up on the screen and immediately reach out and cut he call off. After this morning, the last thing I want to do is talk to him… but the phone immediately lights up again, buzzing insistently. Oh God, he’s not going to give up. I can feel Sebastian watching me as I watch the phone.

‘Excuse me a moment… I’d better get this,’ I mutter, grabbing the phone and marching to the far corner of the room, hunching behind a large wooden statue of Bart Simpson, feeling Sebastian, Liza and Lewis all watch me go.

‘I can’t talk right now,’ I hiss, as soon as I pick up the phone. Harry ignores me.

‘Kirsty, I’m so sorry about this morning.’ His voice is solemn, hoarse – if I didn’t know Harry better I’d even think he had been crying. But I’ve never, ever known Harry to cry.

‘Can you forgive me?’ he pleads. ‘I completely overreacted. I know you were just asking, but they really were work calls…’

‘Harry, I can’t talk right now,’ I repeat firmly, glancing back at the shop floor where Liza is unashamedly watching me from across the shop. Sebastian is, at least, focusing his attention on arranging one of the shelves at the far end of the room, but I’m still conscious the space we’re in is potentially small enough for everyone in the room to hear my conversation, Bart Simpson or no Bart Simpson.

‘Please, babe, I was just feeling stressed, I didn’t mean to overreact like that. They were just a few calls I was doing for Luke. He asked me to phone a student who hasn’t been showing up lately. You have to believe me.’

Do I? I keep the phone clasped to my ear but have no idea what to say back. The truth is too hard to voice… I don’t think I can believe you.

‘Look, Luke’s given me the day off today. Why don’t we go out for lunch or something when you get back? Somewhere nice?’

‘I can’t talk now,’ I repeat numbly. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’ I determinedly end the call and fix a nothing-to-see-here smile on my face before heading back over to the handicrafts, dropping my phone on the nearest surface.

But no sooner has my phone hit the table than it starts ringing again.

I whirl round impatiently, not looking at the screen before snatching it up.

‘Harry, I just said let’s talk when—’

‘IT’S NAOMI!’ She cuts me off, yelling through the terrible signal. ‘I’VE BORROWED SOMEONE’S PHONE – don’t tell anyone!’ I sink back into a chair, exhaling in surprise and relief.

‘Naomi… hi. Is everything okay?’ The line is crackling and stuttering and I can barely hear her reply.

‘Dario, my eldest, just got his A-level results! I’m so happy, he’s done it, he’s really done it!’ The joy in her voice is contagious. My shoulders relax and I find myself forgetting Harry and allowing the smile to spread across my face. ‘Guess what? He got two Bs and a C! That’s enough to get into uni… he’s really done it…’ Her voice trails off, and as I hold my phone away from my ear to check for a signal, I hear a sob.

‘Naomi, that’s wonderful!’

I listen to her blabber incomprehensibly, making out snatches of words such as ‘first-choice university’ and ‘so proud’ and, finally, through a choked sob, ‘all I could ever ask for’.

Something in my throat catches as I try to imagine what it must be like to love another person that much, to feel their every success and failure alongside them, as intensely as or even more so than if it were your own. Yet again I find myself yearning to experience that selfless love as a parent, to make another person my centre and my reason for being. As Naomi continues to cry in my ear, I find my own eyes are damp as well.

I hold the phone against my chest for a moment and wave at Liza and Sebastian. ‘Hey, Liza, Seb, it’s Naomi!’ I call across the room. ‘Her son just passed his A-levels and is going to university!’ They both look up from the unpacking and beam, calling out their congratulations.

‘Are you with Sebastian from the embassy?’ Naomi’s voice is suddenly sharp, all trace of tears gone.

‘Um… yes?’

‘Right. Good. Now listen to me, Kirsty.’ I hear a loud sniff followed by the sound of Naomi noisily blowing her nose. ‘Seriously, just listen. He totally has a crush on you.’

‘Er, what the – !’ I let out a strangled, high-pitched laugh, feeling my face instantly catch fire, and notice both Sebastian and Liza glance up at me again.

‘He does. Honestly. He phoned me already this morning to tell me about the translations – shit, thank you, by the way! – and he was all like Kirsty this, and Kirsty that, and isn’t Kirsty amazing. He absolutely wants to shag you!’

‘Er, oh my God, Naomi. I am not having this conversation with you.’ I glance over at Liza and Sebastian again, who are both doing a very poor impression of being completely engrossed in unwrapping a large wooden statue of a racing car. ‘You’re being completely inappropriate. You remember I came here with my boyfriend, right?’ I try to keep my voice low and ignore my wildly pounding heartbeat. ‘Anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be? Roll call or cleaning duty or something? God…’

Naomi is cackling away wickedly. ‘Yeah, I’d better go. This woman is going to have a litter of kittens if I don’t give her phone back soon.’ There’s a rustling sound and I hear her shout something impatiently behind her in Spanish. ‘But… I just wanted to share the news about Dario. Seriously, I’m just overjoyed.’

‘I know. Me too. I’m so happy for you, Naomi… and thanks for phoning me. It… it means a lot that you wanted to share that with me.’

‘Yeah, whatever – just remember what I said, okay? He definitely wants to—’

‘Ohmigod! Hanging up now!’ I click off my phone, still chuckling to myself in disbelief, and look up to see Sebastian standing alone in the middle of the shop, watching me.

‘Oh! Where’s Liza?’ I have to actually bite the inside of my cheeks to force my features into a serious expression and control the ridiculous, inappropriate grin threatening to spread across my face.

‘She went out to move the car – neighbours complaining. Naomi have much to say?’

I study Sebastian’s face, trying to work out if he heard anything, but he’s wearing an expression of polite curiosity.

‘Oh… she was just being… her usual self. And very happy about Dario, obviously.’

‘Yes, well, I’m glad. She needed some good news.’

There’s an awkward silence.

‘Hey… look, Kirsty.’ Sebastian looks up and I am met with those green eyes. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m so sorry if I upset you the other day. Telling you all that stuff about…’ His eyes flick to the doorway then back to mine. ‘…About Liza, and everything. It was insensitive of me to tell you. You seem to have a lot going on in your own life and I never meant—’

I reach out and gently touch his arm to stop him. My hand rests there on the soft navy fabric of his jumper and we both stare down at it for a moment. I feel like a tightrope-walker taking their first step out on to the line. ‘Seb, don’t apologise. You might not believe this but finding that out actually really helped me. It made me… re-evaluate a few things.’ I’d barely spoken to Sebastian after the conversation with my mother the other day, just hastily handed his phone back with a hurried thank you then dashed upstairs to have dinner with Liza and Roberto. I feel I owe him at least a brief explanation now.

‘This whole trip… to be honest, everything… Liza and Roberto and the prison and Naomi – especially Naomi – are helping me realise a few things that I needed to, um, realise.’ Noticing my hand is still on Sebastian’s arm, and that he is making no effort to remove it, I take it back, but dare myself to give his arm a quick squeeze first. Our eyes meet again. Then he does it. The hair-tuck. I’ve seen it so many times in Jennifer Aniston films, and it always seems like such an insincere gesture. Just reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind a girl’s ear… really? But now, Sebastian’s hand leaving a burning trail of fire across my neck and down to my trembling knees, I don’t think any gesture has ever affected me so much in my life.

‘You’d better have your earring back.’ I look down and realise it’s been in his hand all along.

‘Right… thanks.’

‘And I’d better get back to the office.’

‘Yes.’

‘And drop off the crazy mutt at his morning exercise class.’

‘I see.’

‘Have you… got any plans for this afternoon?’

I look at my feet, feeling uncomfortably as if I am betraying someone, without even being sure who. ‘Yeah, I’m… I suppose I’ll… Harry and I will probably do something.’ I scuff my feet against the table leg, feeling ludicrously like a teenager again. ‘That was him on the phone before,’ I add unnecessarily. ‘He’s got the day off today.’

‘Right, yes. Of course.’ Sebastian flashes me a smile that, for the first time ever, looks somehow forced, then leans and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch then – about Naomi.’ With that he waves at Liza, and I hear the little bell of the shop door as it clangs shut behind him.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Phone call for you,’ Liza announces as I stumble into the kitchen for breakfast. I stop dead with my hand halfway to the cereal box, holding my breath. It’s been three long days since I handed Naomi’s translated documents to Sebastian, and it feels like we’ve all been existing within Liza and Roberto’s little house in a state of limbo. Since I confronted Harry about the Skype calls he has been nothing but attentive and apologetic towards me, and I have sidestepped around him, not really believing his explanation, but knowing confronting him again would be pointless. He’d just give me the same excuse – and my gut instinct would just insist in return that it’s not true. I’ve already reached the conclusion that if I’m going to get to the bottom of what he’s up to, I’m going to have to carry out some covert investigations of my own.

Meanwhile, every time the phone rings, Liza, Roberto and I spring into a state of heightened alertness, hoping for some news on Gabriela’s baby, due any day now, or the date for Naomi’s court hearing.

‘It’s your father, calling from their hotel in the cloud forest.’ Liza thrusts the phone into my hands, not giving me any time to arrange my thoughts. I still haven’t heard back from Dad about whether he plans to come back to Quito any sooner, despite his promise to talk to Dorice about it.

‘Hello, Dad?’ I try to keep the childish hope from my voice, turning my back to Liza where she is standing stirring a large vat of fragrant purple liquid at the stove, and clearly eavesdropping.

‘Hi, love!’ he shouts. It sounds like he’s talking to me from the International Space Station, not a hotel payphone in the cloud forest only a few hours’ drive away.

‘The signal is terrible… sorry for not phoning sooner! We’ve been quite… busy out here.’ There’s a long pause, the line crackling and buzzing, and for a moment I think he’s been cut off. ‘We’ve been out in the field every day. Dorice has got some excellent shots.’

Out in the field? Since when has my father spoken like that?

‘That’s great, Dad,’ I reply flatly. ‘I’m glad it’s going well. Now, I wanted to ask, have you decided whether—’

‘Hang on a minute, love,’ Dad interrupts, then I hear another voice in the background, a woman’s, and then a muffled rustling sound, as if he’s put his hand over the receiver. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll ask her… hello? Kirsty?’ Dad comes back on the line, just as I was starting to grip the receiver harder in frustration. ‘Sorry, that was Dorice. She wants to check if there’s any news on our new passports, as we fly home next week.’

I’m well aware of that, I think crossly.

‘Sebastian promised they’d be issued by the end of the week, in time for your flight,’ I remind Dad, forcing my voice to remain even.

‘Oh, that’s good… thanks, love. Now, let me just…’ Dad pauses, and the line suddenly improves, as if he’s stepped out of the room or gone outside. ‘And tell me, what’s happening with that prisoner – did you get her documents finished? I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me.’

You have?

‘Well, yes, I handed the translation in just the other day, so now it’s just a case of waiting for a court date…’

‘Great! That’s amazing work, Kirsty,’ Dad enthuses, and I feel the same surge of hope again. When was the last time he actually paid me a compliment like that?

‘So, if you can get back to Quito any sooner, I’m free,’ I tell him hopefully. ‘And in fact, I’ve found this really great steak restaurant near Liza’s house. I already phoned up and they have plenty of dairy-free options, for Dorice. I checked—’

‘I’ll let you know, love.’ The line has gone crackly again, and I’m filled with the irrational sensation of Dad drifting away from me again. ‘I’ve got to go now – they’ve just brought breakfast over. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

I say goodbye and stare down at the phone, trying not to let the feelings of disappointment and frustration run away with me, telling myself there is still time to see Dad. I’ll just have to make his last days here count…

‘Oh, and this arrived,’ Liza declares, bringing me back to the present. She reaches under the kitchen table and produces a small cardboard box, holding it out solemnly to me, her eyebrows raised so far that they begin to join the dark curls at her hairline.

I recognise the blue-and-red British Embassy logo on the box and my heart instantly begins to pound.

Sitting down at the kitchen table I gently prise open the box, only after I have seen Liza turn reluctantly back to her activity at the stove.

Inside is a small, shiny, obviously brand-new mobile phone, and underneath it a note, bearing just the words ‘Thought you might need this. All part of the service. S.’

I lift the phone out, turning it over in my hands as if it were a precious relic, an unfamiliar warm feeling tingling upwards from my toes.

‘He’s recently divorced, you know.’

Liza’s voice makes me jump and nearly drop the phone. I’d forgotten she was even there.

‘What?’

‘Sebastian.’ Liza turns back to stirring the strange purple liquid. ‘He got divorced last year. I just thought you should know.’

‘Liza…’ Roberto materialises seemingly from nowhere, his voice carrying a gentle warning as he takes up position beside his wife at the kitchen worktop.

‘Oh, er, right. I’m sorry to hear that.’ I reach forward and unsteadily pour some cereal into a bowl, more to give my hands something to do than because I actually want to eat it. ‘Poor him.’

A long silence fills the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Roberto rhythmically chopping various items of unidentifiable fruit. He begins to whistle tunelessly, periodically leaning over to scrape the slices of fruit into Liza’s pot. I watch him in frustration.

That’s it? You’re not going to tell me what happened? I stare furiously at Liza’s back, as Roberto carries on his oblivious routine. Chop, chop, lean, scrape, chop…

Don’t ask. DO NOT ask what happened… I instruct myself sternly.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, it was a terrible business,’ Liza says immediately with a dramatic sigh, as if she’s been holding her breath for me to ask. ‘Wasn’t it, Roberto? A terrible business.’

‘Hmm,’ mutters Roberto, chopping and scraping.

‘She seemed like a lovely girl. Didn’t she, Roberto? Nice blonde hair. American.’ I stare at Liza, actually holding my breath. ‘She came here backpacking, then, from what I understand, she met Sebastian and simply decided to stay. They weren’t together very long in total. Few years, wasn’t it, Roberto? They seemed so happy at first. Always inviting us over for dinner, such a lovely couple.’ She pauses to take a sip of the purple liquid from her wooden spoon, and I swear she deliberately takes an inordinate amount of time over savouring the taste, then leaning over to sprinkle in more sugar. ‘We went to the wedding, didn’t we, Roberto? Lovely couple. Lovely girl. Or so we thought.’

So he likes blondes, I find myself thinking inappropriately. ‘So… what went wrong?’ I ask, in barely more than a whisper.

‘Well…’ Liza pauses for emphasis. ‘She – Lucy, her name was – confided in me after a while that they’d started trying.’ She puts her spoon down and fixes me with an intense gaze. ‘Even back then, they weren’t getting any younger, you know – they were both nearly thirty.’

‘Er – trying?’ I realise I am not following.

‘For a baby, of course,’ Liza says impatiently. ‘Anyway, they made no secret about it. Poor Sebastian looked so chuffed… I don’t think he could really believe his luck. But then… a year passed, two years… and nothing happened.’ Something in Liza’s voice shifts, and I get the impression that for the first time she is no longer enjoying telling this story. ‘They tried everything… tests, treatments, Sebastian paid for her to go to all the best doctors. She told me openly that they knew the… problem… was with her. Not him. The few times she confided in me about it, well, it was eating her up. She went half crazy. Poor Sebastian didn’t know what to do.’ Liza stops and reaches to get four mugs out of the cupboard behind her. When she turns back to me, her face is stony.

‘Then one day he arrives home to find her in bed with the manager of the school she worked at.’ Liza slams the mugs down on the table.

I cling on to the table, feeling suddenly dizzy. ‘Sebastian… found them? His wife… Lucy? And the manager of the school?’ Just saying the words out loud makes it sound like something from one of Liza and Roberto’s terrible telenovelas. My heart is roaring in my ears.

‘Oh yes. He caught them right in the act.’ Liza hauls the steaming vat of liquid over to the table and slams it down so hard that purple splashes lap up over the edge. ‘Turns out it had been going on for quite some time. Terrible business. Absolutely terrible.’

‘Come on, now, Liza… people do all sorts of things when they’re unhappy,’ Roberto says magnanimously, speaking for the first time.

‘Yes, well, quite true. But there’s doing things and there’s doing your boss. They’re quite different, wouldn’t you say?’ Liza fixes her husband with a furious gaze. I stare at her in disbelief. Did she really just use the words ‘doing your boss’?

‘So. Anyway. That was that. She went back to New Jersey and filed for divorce and poor Sebastian ended up on his own. Oh, it did make me sad seeing him those first few months. Didn’t it make you sad, Roberto? And that poor dog. Abandoned, overnight. She went through all that paperwork to bring her dog out here to live, then just left him behind.’

With a pang I think of Lewis, and Sebastian’s words flash back into my mind, suddenly making sense. He’s been through a lot lately… silly name really, not my choice… hates being left on his own. A lump wells up in my throat at the thought of Sebastian and Lewis alone in the dark evenings, spending their Friday nights huddled together on the sofa, Sebastian clutching a mug of tea and blinking back tears, Lewis’s head resting dolefully on his knee… I feel like my heart is going to burst.

‘He went quite off the rails for a while, didn’t he, Roberto? Nightclubs and drinking and going around on that motorbike of his. Strings of girls. We only know because I used to drop in on him on Sunday mornings, just to take him some empanadas and make sure he was eating. And there was always a different girl there, wasn’t there, Roberto? It was quite shocking.’

Oh. Right. Well, as Roberto says, people do all sorts of things when they’re unhappy.

‘I think he’s calmed down now, though. Accepted it… moved on, as they say in the magazines.’ Liza sighs, and starts ladling the steaming purple liquid into the mugs. ‘Of course, people didn’t get divorced in our time. You just soldiered on through, however unhappy you were.’

Liza’s words remind me instantly of my mother, and with a sudden uncomfortable feeling I realise this is the first time I’ve heard anyone imply that staying together at all costs might not always be a positive thing.

‘Yes… more fool us!’ Roberto jokes, looking at Liza, his eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘There was no escape for me…’

‘Terrible man!’ Liza makes a mock-offended face and playfully chases him across the kitchen, trying to flick him with a tea towel.

I watch them distractedly, my mind dragged back to thoughts of my mother.

It doesn’t last, you know.

Her speech about relationships had been my mantra growing up, through my teenage years and beyond. Until now, the last few weeks in Ecuador, I had never thought to question it. But watching Liza and Roberto, despite all they’ve been through and their bickering, it is clear they still love each other. The uncomfortable conviction that has been growing inside me since we arrived here comes to the surface again. What if it can last? The spark, the closeness, the trust…

Pushing those thoughts aside again I take a cautious sip of the mug of purple liquid Liza has placed in front of me. It’s completely delicious, warm and comforting and fruity, just the right mixture of sweet and sharp. I bow my head and pretend to be engrossed in the drink, my head suddenly spinning with images of Sebastian and Lewis and a beautiful smiling blonde woman who looks inexplicably like Claudia Schiffer.

‘Buenos días, everyone!’ Harry’s cheery voice behind us makes me jump and spill purple liquid down my pyjama top. Without thinking I quickly grab the British Embassy box containing my new phone and shove it on to the chair beside me, out of sight, a strange sense of guilt creeping through me.

Not that Harry would have noticed it. He’s standing in the doorway, dressed in black trousers and his Serious Shirt with the navy stripes, sandy hair still damp from the shower, our set of keys to the apartment dangling from his finger. I am still processing how handsome he looks when he bends to hug me then goes over to Liza and kiss her on the cheek.

‘Going out?’ I ask casually, my nerve endings already poised on alert. I’ve been waiting for my chance to… investigate Harry’s activity a little more, and realise that this may just be it. Over the last couple of days, since the Skype calls, he has either got up and left stupidly early, or caught a lift into the language school with Roberto, leaving me little opportunity to try and find out if he is up to anything else…

Harry pauses in the doorway. ‘Yeah, Luke just called. After you came up here. Just now, I mean.’ He frowns and rubs the back of his head in a familiar, uncomfortable gesture. ‘I said I’d cover a class for him this morning – just a couple of hours. Gotta be there in about fifteen minutes!’ His eyes flick towards the door again.

‘But I’ve made colada morada!’ Liza exclaims indignantly. ‘Purple fruit punch… you must try some. It’s traditional for this time of year. And you can’t go out without breakfast!’

Harry looks dubiously at the steaming mug being held out to him, then arranges his face into his best apologetic expression and starts to back away. ‘I’m so sorry, Liza, I really have to go or I won’t make it there in time… I promise I’ll try it later… bye, babe. I’ll be back before lunch.’ He stops to kiss me hurriedly on the top of my head, then disappears.

I listen to the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs, feeling at the same time Liza and Roberto’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

‘I think I’m going to, er, shower and stuff…’ I scrape my chair back and put my empty mug in the sink. Liza’s gaze follows me across the kitchen as I do so.

‘Kristie?’ She stops me just as I reach the doorway.

‘Yes?’

‘You know you can… talk to me, don’t you?’ I turn to see her face full of maternal concern. Roberto has bent his head to busy himself with the washing up. Spontaneously I go over and wrap her in a quick hug. ‘Thank you, Liza. Yes, I do.’ I squeeze her arm and extricate myself again. ‘But I’m fine, honestly. Everything’s fine.’ I back away and flee the kitchen.

Instead of turning into our apartment I continue on up the steps to the roof terrace, my mind racing. Now’s your chance, I find myself thinking. All I’ve achieved by asking Harry directly what he is up to are flimsy excuses or, even worse, irritable outbursts. So I’m just going to have to take matters into my own hands and bloody well find out for myself. Even if that means employing my very dubious amateur detective skills.

Filled with a new sense of purpose, I race to the edge of the terrace and lean over to scan the streets below for my target. He should be heading uphill, towards the bus stop on the main road at the top, if he really is travelling north to the language school… I briefly scan the road leading up away from Liza’s house, and find it predictably empty of sandy-haired, smartly dressed men. Turning my gaze downwards towards the valley and the other bus stop, leading south, it only takes me a few seconds to spot him. The navy stripes, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, and familiar loping gait, unmistakable even from up here. He is striding quickly down the hill, then slowing as he reaches the bus stop. Heading south. In the opposite direction to Luke’s language school.

Something clenches inside me and I whirl away from the terrace, clatter down the steps and throw open our apartment door. Scrabbling in the wardrobe for a pair of jeans, I hop across the floor pulling them up and tugging a jumper over my pyjama top at the same time. I grab my keys and slam the door shut behind me again, racing down the steps to the front door, my heart pounding with a newfound, manic determination. No more sitting back, being a spectator as Harry merrily deceives me, doing God knows what every day when we are supposed to be here travelling, on holiday, together. I bet Naomi wouldn’t put up with crap like this, I think through gritted teeth as I trot down the dizzyingly steep hill after Harry as fast as I dare without falling flat on my face.

A menacing rumble of thunder rolls overhead and suddenly the sky darkens. I can see him, two blocks ahead of me now. I recognise his big loping strides, phone held out in front of him inches from his face, not even looking up from it as he crosses the road. How I suddenly want to run up to him, yank the phone from his grasp and hurl it into the oncoming traffic! I manage to restrain myself and slow down, keeping my back close to the walls of the houses and little shops I pass on my way down. Fat raindrops start to plop down on to my hair and face, but I barely notice as I see the bus lurch to a stop in front of Harry, seconds after he arrives. What now? I can hardly jump aboard the same bus as him. But the next one might not come for ten minutes or more. I wait until the bus pulls away again, then run down to the main road and fling my arm out into the oncoming traffic, hardly able to see through the rain now coming thicker and faster, praying for a taxi.

My prayers are answered as a yellow cab draws up next to me, flashing his lights at me through the rain. I hurl myself into the back seat and meet the driver’s questioning gaze in the rear-view mirror.

‘This is going to sound really strange, but… follow that bus!’

He raises his eyebrows at me, already pulling out into the oncoming traffic and skidding away. ‘You’ve always wanted to say that, haven’t you?’ He attempts what I think is a wink.

‘No.’

‘You mean that bus, up ahead, the southbound to El Tejar?’

I blink, realising I hadn’t thought to look at the signs on the side of the bus to see where Harry was actually going.

‘Yes. That one.’ The bus is still just visible, about six cars ahead of us, a hulking, blurry red form against the rain. ‘Please – just follow it. Go wherever it goes. Slow down and stop when it stops. I’ll pay you whatever the fare is.’

‘Oh… kay,’ the driver says, in a nonchalant voice that clearly says ‘crazy foreigners’.

We soon get into a routine, jerking forwards in the slow-lane traffic then pulling over to the roadside with the hazard lights flashing every time the bus stops, always keeping at least three or four car lengths behind it. Each time I wipe urgently at the condensation on the window and squint out at the disembarking passengers, but each time my suspicions are confirmed and I gesture for the taxi driver to pull away again quickly. I didn’t think Harry would sneak out of the house so elaborately just to travel a few blocks away from Liza’s house. He will be on this bus until near the end of the route.

Every so often I feel the driver flicking curious glances at me in the mirror, but I choose to ignore him. Some of the fierce determination that propelled me out of the house in my pyjama top less than half an hour ago begins to subside, and my pounding heart finally slows. I rest my head against the damp window of the car and find myself wondering what my mother or Liza would say if they could see me now, chasing my boyfriend across Quito in a taxi.

I know what they think. I remember the expression on Liza’s face this morning, moments after telling me how Sebastian’s wife betrayed him… concern mixed with understanding, and underlain with something else even worse… pity. They think he’s got another woman. All the signs point to that – his mood swings and snatched phone calls, the way we’ve hardly spent any time together since we arrived in Quito, then his sudden disappearance today dressed in his smartest clothes. I cannot begin to articulate, even to myself, my secret hope that Harry is doing something as innocuous as meeting another woman. And even as I think this, my gut instinct tells me he’s not. The words of Naomi and the other prisoners replay in my head again. Sneaking around for months… lying to our families… would I even have noticed if Harry had been making plans long before our trip? He always spent so much time on his laptop and phone… What had Naomi’s friend Ariana said? I created a whole pretend life for myself. It took so long to organise…I realise suddenly I’m shaking all over, and not just from the cold rainwater dripping from my hair down the back of my neck.

‘Señorita? Señorita!’

I come to the foggy realisation that we’ve stopped again, and the taxi driver has turned in his seat to prod me anxiously on the knee. ‘The bus! It’s stopped! You’re not looking!’

I jerk forward and scan the gaggle of passengers on the pavement, unfolding pushchairs, opening umbrellas, lifting hoods as the bus pulls away again leaving them at the mercy of the deluge. There he is! Holding his leather jacket over his head in a form of makeshift umbrella, Harry is tapping away frantically on his phone with his other hand. Still?

Without taking my eyes off him, I thrust twenty dollars into the taxi driver’s hand. ‘Just stay here a moment longer…’ I grip the door handle and watch as Harry turns his back to me, walking away into a side road. I have no idea where we are. ‘A bit longer… right! Thank you! So much!’ I push the door open and am about to throw myself out into the rain, when the driver puts his hand out to stop me and thrusts a business card into my hand.

‘Wilfrido, at your service, señorita,’ he says in a serious voice. ‘Do not hesitate to call me if you ever need to… do this again.’

I stare at him for a moment. ‘Oh, right. Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’ Then I throw the door open and plunge out into the street.

Harry is still visible through the passing cars and other pedestrians, about two blocks ahead of me and striding quickly away. He’s got the phone held to his ear now, I can just about make out, and I am torn between getting closer to try to hear and fear of him seeing me. Since I got in the taxi I have felt my own phone buzzing away insistently in my handbag, and as I stride forward after Harry it starts up again. I ignore it and keep my eyes fixed on my target, trying to fit in with the people around me and not look like I am following my boyfriend along an unfamiliar street in a strange part of the city.

The rain eases off as abruptly as it started, and leaves behind it a sudden surge of people crowding on to the streets from the shops and cafés where they have been taking shelter. I dodge people pushing prams, teenagers talking into mobile phones, not looking where they are going, and muffled-up older women standing and offering various items for sale to the passers-by. One woman selling mantelpiece-sized ceramic statues of Jesus blocks my path completely, holding out her gaudily-painted merchandise with such insistence that I have to step completely into the road to get past her, eliciting furious honking from the oncoming cars.

For a panicked second I think I’ve lost sight of Harry, then I spot him again just as he rounds a corner into a smaller street up ahead. My phone is still going off, only ceasing for a second, then taking up its persistent buzzing again. Whoever it is can wait, I think distractedly, and race ahead. I almost collide with a man pushing a cart of boiled quails’ eggs, scooping them into paper bags which he holds aloft, shouting over and over ‘One dollar! One dollar!’ I raise a hand in apology to him and break into a run to catch up to Harry’s turning. It is a smaller, cobbled street stretching away uphill, with one-way traffic and fewer pedestrians. I hurriedly scan both pavements for someone taller, blonder; the one person who would be instantly recognisable to me anywhere in the world. But he’s gone.

I start to run up the hill, unable to believe that in the space of a few short seconds he could have eluded me. But the incline is steep and soon I’m panting, sweating under the newly appeared sunlight, and squinting up to the very top of the hill with no sign of Harry. Just a few people carrying shopping bags, a mother dragging a screaming toddler, an old man leaning on a walking stick, taking step after agonising step upwards. I scan every doorway and window, but there are no shops or public places he could have gone into – just houses, closed doorways, balconies overlooking the road, bedroom and kitchen windows with blinds pulled down against the heat.

I let out a half-sob, half-scream of frustration and slump heavily back against the wall. He had been there, just moments ago, up ahead of me. Had it really even been Harry turning into this street? Had I lost sight of him before that, mistaken him for someone else, and even now he’s miles ahead of me on the main road, continuing his mysterious path? Tears of frustration flood my eyes.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ A hesitant voice asks somewhere to my left. I look down to see a small elderly lady peering at me with concern.

‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ I sniff, feeling even more ridiculous. At this rate I’ll get picked up by the nearest lunatic asylum and driven back to Liza in the back of a van. ‘I’m fine.’ I start to walk away from her, then think again and stop. ‘Sorry, do you know what street this is? And which part of town?’

‘We’re in the Mariscal, dear. In the centre.’ She raises her arm and points at the street sign two feet away from us. Relief starts to spread through me. We’re right near the main square where Harry and I came for drinks on that very first night with Ray and Gabriela, which suddenly feels like a hundred years ago, not a little over three weeks.

‘Great. Thank you.’ I nod at the lady and walk away with as much dignity as possible.

‘Señorita! Wait!’ She calls after me urgently. I turn. ‘Do you want to buy some little shoes? Look?’ She holds up a cluster of colourful, woollen, knitted baby shoes hanging from a string, dripping from the recent rain. ‘Booties? Good price. For your children?’

‘Oh God! No, I don’t!’ I run away from her as fast as I can, tears bristling against the backs of my eyes again.

It doesn’t take me long to find my way to the square. Trudging dejectedly back to the main road I had been on when I lost Harry, just two blocks further on, the pavements start to widen and I recognise the beginning of Quito’s main tourist nightspot.

It looks strangely sordid in the daytime. All the bars and clubs are closed up, apart from a few that have set out rickety outdoor seating and are offering late breakfasts to hardy, raincoat-clad backpackers. The signs on their facades, by night illuminated and vibrant, are now dull and unlit and dripping rainwater. The centre of the square itself is creepily empty apart from a few solitary, lost individuals. I see a hunched shape that could be a person sleeping under one of the benches, surrounded by puddles of rain. Another man is standing with his hands deep in his pockets and collar pulled up, despite the sun that has now come out, and as I pass he stares openly at me. I start to walk faster and look away, but not quickly enough as I just see his eyebrows go up inquisitively, his mouth start to form a question, his hand reach into his pocket and pull something out as he starts to step forward to offer it to me. I break into a run and finally reach the other side of the square, my heart pounding and my head spinning with thoughts of Harry. Oh, what have you got yourself into?

I board the bus, checking twice, three times with the driver that it will definitely take me past Liza and Roberto’s neighbourhood. Getting myself home uneventfully will be the only shred of dignity I can possibly salvage from today. I slump into the seat feeling utterly defeated as the bus pulls away.

I gaze out of the window with disinterest at the sunlight glinting off puddles, shop windows and colourful front doors flicking past as the bus picks up speed, and – wait. I only get a flash of sandy hair, what could be a leather jacket, but it’s enough to propel me out of my seat, stumbling towards the back of the bus. I wipe frantically at the condensation on the window and peer out anxiously. The figure is sitting on the front step of a house, hunched forward, his face buried in his hands. Everything about his pose emanates defeat, despair. He might even be crying. He’s barely more than a silhouette from this distance, but just before the bus rounds a corner and he disappears from sight, the sun comes out from behind a cloud and illuminates his hair a vivid gold.

Was it? I nearly shout for the driver to stop. I imagine jumping off the bus, running back, and saying… what? I followed you, then lost you, then spotted you again from the back of the bus, except I wasn’t sure it was you, but now we’re here can you please tell me what the hell you are doing?

It might not even have been him. It was just the briefest flash of someone who looked like Harry, sitting in a strange doorway resting his head in his hands in despair…

I slump back into my seat and realise my phone is still vibrating demandingly from inside my handbag. It has been going on and off since I left the house what must be over two hours ago… I haven’t paid any attention to it until now.

Sebastian’s name just flashes off the screen as I pull out my phone, leaving the missed-call symbol in its place. Three new voicemails? Disbelieving, I press the button to listen to the first one. But instead of Sebastian’s kind, gentle tones comes Naomi’s voice, high-pitched and barely audible over a clamour of background noise.

‘Kirsty, it’s me! Naomi! Listen, I really HAVE TO talk to you…. For fuck’s sake, just WAIT okay!… Look, you’re not going to believe what’s—’ BEEP. The message cuts off and passes straight to the next one.

‘Hello there, Kirsty, it’s Sebastian.’ Pause. ‘From the British Embassy.’ His tone is unusually, painfully formal. ‘I’m calling about Naomi. We have some very good news – her hearing has been scheduled for Friday. Tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow afternoon. When you get this, please could you call me? She really wants you to be her simultaneous interpreter for the hearing. We have to find someone quickly. I know you’d do a great job. Call me.’

My heart starts to race in my ears and I completely miss the start of the next message. ‘…Can’t really believe this is finally happening, so please, PLEASE, consider it, okay? I know my Spanish is good but they said I still have a right to a legal interpreter and I don’t want some strange old bloke with a briefcase, please please please, Kirsty, you’re the only one I would want there to do this… oh shit, gotta go, I think a guard is coming…’

As Naomi’s message ends abruptly with a clattering sound, her words ring in my ears. I’m the only person she would want there… me? But why? I can’t even successfully follow my own boyfriend a few miles across the city without getting lost and nearly mugged… again… How can I stand up in an Ecuadorian court of law and translate the words that will make or break another person’s entire future? What if I mess it up? What if I don’t know the word for something in Spanish, and the whole courtroom turns to stare at me, waiting?

Even as this host of insecurities clamours through my mind, a quieter, more insistent voice reminds me, this isn’t about you. Naomi wants me there. I am sure her lawyer could find someone more experienced, a local professional who has done this before in hundreds of hearings… but she wants me there. That knowledge alone – not the desperation to distract myself from Harry, or prove myself to my father, or even Sebastian’s words – I know you’d do a great job – is what convinces me.

Chapter Eighteen

I barely sleep. As the hours trawl by mercilessly and I toss and turn, getting tangled up in the covers and watching with increasing frustration as Harry slumbers peacefully beside me, I come very close to waking him up and having it out with him once and for all. Asking him where he went yesterday. Telling him I saw him head off in the wrong direction, that I know he didn’t go to the language school, that I don’t believe him about the Skype calls. Several times in the depths of the early hours I almost reach out, touch his arm, whisper his name. Ultimately the only thing that stops me is the thought of Naomi’s hearing in just a few hours’ time.

Mingled with my restlessness are waves of mortification from yesterday’s failed chase across Quito. I had left the house with such determination, but instead of finally discovering what Harry was up to, I had only managed to lose him and end up even more confused and suspicious.

By the time the first dim rays of light begin to creep through the blinds of the apartment, I am sure of one thing. As soon as I get back from the hearing I have to confront Harry. No more sneaking after him and trying to use my non-existent detective skills to find out what he’s up to.. I am just going to come out and ask him, once and for all - what he is hiding from me, who he has been contacting, why he shows no sign of being ready to leave Ecuador and continue travelling as we had agreed. Some deep instinct tells me that after I confront him nothing will ever be the same again. But I also know we cannot go on like this.

As the sun slowly rises, the dull, overcast day outside adds to my sense of foreboding. This will be a decisive day not only for Naomi’s future, but also for mine.

By the time my alarm goes off and sounds of activity begin to filter upwards from Liza and Roberto’s house, it is actually a relief to distract myself with the methodical process of getting ready. Even if this does mean squeezing awkwardly into one of Liza’s suits. Dredged up from the 1970s with its thick olive green knit and woollen lining, the skirt comes up a little higher than it probably should, digging uncomfortably into my waist, and I can’t do the jacket up at all. I have to walk in very little steps, keeping my legs close together, for fear of the skirt splitting completely up the side. I stare at myself dubiously in the mirror, adjusting and readjusting the skirt waistband, wondering for the hundredth time since I stepped off the plane in Quito what the hell I have got myself into.

‘Oh, you look wonderful!’ Liza exclaims, pressing her hands to her chest, as I stand awkwardly in the kitchen doorway feeling strangely as if it’s my first day at school all over again. ‘That suit takes me back… I used to wear it when I did Mondays at the registrar’s office… doesn’t she look wonderful, Roberto?’

Roberto nods and comes over to pat me on the shoulder, saying gruffly ‘I think it’s very admirable what you’re doing. Naomi is a decent young lady. Wish her the very best of luck from us.’

I kiss them both on the cheek and turn to leave, then stop sharply at the sight of Harry, sitting on the sofa in the living room still in his pyjamas with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching me.

‘Are you really going to go through with this?’ His face is somewhere between disbelieving and sulky.

‘What does it look like?’ I reply, looking down at my clothing and the front door keys already in my hand. Only once the words are out do I hear the sharpness in my own voice – but to hell with it. It will all be over by tonight, anyway, I think fatalistically. Both for Naomi and for me.

‘You’re actually going to court?’ A hint of something close to panic flashes across his face. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re… why you can’t just…’ He falters into silence.

‘Yes, Harry, I am.’ I start towards the door, but then something ignites inside me and I turn back to look at him. ‘And you? Where are you going today?’

My aggression completely lost on him, Harry mutters something about meeting Ray and marking homework. I realise I have no idea whether what he says to me is true anymore, and for a moment – standing there in my heels and Liza’s suit with my hair up, about to do something significant – I don’t care. ‘Right, well, you enjoy that, I’ll see you back here for dinner.’ I turn on my heel and leave.

Now, making my way carefully down the stairs in the too-tight skirt, I hear a car horn honking and see Sebastian’s Land Rover pulled up outside, engine running. He winds the window down and lets out a low wolf-whistle, grinning at me. I ease myself into the passenger seat, swinging my legs round carefully and holding my stomach in where the skirt is digging in uncomfortably. My stomach lurches as I turn and take in his crisp dark suit, shiny black hair and the twinkling green of his eyes as they meet mine.

‘Ready?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I think so. As long as I’ve got this…’ I hold up the notepad in which I spent all evening yesterday writing out the Spanish and English versions of every possible relevant legal term I could think of. ‘I think I’ll be okay.’

‘You’ll be more than okay,’ Sebastian winks at me, then manoeuvres the car out up the hill away from Liza’s, and we’re off.

The courtroom itself is just another floor of a plain concrete building advertising public notary and lawyers’ offices. I have to sign five or six different documents and show my passport and copies of all my qualifications. A uniformed, armed guard motions for me to follow him, and it is only then that I realise Sebastian has hung back near the door, talking to a small, plump man wearing a suit that is even more ill-fitting than mine.

I shift from one foot to another nervously as I watch Sebastian hand the other man a pile of folders and paperwork, his face deeply serious and businesslike, a totally different person to the man who flirted light-heartedly with me all the way here in the car. Finally they look up and Sebastian introduces the man as Dr Vélez, a member of the Public Defence and Naomi’s government-appointed lawyer. I already knew Naomi hadn’t been able to afford a private lawyer, and therefore had the right to free legal representation from the state. There is something reminiscent of a gerbil about this man as he smiles warmly at me, extending a clammy palm, and it occurs to me he looks even more nervous than I feel.

‘Good luck in there,’ Sebastian says gravely to us both, starting to back away. ‘This is where I have to leave you.’ Irrationally I’m reminded of Gandalf bidding farewell to the hobbits as they begin their lonely journey to Mordor. Casting a frightened glance at the guard still standing beside me, it takes all of my self-control not to fling myself at Sebastian’s feet and beg him to come in with us.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ he smiles encouragingly at me. ‘I’m going to wait here to see Naomi when she arrives. And I’ll be back here in about two hours, when it finishes.’

Two hours?

‘I shouldn’t even really be here now,’ he mutters more quietly, stepping forward and – before I can realise what’s happening – wrapping me in a hug. For a brief second I feel my heart thumping against his jacket and his arms locking tightly around me. Then he releases me and I’m following the guard away down a corridor next to Dr Vélez, Sebastian’s last words of ‘good luck’ echoing in my ears.

God, if I’m this nervous, how must Naomi be feeling? I must keep it together for her sake.

The three Tribunal judges are already seated in a row at the front, each deep in concentration as they leaf through papers, presumably details of Naomi’s case. I only know who they are because of Sebastian’s briefing in the car on the way here. They look just like ordinary office workers in suits and ties, although my heart soars with hope to see that one of them is a woman. Maybe, just maybe, a woman might be more sympathetic to Naomi’s case?

The room is not much bigger than the living area back at Liza’s flat, with plain tiled flooring and a row of bare wooden chairs opposite the judges. The guard guides me towards these chairs now and I sit down with Dr Vélez beside me. The walls are bare except for a print of the Ecuadorian flag on the wall behind us and a tiny window with the blinds half-drawn, allowing pale rays of sunlight to slant in across the room and make Liza’s thick woollen suit feel hot and scratchy. I don’t dare take the jacket off, or do anything else that might draw attention to myself, and concentrate on sitting very still with my hands folded in front of me, watching the door for Naomi’s arrival.

As my heart continues to thud in apprehension, I remind myself I will only be translating what is said and the outcome of today does not actually depend on me. Somehow, though, that only serves to make me more nervous as I consider that I will be Naomi’s ears and voice for the next two hours. Her Spanish is so good that I’m sure she will understand most of what is going on, but as Sebastian reminded me in the car, conversational Spanish learnt in prison is no comparison to speaking the language at an academic, professional level. She will be relying on me for this.

The next person to arrive is the Prosecutor, the state-appointed lawyer charged with presenting the evidence against Naomi and arguing the case for her to serve the longest sentence possible. He strides past without acknowledging anyone and takes a seat to the side, at a right angle to the judges, looking out across the room. He is trailed by a younger man, presumably an assistant, carrying an armful of folders and paperwork. As he opens a large briefcase and carefully begins to remove pieces of paper, I feel acutely aware of the angle of the seating and the uncomfortable clinging tightness of Liza’s skirt, and try to surreptitiously pull it down further over my legs.

Finally, Naomi arrives. All eyes in the room turn towards the doorway as she enters, and at first I barely recognise her. Wearing plain black trousers and a baggy navy T-shirt, her hair scraped back in a ponytail and face clearly devoid of make-up, she looks younger than her thirty-three years and reminds me suddenly, inexplicably, of my little sister Chloe. My eyes are drawn to the metal handcuffs clasping her hands together in front of her, twinkling in the sunlight and sending little juddering reflections off the walls as her hands tremble. Flanked by a uniformed, armed guard on each side, she lets herself be guided to sit between Dr Vélez and me. I shimmy along one seat to make room, praying my skirt doesn’t split, and we exchange a fleeting, nervous smile as the guards unclasp her handcuffs, then close the door and take up their positions either side of it.

Then, suddenly, Naomi springs to her feet, sending the wooden chair scraping loudly back across the floor. ‘Wait, where’s Dr Silva?’ she cries, in a high-pitched, nervous voice. She’s looking down at Dr Vélez then up at the judges, her eyes full of panic.

‘Señorita Barker, please be seated,’ one of the judges says sternly.

‘Dr Silva couldn’t be here,’ Dr Vélez says tremulously, pushing his glasses back up on to his nose. ‘But I have also been closely following your case, and I have been assigned to represent you today in—’

‘No!’ Naomi’s voice is getting higher, and she switches from Spanish into rambling, almost incomprehensible English. ‘This isn’t fair! Dr Silva has been there right from the beginning, you can’t just swap him for someone else at the last minute, the moment when I most—’

‘Señorita Barker!’ The second judge booms, cutting all noise short across the room. ‘Dr Vélez is the most senior Public Defendant in this whole province, and an extremely experienced lawyer.’

Both Naomi and I cast dubious glances at the little man beside us, his thick spectacles and chubby, innocuous face.

‘Also, he is your only option for today,’ the judge continues coldly. ‘So you have the choice to retake your seat and allow the hearing to begin, or for it to be cancelled and postponed to a later date. Sometime in the future.’

Naomi slumps back down into her seat, looking resigned. The judge’s tone was more than clear – if the hearing should be called off today at Naomi’s own instigation, there is no knowing when she will get another chance.

‘They do this sometimes,’ she mutters to me. ‘It happened to a few of the other girls. It’s probably Dr Silva’s kid’s fucking school sports day, or something. So I get someone I’ve never met representing me – bloody great.’

I don’t know what to say, and don’t get the chance to say anything as the first judge has now stood up and is reading a summary of Naomi’s arrest, the six years already served of her nine-year sentence, and her current appeal for release based on the revised criminal code for drugs crimes and further compassionate grounds, supported by a thick folder of paperwork provided by the British Embassy.

It is to this folder that the judge turns first, and asks Dr Vélez as Naomi’s representative to summarise the documents within, and explain why they support her appeal.

Dr Vélez clears his throat, and I notice with a flash of unexpected irritation that his hands are shaking as he takes the folder and gets to his feet.

‘Ahem… I would first, er, like to begin by reminding everyone present of Miss Barker’s role as a mother to her three children – Dario, aged seventeen; Leo, fifteen; and Maya… eight.’ He is about continue when the cold voice of the Prosecutor carries across the room.

‘Which means Miss Barker’s youngest daughter would have been only two years old when her mother embarked upon a journey to transport cocaine halfway around the world,’ he comments, not even looking up from his notes.

Naomi jerks to her feet, shaking all over. ‘None of you will ever understand how much I regret that I ever even considered—’

The middle judge’s voice cuts across her and orders her to sit down. ‘Miss Barker, you will have the opportunity to speak at the end.’

Naomi stares back at him, still shaking and seeming not to comprehend, so I take hold of her arm and gently tug her back to a sitting position. The judge lets out an elaborate sigh. ‘Dr Vélez – please continue.’

Dr Vélez stares at Naomi for a few moments, then, seemingly reassured she will not leap up and savage him with her bare hands, he clears his throat again.

‘The British Embassy has also requested that Miss Barker’s appeal for early release be considered with… shall I say, considerable expedition… on compassionate grounds, due to her father’s ill health.’ He opens the folder. ‘They have obtained a number of medical reports and photographs issued by St Mary’s Hospital in Croydon, which appear to corroborate the diagnosis of final-stage, terminal stomach cancer.’ He passes some sheets of paper to the nearest judge and my stomach lurches as I notice a flash of colour among the papers, reds and pinks and flesh colours, thankfully too far away to make out properly.

I feel Naomi’s hand slide over to rest on mine, light as a feather. I take a tight hold of it and we both keep staring straight ahead, hardly daring to breathe as all three judges peer closely at the reports.

‘Miss Barker’s family, including her father himself, have written imploring letters for her early release process to be concluded in time for her to return to the United Kingdom and, ah… say goodbye.’

I give Naomi’s hand a squeeze as more papers are circulated. My own heart is hammering in my chest as I realise any minute now they will see my translations of the further supporting documents issued by the prison. The judges’ faces remain expressionless as they examine the letters for a torturously long time.

Finally, Dr Vélez produces a thick pile of documents explaining that the prison has also issued a ‘large volume’ of good conduct reports and certificates, demonstrating ‘Miss Barker’s keen participation in workshops and activities, with the view to using her time in incarceration to improve herself and the future she will be able to offer her children once reunited with her family.’ I warm to him a little as he finishes that speech, and notice the female judge nodding faintly as she leafs through the certificates.

Naomi flicks a glance at me, and I see my own budding hope reflected in her eyes. Will this be enough?

Once Dr Vélez has retaken his seat, wiping his brow with a little embroidered handkerchief produced from his pocket, the Prosecutor is asked to speak.

‘It is a flagrant crime to use, possess, sell or transport illegal substances such as cocaine,’ he begins languidly, not leaving his seat. ‘This applies both here in the Republic of Ecuador and in the United Kingdom, Miss Barker’s country of origin, and in both countries is duly punishable with imprisonment.’ He sounds as if he is simply reciting a well-worn and long-rehearsed speech that has been used innumerable times before today. I wonder how many other nervous young women – mothers, daughters, sisters – he has addressed in this way, and whether the simple facts of repetition and similarity have numbed him to their circumstances.

‘On this basis, and to uphold the original sentence of nine years placed against Miss Naomi Ruth Barker, I will review the circumstances of her arrest and the subsequent evidence of her guilt.’ He gets up and drops a folder on the table in front of the judges, then returns to his seat and leans back, looking bored. ‘Here you will find photographic evidence of the five capsules of cocaine found inside Miss Barker’s body at the time of her arrest at Quito airport. The testimony of the arrest will be given by Inspector Ruiz and Sergeant Martinez…’ He pauses, looks up at the guards on the door, raising his eyebrows. ‘If you would? I believe they are already waiting outside.’

The door swings open and I feel Naomi stiffen beside me as a man and a woman are led in, both aged in their forties and casually dressed in jeans and trainers. Naomi watches them cross the room to sit next to the Prosecutor with the wide-eyed expression of someone suddenly faced with their old school bully, many years later.

‘Sergeant?’ The Prosecutor indicates for the man to speak. ‘If you would remind us of the circumstances that led to Miss Barker’s arrest.’

‘I was working a night shift at the airport,’ begins the man, speaking Spanish with a strange accent I do not recognise from the other people I have mixed with in Quito. ‘I’d been sent up from the coast, where I usually work, to cover for a week. Several night flights were leaving for Europe, and they wanted me to go to the departure lounges to carry out final baggage checks.’ He stops and his gaze lingers for a long time on Naomi, an expression I do not like at all lighting up his eyes.

I glance at Naomi to make sure she is understanding everything, but she is staring back at Sergeant Martinez with a look of such intense hatred that I don’t think she even remembers I am there.

‘At about the same time, Miss Barker had already gone through security and was waiting by the gate to board the ten-fifty-five flight to London, via Amsterdam.’ His eyes do not leave Naomi’s, and something about the way he says her name makes me shudder.

‘However, she had flagged up a warning when passing through security.’ The slightest hint of a smile passes across his face. ‘And I was asked to go and retrieve her from the departure gate. At around ten-fifteen, not long before boarding began for the flight, I took Miss Barker into our secure detention area for…’ He openly smiles at Naomi now. ‘… Some additional checks.’

I notice Naomi has looked away and is staring at the door, facing away from everyone, wiping furiously at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ the first judge says, his tone icy. ‘We will finish with the testimony of Inspector Ruiz, to tell us what happened subsequently.’

The woman who entered with Sergeant Martinez gets slowly to her feet. She stares at her companion for a long time, her lips pursed, before she finally speaks. When she does, her voice is clipped and her whole demeanour radiates the desire to be somewhere else, a long way from here. She keeps her eyes fixed on the wall opposite as she begins, her voice a monotone.

‘I was introduced to Miss Barker at around eleven-fifty p.m., on the day of her scheduled departure to London. By the time I arrived in the temporary detention centre, her flight had left. She had already undergone physical searches and a full body X-ray, which was being logged by Sergeant Martinez when I arrived.’ Her eyes flicker almost imperceptibly towards Sergeant Martinez beside her, then determinedly back to the middle distance again.

‘The X-ray revealed five foreign bodies in Miss Barker’s stomach.’

‘Copies of the images can be found in the annex,’ the Prosecutor interrupts, indicating the folder left on the judges’ table.

‘Miss Barker was provided with refreshment and access to facilities.’ Inspector Ruiz sounds like she is reading from an instruction manual, but the light twitch in her jaw gives her away. ‘A medical practitioner was located, following the advice of whom I remained with Miss Barker in our secure area for the next seven hours, until the objects passed naturally from her body.’

I can feel Naomi shaking with tears beside me now. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I whisper desperately, glancing at the judges, who have all turned as one to watch her. I flash her a look which I hope conveys that I cannot imagine the humiliation she is feeling, but that now, of all times, she must keep her composure. She makes a loud hiccupping noise and with visible effort sits up straighter and wipes the tears from her face.

‘Having been sent for analysis, the objects were identified as five latex condoms, coated in wax, and containing a total of 1.35 kilograms of pure cocaine powder.’

‘Itemised photographs are on page seven,’ the Prosecutor adds, leaning forward to the judges and pointing at the folder again.

Naomi’s shame utterly complete, she rests her head in her hands and sits rigid beside me.

‘Miss Barker was then immediately transported by police escort to the Flagrant Crimes Unit in the north of Quito, to await sentencing and transfer to the Central Women’s Prison.’ The Inspector sits down abruptly without waiting to be asked, letting out a sharp breath.

‘Thank you.’ The middle judge nods at her, then gathers all the papers before him together into one pile in a decisive gesture. ‘I think we’ve heard more than enough. Miss Barker – now is your opportunity if you would like to add anything.’

All eyes in the room turn to Naomi as she raises her head slowly from her hands and turns her red-rimmed eyes to me, then to Dr Vélez, then finally to the judges.

‘No.’ Her voice is barely a whisper, and I can see her hands still trembling under the table. ‘I have nothing to add.’

‘WHAT?’ I hiss at her, seeing the judges already look away and back down to their papers, ready to draw everything to a close. ‘Naomi, you have to. This is your chance!’

Naomi is shaking all over and can’t even meet my eyes. I try to reach for her hand but she has her arms wrapped tightly around herself in a protective gesture and her eyes squeezed firmly shut. I realise in horror the testimonies of the two police officers and the memory of her arrest laid out in such graphic detail have reduced Naomi to pieces. But if she doesn’t say something now, it could be the end of her case… the arguments made by Dr Vélez may not be enough, Naomi deserves for the judges to hear her side, to understand what being released would mean for her and her entire family… she has waited so long for this court hearing, it just can’t end like this…

My decision is made in an instant. Getting to my feet and opening my mouth to speak before my brain has even fully engaged with what I am about to do, I hear my own voice ring out confident and clear across the baffled courtroom:

‘I will speak for Naomi.’

My cheeks burning and heart pounding in my chest, I turn to face each person in the room in turn, daring them to stop me.

‘Please sit down, Miss…’ With a mildly bored expression the first judge consults a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Morgan.’ He leans back in his chair disdainfully. ‘Miss Morgan. You are here as Miss Barker’s translator. Your opinion is not required.’

Anger and indignation spurring me on, I pull in a breath to let rip my reply. But another voice, quiet yet firm, beats me to it.

‘Wait.’

All eyes in the room turn to gape at the owner of the voice, the hunched figure partially obscured behind the briefcase on the table in front of him. Dr Vélez.

‘As Naomi’s defence lawyer, I would like to allow Miss Morgan to speak,’ he continues in his soft, almost timid tone. ‘Not as a translator, but as her friend. A witness. Miss Morgan is Naomi’s witness and has the right to speak.’ The idea seems to be dawning on him even as he voices it, at the same time as a defiant smile begins to spread slowly across his face as he meets my eyes. We both know that, named as an official witness for Naomi’s case, the judges have to let me speak.

Thank you, thank you! I convey silently to Dr Vélez with my eyes. He nods, and dips back behind his briefcase. Naomi reaches up and grasps tightly on to my hand.

After several seconds of silence, the female judge speaks. ‘Miss Morgan.’ She looks at me evenly, her expression unreadable.

I barely breathe but continue holding on to Naomi’s hand, feeling bizarrely like we are two teenagers being pulled up in front of the headmaster for misbehaving.

‘I understand you know Miss Naomi Barker personally and have visited her several times in prison.’ The judge doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Also that you are here today at her express request, not only as a translator but as a friend.’

The room is completely silent except for Naomi’s occasional sniffs and the sound of the Prosecutor impatiently tapping his pen on the table.

‘Therefore…’ the judge says, giving me an almost imperceptible, encouraging nod ‘…we will accept your testimony on Miss Barker’s behalf.’

A rush of adrenaline shoots through me. This is your chance. Isn’t that what I told Naomi, only moments ago? I look at her again, hunched and defeated beside me, and realise that the chance is now mine. Not only to defend Naomi, but also to vanquish my own fears.

I give Naomi’s hand one last squeeze, take a deep breath and turn to face the judges. I can feel Liza’s shirt sticking to my arms and back.

My voice is barely more than a whisper when I begin.

‘Naomi knows that what she did was terribly wrong.’ I pause, mustering courage to continue. ‘The personal reasons she had for doing it are not something even she would be able to explain here, now, to everyone.’ I glance down at Naomi, and her minute nod is enough for me to feel able to go on.

‘But I do want everyone here to know… how very deeply she regrets the decision she made, back in her former life, six years ago.’ My own voice sounds strange to me against the silence of the courtroom. ‘And I think it is fair to say that she has regretted it in every waking moment ever since. There has not been a single minute, a single second, of Naomi’s imprisonment when she has not been thinking about her children. Her two boys… and her baby girl.’ I feel a lump form in my own throat as I realise the truth of my words.

‘I don’t think I, or anyone in this room, could understand what it is like to miss your children for six years.’ I force my voice out loudly and clearly despite the stifling silence, and dare myself to look around the room, meeting the eyes of the judges and even the Prosecutor, defying them all to contradict me. ‘It is a special kind of hell. It is the most effective form of prison. Whether she was behind bars or not, Naomi was already in prison – because, for a mother, prison is being away from your children.’

I look at Naomi again. She has stopped crying and is staring up at me, eyes wide, her hands knitted together in her lap. As I search within myself for the adequate words to finish my speech she nods again, urging me, keep going.

‘All Naomi asks for now is compassion,’ I continue slowly, my eyes locked with hers. ‘She is not here to make excuses for herself, or say that there is any justification for the crime she committed.’ Now I turn to the judges, and muster all my strength to speak to them directly. ‘She just wants the chance to start again. Go home, get a job, spend every possible moment with her kids and never let them go again. See her dad and hold his hand one last time. It’s been six years… and Naomi has served her sentence.’

I sit down, feeling strangely calm. Naomi immediately grabs my hand again, squeezing it so tightly it hurts. As the sound of my voice fades away and silence descends in the courtroom, we sit side by side knowing the moment has come for her future to be decided.

Chapter Nineteen

Sebastian is waiting outside and looks up anxiously as we are led from the room. Somehow Naomi and I manage to maintain decorum until the Prosecutor and his assistant have departed, and the judges have exchanged a few muttered words with Sebastian before leaving also.

Then we explode.

Naomi turns and throws her arms around me, screaming ‘OhmyGod! OhmyGod!’ over and over, then we’re jumping up and down, and I’m shouting along with her ‘We did it! We did it!’ and hugging her tightly back, tears streaming down my face.

Finally we disentangle and I look up to see Sebastian, his eyes already filled with dawning realisation and a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he strides towards us. Naomi hurls herself at him and nearly knocks him to the floor with the force of her hug. He pats her on the back as she sobs on to his shoulder, all the while his eyes burning into mine. When Naomi finally releases him, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, the next thing I know Sebastian has closed the step between us and is picking me up and spinning me around, and we’re both laughing and I think I am crying, oblivious to the guards still lurking somewhere behind us.

My feet find the ground again and I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from Sebastian’s eyes as we continue laughing crazily.

‘I can’t believe it.’ He’s beaming, his whole face illuminated as he stares down at me. ‘They made the decision there and then?’

‘There and then. Sentence reduced from nine years to five, but with six already served, so instant release.’ I hear myself giggle hysterically and hardly recognise myself. ‘Did you hear that, Naomi?’ I call over Sebastian’s shoulder. ‘Instant release!’ I expect Naomi to start jumping up and down and shouting again, but instead she’s looking at me with a Cheshire Cat smile, wiggling her eyebrows at me meaningfully. I look down and realise Sebastian’s hands are still firmly gripping my waist.

‘Erm, it won’t actually be instant,’ he says, taking a hasty step back and bringing us all back down to earth with a thud. ‘There is paperwork to do now. Naomi, you’ll have to be taken back to the prison today to wait until the official release warrant is issued – that will take a couple of days, I’m afraid.’

I stare back at him, horrified. ‘What? You mean she has to go back to prison? But they just said she’s now a free woman – the revised sentence length has already been served!’ I turn to Naomi, expecting to see her distraught, but she’s rolling her eyes and smiling at Sebastian.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know how it works – seen it happen enough times to the other girls. I get to go back and say my goodbyes and pack my stuff up, not that that will take long!’ She’s still grinning exuberantly as the guards finally decide enough is enough and come back over to refasten her handcuffs and make gestures that it is time to go.

‘But… Sebastian, you’ll tell my mum, right?’ She’s suddenly serious, calling over her shoulder as the guards start to lead her towards the doorway. ‘And you’ll make sure she gets my flight details?’

‘Of course,’ Sebastian promises, ‘I’ll phone her as soon as I get back to the office, and I’ll get on the case to find out when you’ll be able to travel. We’ll push for the end of next week.’

Naomi grins at him, then turns to me and mouths ‘thank you’, before giving a little wave, then turning back to follow the guards.

I watch her being led meekly away, back to the prison, and feel overwhelmed with a childish disappointment that there wasn’t some dramatic gesture of freedom, the yanking off of her handcuffs and running out on to the street screaming ‘I’m freeeee!’ to total strangers.

‘It feels weird, doesn’t it?’ Sebastian seems to read my mind, and comes to stand close beside me as we watch Naomi get into the police car outside. ‘But she’s past the final hurdle now. Three or four days more and she’ll be on a flight home, as a free woman. I only pray her dad can hang on a little longer.’

‘Me too.’ We stand in silence for a moment in the empty reception of the courtroom, watching the police car pull out into the afternoon traffic and drive away. I feel bizarrely as if we are two parents watching their only child depart for university or a round the world voyage. Sebastian is standing close enough for me to feel the rise and fall of his breath beside me. It would only take the slightest movement, the most minimal gap to be crossed, for him to put his arm around me again… I don’t move an inch but let my eyes slide sideways towards him.

Then I jump nearly a foot in the air as I feel someone reach out and take hold of my arm.

‘Miss Morgan?’

It takes me a second or two to realise that Sebastian is still standing to my right, but the person now resting his hand on my left arm and looking up at me through thick spectacles and an anxious expression is Dr Vélez, Naomi’s public lawyer.

‘Er – yes?’ I answer a little abruptly, my heart rate gradually slowing down again from the surprise. Had he been lurking there the whole time as Naomi, Sebastian and I jumped around like maniacs?

‘I wanted to give you my card.’ The little man reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a business card. I stare down at it for a moment, uncomprehending, reading the words Dr Xavier Vélez – Public Defence Unit Quito – President.

‘I am, in fact, the head of the Public Defence Unit for this city,’ he continues, as if he almost expected my surprise at this fact. ‘And I have to say, I was deeply impressed by your defence of young Naomi Barker today.’

I’m dimly aware of Sebastian stepping away from us to answer a phone call, and I cast around for something to say that isn’t completely inane.

‘I wasn’t actually defending her…’ I reply weakly. ‘I just wanted to support my friend.’

‘I am aware of your legal background,’ Dr Vélez continues, regardless. ‘And I wanted to tell you that if you ever wish to return to Ecuador and spend some time working in our offices – to gain experience of another country’s legal system, for example – we would be most content to have you.’

I stare back at him, feeling a spark of excitement stir inside me.

‘We could discuss salary and duration at your convenience,’ Dr Vélez goes on. ‘But our workload is such that we can always benefit from competent, legally trained individuals such as you. Even if you only wanted to come for a month or two.’

‘Thank you… that would be…’ Words fails me as his words sink in and I look around for Sebastian. I spot him pacing the other side of the room, frowning at the floor and nodding with his phone pressed tightly to his ear. ‘Dr Vélez, I don’t know what to say… only that this is a real honour, thank you.’

‘Consider it, okay?’ Dr Vélez reaches to shake my hand. ‘If you ever want to do it, just call me.’ Then with that he turns and shuffles to the door, leaving me standing open-mouthed in his wake.

Come for a few months… gain some experience… my mind starts whirling with possibilities as Sebastian strides back over, his face apologetic.

‘Kirsty, I have to run.’ He looks devastated. ‘I’m so sorry, I was going to drive you home, but I just have to get back to the office right now, and it’s in the opposite direction… there’s been an accident involving a tourist.’ He runs his hands though his hair in an agitated gesture.

‘Don’t worry, I can get a taxi.’ I smile encouragingly at him, swallowing back my irrational disappointment. What had I expected – that we’d go out for dinner, order wine and raise a toast to Naomi, then spend the evening dissecting the court hearing and reliving my final speech to the judges? Of course not. You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself firmly. And not just about Sebastian.

He’s already backing away from me towards the door, reaching for his car keys, and with him also goes the brief spark of excitement I felt at Dr Vélez’s offer.

How could you even consider it? Your place is back in the UK.

In Fenbridge.

With Harry.

Yet even as I tell myself these words, I realise I barely believe them anymore.

‘Look, make sure you get a registered cab, okay?’ The look on Sebastian’s face is of pure anguish, oblivious to the turmoil of a different kind going on inside me. ‘And text me when you’re home, right?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll be fine – you go! Don’t worry.’

Still he lingers, looking positively tortured. ‘Also I’m sorry if I was a bit… just now, I didn’t mean to come across as…’ He trails off just as his phone bursts into life again. ‘Oh God.’ He jogs forward again and gives me a hasty cheek-kiss, then turns to run towards his car. As he draws level with it he turns back. ‘And Kirsty – thank you, so much, for everything.’ Then the car door slams shut behind him and he disappears with a screech of tyres to visit his disaster.

Will I even see you again? I find myself wondering, taken by surprise at the feeling of plummeting desolation that follows.

I stand on the pavement holding my arm out listlessly for a taxi, feeling suddenly and acutely alone. After being part of something so monumental, getting a cab back to Liza and Roberto’s house for tortillas and an episode of The Colour of Sin seems like a bit of an anticlimax. I feel like Naomi and I should be going for a wild night out on the town in sparkly heels, knocking back tequilas and toasting her new future.

Instead, I have to face Harry. With a cold shudder of adrenaline and dread, I remember my promise to myself this morning that I would talk to him today. About his secretive behaviour… but not just that. The uneasy feeling that has been hovering on the edges of my consciousness for days now makes its presence known again, in the form of a churning sick feeling. I have to talk to Harry about everything. How I feel. What I want. Where we go from here…

I am so mired in these uncomfortable thoughts that I almost don’t notice a taxi has pulled up in front of me.

I step forward to get in, and with a start recognise the swinging red dreadlocks of the man climbing out.

‘Luke!’

He looks up from paying the taxi driver, and I can tell it takes him a few moments to recognise me. ‘Oh, Kirsty, hey!’

We cheek-kiss awkwardly. ‘So, how are you finding life in Quito?’ Luke’s brummy accent lilts. ‘And, wow! You look… smart.’ He takes in my clothing and lingers a little too long on the skirt. ‘Have you been somewhere, like, important?’

‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I laugh dismissively, desperate not to have to explain why I am standing outside a courtroom with a tear-stained face and a too-tight suit on a Friday morning.

‘I’m sure it is…’ Luke continues, still addressing my skirt. ‘Well, anyway, say hi to Harry for me.’ He visibly shakes his head and forces himself to look at my face. ‘He’s been great these last few weeks – a real help to me, all the students love him.’

Well, at least this proves he has at least been showing up there sometimes, a jaded voice somewhere in my head tells me, besides whatever else it is he’s been getting up to.

‘I’m only glad I could accommodate him,’ Luke goes on. ‘We get quite a lot of applications from teachers, you know – foreigners passing through for a few months, Brits, Americans, Aussies… but I’m glad I gave Harry the chance. He really has been a help. In fact, do you know how much longer you guys are planning on sticking around?’

My heart has started to pump faster, its echoes roaring in my ears.

‘You mean… Harry asked for the job?’ My voice comes out strangely high-pitched.

Luke peers back at me with an expression that tells me he thinks I might be a little bit deranged.

‘Yes… of course. The night we met in that bar. He was so keen, I was impressed. Few too many drinks that night, eh, Kirsty? Memory loss, at all?’ He winks and nudges me awkwardly with his elbow. I just stand there.

‘SEÑORITA! You taking this cab or not?’ I realise distantly that the taxi driver has been waiting for me, leaning impatiently out of the window, now hooting his horn to get my attention. I wave him away distractedly, and he pulls out into the road shaking his head and tutting. I turn back to Luke.

‘And the teacher whose aunt died… in the USA… your desperately needing cover…’ My voice is barely more than a whisper now, the traffic roaring behind me and my knees starting to shake.

‘Sorry, not following you now, love. Nobody’s died yet, as far as I know…’ Luke makes an awkward guffawing noise and starts to edge away, my derangement now a certainty to him. ‘So, anyway, I’d better be going… need to pick up some supplies from the, er, stationer’s…’ He gestures limply somewhere at the street behind him. ‘Erm, so, just let us know, yeah? Whenever you’re planning on leaving. I’d be sorry to see Harry go…’ With that he turns and flees in the opposite direction, and I stand rooted to the spot, watching him go, as the traffic and pedestrians bustle around me, the implications of his words painfully sinking in.

***

I don’t remember getting home. In the same way that after so many years working in London I would sometimes end up walking up to the front door and putting my key in the lock with no memory at all of the commute, I now find myself marching up the stairs to the apartment, my mind a strange blank. All I can think about is Harry, on the other side of that door, knowing all the things I need to know, yet still determinedly, infuriatingly hiding them from me. I fumble for my keys impatiently then fling the door open.

All the blinds are pulled down inside the apartment, blotting out the midday sunlight, the only sound the muffled chatter in Spanish from the little radio on Harry’s side of the bed. Then a door creaks behind me and Harry is standing there, framed in the bathroom doorway wearing just a pair of shorts and rubbing his hair dry with a towel.

‘Hey…’ He eyes me with a cautious expression, then reaches past me into the wardrobe for a T-shirt. ‘I just got back from a run. So… how did it go?’

I watch him pull the T-shirt over his head, observing with detachment his taught abs, ruffled blond hair, the tan lines on his upper arms where the skin has turned a warm caramel colour. I feel nothing towards him except burning resentment, and, buried somewhere far below that, like a layer of sediment at the bottom of the ocean, the beginnings of a deep sadness.

‘I want to talk to you.’ My voice comes out icy, controlled.

Harry’s head snaps up at my tone. ‘Okay…’ He sidesteps past me into the kitchen. ‘Want a drink?’

‘No. I want to know if you’re involved in drugs.’

I hear the clatter of something falling to the floor and follow Harry into the kitchen diner, finding him standing in the debris of what used to be the coffee pot.

‘What the fuck?’ He picks his way over the shards of glass and plastic, staring at me. I back away from him, knowing that if he touches me I will lose my tenuous grip on self-control.

‘You heard me. Harry, I just need to know. I can’t carry on just—’

My phone makes a rude vibrating sound against the worktop, bursting into life with an incoming call.

‘LEAVE that!’ I bark at Harry, seeing his eyes slide longingly towards it. ‘Now answer my question.’ I can feel the hysteria rising in my throat and struggle to control it. ‘We’ve been together nearly six years, we’ve got a mortgage, you persuaded me to come to fucking SOUTH AMERICA with you… whatever it is that’s going on between us, Harry, you owe me an answer.’ Tears threaten to choke my voice but I swallow them back in determination. ‘So, I want you to tell me honestly – are you or are you not involved in some sort of drug-related…’ I flail around for the right word, ‘…situation?’

Harry stares at me. My phone starts buzzing and singing again, but neither of us looks at it. After an agonising silence he lets out a blunt, humourless laugh, shaking his head.

‘Kirsty, I really think you’ve been spending too much time at that prison…’ He trails off and rubs the back of his head, frowning. ‘What on earth would make you think—’

‘I bumped into Luke.’

‘From the school? Okay… and?’

I turn away from him, take a deep breath, then spin back towards him and look up to meet his eyes. If only hours ago I found the courage to stand up in court and plead compassion to a whole panel of anti-narcotics judges … I must surely be able to confront my own boyfriend, once and for all.

‘Luke told me there was no teacher from the USA whose family member died. No favour you were doing him, agreeing to work there at his request. YOU, in fact, asked for the job. You applied.’ I stare at Harry, daring him to oppose me. ‘All this about being nearly ready to leave, just waiting until that teacher gets back from America… it’s all been a load of crap, hasn’t it? You could have left whenever you wanted! We could have…’ The sob comes out now and I let it. Tears roll down my cheeks and I furiously wipe them away, keeping my eyes fixed on Harry.

He sits down suddenly on the coffee table with a long sigh, all the air rushing out of him like the last helium balloon at a children’s party. My phone starts up again, the noise jarring and invading the space around us.

‘Will you just – shut that fucking thing up!’ Harry waves in the general direction of the phone with jerky irritation. ‘And come over here, and sit down?’

I stride over to the phone and cut off the call with a stab of my finger, not even looking at the number, then switch it off and slam it back down again on the side.

‘There – happy? And I’ll stand, thank you very much.’ My voice is shaking but I stand opposite Harry with my arms folded. ‘I’m still waiting for your answer.’

‘Oh, God!’ He runs his hands through his hair again and stands up abruptly, sending the coffee table flying backwards behind him. ‘Okay, okay. Kirsty, will you just… okay.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘First of all, it’s not what you’re thinking, all right? Jesus, so you’ve been going round thinking I’m some sort of a…’ He trails off and laughs bitterly. ‘Yeah. Well. I suppose you would.’ His blue gaze meets mine for the first time today. ‘I was actually going to tell you everything.’

At that moment a strange noise explodes behind us, and it takes me several seconds to realise it is Harry’s phone, launching into a badly rendered polyphonic version of the James Bond theme tune. It gets as far as the ‘de-de-DUM, de-de-DUM’ crescendo then abruptly cuts off, before starting up again immediately, the urgency of the caller coming through in the disjointed repetition of the sound.

‘I’m going to get that,’ he says, speaking slowly and holding out his arm towards me in the way one might with a hysterical person standing on the edge of a tall building. ‘Someone is clearly trying to get hold of one or other of us.’ He backs towards the phone, keeping his eyes on me. ‘Then we’ll keep talking, okay?’

‘Harry, don’t you da—’

‘Hello?’ I watch in silent fury as Harry holds the phone to his ear, his eyes flicking back and forth in concentration as he takes in whatever the caller is saying. Then he visibly pales and his other hand goes to his mouth.

‘Yes… yes, Kirsty Morgan. Yes, she’s my girlfriend… I’ll put you on now.’ He holds the phone out to me, his eyes wide. ‘It’s your dad. He’s in hospital.’

Chapter Twenty

The voice I am met with as I hold Harry’s phone to my ear is not my father’s but a woman’s, speaking extremely fast Spanish in a strange, unrecognisable accent. Through my panic I make out what I think are the words ‘collapsed’ and ‘unconscious’ and my father’s name, repeated over and over.

‘Wait! Could you just slow do—’

Even as I plead with her, the phone makes a shrill humming sound and the terrible signal completely wipes out all but the last few words of the woman’s sentence.

‘…Centro Medico de Mindo, in the main street, two blocks from the park. Ask for Dr Rivas, that’s me.’

I shove the phone under my ear and scrabble for a piece of paper. Harry thrusts a biro into my hands and I scribble down the information, all the while begging the woman – Dr Rivas – to tell me more about my father’s situation.

‘He just got here. We are doing tests,’ she tells me ambiguously. Then, in English, ‘You will come, yes?’

‘Wait!’ I plead, sensing she is about to end the call. ‘Is there somebody with him? A woman?’ My mind races. If he’s been rushed to hospital for some sort of – my stomach plummets at the thought – medical emergency, Dorice must be there, too. She’ll be able to tell me what’s going on.

‘No woman,’ Dr Rivas replies. ‘A man brought him in, he found him by the riverbank, apparently he was searching for someone when it happened…’ Her voice is swallowed up again by almost deafening interference on the line, then the call goes abruptly dead.

I cling on to the side of the kitchen worktop, still clutching the phone to my ear with my other hand, black dots dancing before my eyes and panic threatening to overwhelm me. I’m vaguely aware of Harry hovering behind me, his hand resting awkwardly on my shoulder. It takes every scrap of strength I can summon from within myself not to sink to the floor in a trembling mess, but instead step forward and take decisive action.

‘Help me pack a bag. I’m going to ask Roberto to drive us there.’

‘Liza and Roberto aren’t here… they left earlier to go and visit her brother in the country for the bank holiday weekend. It’s Halloween tonight and Day of the Dead tomorrow – it’s a massive celebration. The whole country has Monday and Tuesday off work. They’ll be back Tuesday evening.’ I blink and shake my head, trying to filter through all the unnecessary information. Harry is looking at the floor. ‘They did tell you this morning, but you were a bit, er, preoccupied before going to the court hearing…’

‘Then we’ll take a bus.’

I’ve already started throwing items into a backpack – toothbrush, phone charger, socks – feeling strangely numb.

‘Hang on, don’t you think we should wait a bit?’ Harry is following me into the bedroom now, reaching for my hands, trying to get me to sit down. ‘Mindo is over two hours away. Wouldn’t it be better to wait here for a bit until we get some more news, keep trying to phone the hospital back, come up with a plan?’

I don’t look up from pulling off Liza’s uncomfortable suit and tugging on a pair of jeans. ‘Harry, my father is in hospital in the middle of the cloud forest. I don’t know what’s happened to him, he doesn’t speak Spanish and Dorice apparently isn’t there.’ I blink back tears at the protective emotion that washes over me. ‘So I have a plan, and it is to get a bus. Now.’ I haul my backpack up on to my shoulders and look Harry squarely in the eyes. ‘Are you coming?’

The words hang in the air between us, and Harry’s split second of hesitation is all the answer I need.

‘Kirsty, wait…’

I keep striding to the door without even turning back to look at him.

‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea to rush off now before we know what’s really happened…’ He trails off, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob. ‘And you and I need to finish talking.’

Now I do turn to stare at him, incredulously. ‘Yes, we do. But my dad is in hospital. And right now I need you to…’ Support me unconditionally, whatever is happening between us, I continue in my mind, without saying the words out loud. If he doesn’t get it, what’s the point in trying to explain? Shaking my head I ignore the angry tears filling my eyes and Harry’s calls for me to wait. Then I open the door and run down the apartment steps to the street.

Functioning on autopilot, I pay the taxi driver and climb out at Quito’s northern bus terminal, squeezing through crowds of tourists – backpackers and families and couples holding hands – all bustling to escape Quito for the bank holiday weekend. Knowing I must maintain control of my emotions for long enough to navigate this journey, I become filled with a strange numbness as I scan the rows of ticket desks, find the one I need, purchase a one-way ticket to Mindo and join the queue of people waiting to board. I look up at the pristine new double-decker coach with my destination name flashing across its front screen. As my fellow passengers call out to each other in an assortment of languages around me, passing backpacks over heads to the uniformed men loading up the storage space under each bus, I stand silently frozen to the spot, focused on suppressing the creeping panic still threatening to overpower me.

As the bus pulls away jerkily into the busy streets of Quito, memory after memory flashes through my mind like a series of spectres from the past. My father, clutching a bottle of apple juice and awkwardly speaking Spanish with Liza and Roberto. My father, sweeping aside the contents of his dining table and laying out a sheet of paper, titling it ‘Kirsty’s career plan’.

My father, slamming shut the door of a removal van and bending to kiss the top of my head, before disappearing.

It had been about two months after he actually left. Well, that’s how I remember it – as much as a five-year-old has any idea of time passing. It could just as easily have been two weeks, or six months. Mum arranged for my Grandma to take me to the seaside all day, perhaps naively believing this would distract me from what was really going on.

After trudging silently up and down the deserted, shingled beach countless times, we were both so cold and damp that Granny relented and took me home again. Dad was still there then, standing in the driveway giving instructions and maintaining a strict twenty-foot distance from my mother, who remained inside the house, anxiously following the removal men from room to room, checking each and every item they attempted to take outside. Even now I remember the feelings of mounting desperation, of panic, of hope that, if I made enough fuss and cried hard enough, maybe they’d all stop this madness and go back indoors and put the kettle on and behave like normal, calm adults again. Like a family.

Above all, I remember the sound of the van doors sliding shut – a loud, definitive noise signalling the end of an era. The only era my short life had known. I remember holding on to Dad’s leg as he walked towards his car, him bending down to tell me he would see me soon, and I remember already, even at that age, not believing him. Then Granny told me to stop ‘putting my parts on’ and took me inside for a chocolate milk.

Tears roll down my cheeks and splash on to my phone, clutched uselessly in my hands even though I’ve had no signal since we left Quito, and the two attempts I’ve made to call the hospital from the bus station were unanswered. My mind races for the hundredth time, wondering what could have happened to my father. Heart attack? Stroke? Catastrophic thoughts spiral further and further out of control in my mind.

My ears pop as we descend from Quito’s altitude, and signs of civilisation gradually give way to rambling greenery. I realise the tears are not just for my father. How could Harry stand there and hesitate about coming with me now, knowing Dad could be in potentially grave danger, hospitalised in a strange town miles from anywhere? Even if he didn’t agree with my decision to go and find my father, how could he even consider staying behind? If things were the other way around, I would have followed him unconditionally. In fact, I did follow him unconditionally. First to Fenbridge, so that he could take up the job at the Academy he wanted so much. And now to South America, in pursuit of his dreams to travel one last time before we finally, supposedly, settled down and started a family. The very thought of this makes a shiver run through me, remembering how, just months ago, I had been so desperate to have a child with Harry. Now, feeling like I barely know him anymore, the very idea leaves me cold.

The bus continues its winding descent, leaving Quito well and truly behind, spiralling ever downward in a series of brake-grinding curves around the mountainside, now an expanse of green without a single building or relic of civilisation to be seen. A strange, eerie mist creeps down around us, blotting out the sun, making it seem like twilight rather than early afternoon. Giant fern leaves thwack against the bus window just inches from my face as the driver performs another nail-biting pirouette around a tight corner, nothing but open space and twinkling mist filling the space in the sheer precipice to the other side. Despite my anguish I can’t help but lean over and gaze out in wonder at the expanse of unspoilt nature surrounding me on every side, a total contrast to all I have seen of Ecuador since I arrived in the country, and barely an hour outside the capital city’s centre.

When dotted, ramshackle buildings start appearing around us again and the bus finally comes to a stop, my tears have dried and I’m filled with a strange sense of calm. I have made it here on my own, without Harry’s support, and some inner determination tells me that, whatever is about to happen next, I will cope with it. I have to cope with it. I stumble down the bus’s steps clutching the crumpled piece of paper with the hospital’s address on, ready to ask the first person I see for directions.

But as I disembark, I stand frozen to the spot for a moment, taking in my striking surroundings. The bus has pulled over at the side of a wide, sandy street lined with wooden buildings – judging by their signs, mainly restaurants and cafés and souvenir shops – and interspersed on every side with an explosion of nature and greenery. Not the familiar green of an English landscape, but the wilder, deeper shades of tropical plants with oversized leaves and vivid red-and-purple flowers drooping over into the road, emanating rich, spicy aromas. Tourists of various nationalities stroll up and down the street and sit eating at wooden tables outside. The strange mist from earlier still lingers but the air is warm and sticky, bringing with it the sounds of crickets, birds, frogs, and other creatures I can’t place. Apart from a few cyclists and our bus – incongruous in its modern, shiny splendour – there is no other traffic.

I let all the other passengers hustle past me in their search for lunch and hotels and activities, then scan my surroundings for someone who can help.

‘Please – can you tell me how to get to this place?’ I brandish the piece of paper at an older, portly lady serving giant plates of whole fish and rice to a table of tourists at the nearest outdoor café.

She stops, frowning, then slowly straightens up and points to a building just diagonally across the road from us.

It takes me a few seconds to understand.

‘That’s the hospital?’

The woman frowns at me again. ‘This is Mindo’s main street, and that is the local clinic.’ She turns back to her table to collect their empty glasses, and I half expect her to say, ‘You’re not in Quito anymore.’ It couldn’t be more obvious.

The building she indicated is not much more than a whitewashed concrete box painted white with a small sign above the door, that if I really squint I can make out reads ‘Mindo Regional Clinic’.

Part of me wants to run inside, flinging open doors until I find my father, and another part of me yearns to turn and flee as fast as possible in the opposite direction, not ever having to learn of his fate.

Pointlessly looking both ways for traffic, I take a deep breath and cross the road towards the clinic.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Dehydration?’

The word echoes off the walls in the bare, tiled room. I repeat it several more times, even as Dr Rivas nods at me patiently, confirming that I have not misunderstood her Spanish and my father is not, after all, about to die.

‘A passer-by found him wandering along the riverbank, just before he passed out. Apparently he was trying to make a phone call from a mobile phone with no battery, and going on about trying to look for somebody… luckily for your father, the passer-by had good intentions and brought him in to us.’

I stare back at the doctor and her polite, professional demeanour, trying to assimilate her description with the Dad I know.

‘We don’t think he had eaten or drunk anything for many hours by the time he came in. He was also suffering from mild sunstroke. He seemed to have spent the whole day walking around Mindo.’

‘Just… sunstroke, and dehydration?’ I say again stupidly, feeling a crashing wave of relief begin to break over me.

‘We did a brain scan and checked his heart. We are confident this… episode… was not caused by anything more serious… at least physically.’

I lean forwards in the uncomfortable metal chair drawn up opposite Dr Rivas’s desk and rest my head in my hands, feeling suddenly exhausted as the coil of suppressed worry and panic of the last three hours begins slowly to unwind inside me.

Something in the atmosphere of the cramped little doctor’s office changes almost imperceptibly, then Dr Rivas speaks again. ‘Miss Morgan, has your father ever been diagnosed with… any form of dementia or other mental health condition?’

My head jerks up of its own accord, at last properly taking in the woman sitting opposite me wearing an obviously long-practised Sympathetic Doctor Face. Faintly pursed lips, gently knitted brow, her own age-spotted hands folded neatly before her on the desk.

‘He’s fifty-five,’ I say mindlessly. A good fifteen years younger than you, I only just stop myself from adding.

Dr Rivas’s marshmallow-pink lips purse even further. ‘Miss Morgan, the reason I ask is that your father, when he came in, did not stop talking about a person called…’ she glances down at a notepad on the desk in front of her. ‘…Dorice.’ I hear the quote marks in her tone as she says the name. Dr Rivas straightens her glasses and lowers her head slightly, as if preparing to deliver me some terrible news. ‘He was insistent that this person was travelling with him, was just around the corner, and kept asking us to phone her… the thing is, Miss Morgan, your father appears to be here in Mindo completely alone. Of course, it has not been easy to understand him with the language barrier. But we are beginning to doubt this Dorice person actually exists.’

‘No, no, Dorice is real all right,’ I mutter, remembering her for the first time since I left Quito. ‘She’s his girlfriend. They came here together.’ So where the bloody hell is she? ‘Look, can I just see my dad? I think everything will become clearer once I can talk to him.’

‘Of course. I will take you through now.’ Dr Rivas is already getting to her feet. ‘But I think I should warn you, Mr Morgan may still be experiencing the effects of the sunstroke, so he might not… make a lot of sense.’

I follow her along a short corridor, its walls lined with leaflets titled things like ‘Urinary Incontinence: What You Need to Know’ and ‘Family Planning Basics’ in Spanish. I’m reminded strangely of the little GP surgery back in Fenbridge, and realise that, despite its humble outer appearance, this clinic could just as easily be somewhere in the UK. Everything is spotlessly clean and ordered, although the three rooms we walk past appear to be empty apart from an occasional blue-coated nurse opening cupboards or mopping floors.

‘Here you are.’ Dr Rivas stops at one of the doors and holds it open for me. I feel a pang of something similar to nervousness. Just how incoherent is my father going to be? I’m not sure I will know how to handle any crazed rantings and ravings…

I step into the small, bare room. The bed in its centre is empty and my father is sat in a big reclining chair beside it, flicking through a Spanish-language edition of Grazia. He looks up as we enter, and immediately gets to his feet, the magazine sliding to the floor forgotten.

‘Kirsty!’ He takes a step towards me, arms outstretched, then stop abruptly and frowns, sitting back down again heavily in the chair. ‘Er… thank you so much for coming.’

I hover in the middle of the room, also wondering whether to go and hug him, but eventually settle for perching on the edge of the little coffee table opposite him, and reaching out to pat his arm awkwardly.

‘Dad – what on earth happened?’ I flick a glance at Dr Rivas, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, watching us, and showing no signs of leaving. I lower my voice. ‘What were you doing, and where the hell is Dorice?’

‘Dorice is gone. Left. Back to England.’ Dad rubs his eyes and blinks, looking as if he is comprehending this information for the first time himself as well. ‘I woke up this morning in the hotel and she was gone. Six a.m., vanished, no note…’ He stoops and picks up the copy of Grazia on the floor and stares at it, as if the beaming celebrities on its cover might provide him with answers.

‘At first I thought something terrible had happened to her. The hotel hadn’t seen her leave. All her stuff had gone. I was so worried, and felt terrible for ever bringing her here in the first place. So… I went out looking for her.’ He frowns down at the magazine. ‘I got lost, as ridiculous as that sounds. Couldn’t find my way back to the hotel. We had to check out this morning, anyway, as we had a bus ticket back to Quito tonight.’ He looks down at his watch, realises it is no longer on his wrist, and rolls his eyes. ‘Well, we’ve missed that now anyway.’

‘But… how do you know she’s actually left? Back to England? If she’s still missing, shouldn’t we call the police…’

‘She phoned finally from the airport, in Quito, about an hour ago,’ Dad continues, indicating his mobile phone, plugged in to charge beside the bed. ‘A courtesy call, one might say.’ To my dismay, an amused smile starts to tickle the corners of his mouth. ‘The thing is, I don’t think she liked Ecuador very much.’ He snorts, suddenly on the brink of explosive laughter. ‘Or me. I don’t think she liked me very much, either.’ The laughter now spills out of him, causing his shoulders to shake and his eyes to water.

‘It’s the sunstroke,’ Dr Rivas stage-whispers to me, then, turning to address my father, she raises her voice to the slow, carefully enunciated tone reserved only for small children or the very old.

‘Mister Morgan…’ She leans right down and peers into his face. ‘Would you like another glass of water? Or one of those nice energy drinks? Hmm?’ My father manages to curb his laughter and looks back at Dr Rivas with dismay.

‘I’ll go and get you one, shall I? Grapefruit flavour, yes? Now you just lie down and take it easy…’

‘Lie down?’ My father is already getting up, straightening his clothes, picking up his glasses case from the table. ‘I don’t want to lie down. We’re going home. Come on, Kirsty.’

I stand frozen between my father and Dr Rivas, not knowing what to do. My father widens his eyes at me, clearly saying get me out of here.

I turn to Dr Rivas and say, in Spanish, as politely as possible, ‘I believe my father is… recovered enough… to be discharged now?’

Dr Rivas rolls her eyes and gives me an ‘on your head be it’ shrug. ‘Your father is well, although my recommendation would be for him to rest…’ She shoots a withering glance at my dad, already putting his shoes on and pulling his rucksack on to his shoulders. ‘But if Mr Morgan insists on leaving already…’ She gives a martyred sigh. ‘I’ll start getting the paperwork together.’

As she turns to leave the room, I hold out my arm to stop her, a realisation suddenly hitting me.

‘Wait! Do you know where we can buy bus tickets back to Quito?’ The bus had deposited me in the middle of the main street, with no bus station or ticket office anywhere in sight. I remember the crowds of people at the bus terminal in Quito, signalling the mass exodus from a city that can only happen at the beginning of a bank holiday weekend. I had only just managed to purchase one of the last tickets to Mindo… I glance nervously at the clock above Dad’s chair. Already six p.m., meaning it will be dark very soon…

‘You won’t catch a bus to Quito now! Not until at least tomorrow, when the fiestas are over,’ Dr Rivas snorts, looking at me as if I, too, am in need of one of her grapefruit-flavoured energy drinks. ‘And all the hotels here in Mindo have been booked up for weeks. If you didn’t buy a return ticket, you’re basically stuffed.’

I translate this roughly for my father, who – judging by the look of panic spreading across his face – has grasped it well enough.

Dr Rivas stands in the doorway, arms folded, looking back and forth between my father and me. Eventually she gives a long-suffering sigh and pulls a mobile phone from the pocket of her robe. ‘My brother-in-law has a hotel. Let me make some phone calls.’

***

Less than half an hour later, the heat of the sun is beginning to fade into evening coolness, and my father and I have been checked in to Dr Rivas’s brother-in-law’s ‘hotel’.

We almost get lost all over again, taking turn after turn away from Mindo’s main street, finding ourselves going deeper and deeper into the foliage as we try to follow Dr Rivas’s scribbled directions. Then a scruffy little girl of about eight runs out into the dirt track in front of us and says in a heavy accent, ‘Kristie Morgan?’

Without waiting for an answer she takes my hand and leads us down a short path framed by giant glossy-leafed banana plants, their still-green fruit drooping heavily right into our path. Looming before us is a large wooden hut, raised from the ground to waist height on stilt-like legs. There’s a cleared dirt circle reaching about twenty feet all around it, in which two scruffy dogs and a gaggle of chickens are scrabbling and playing. Beyond that is the dense, untamed green of the jungle. A single, hand-painted sign saying ‘hostel’ is staked into the ground beside it.

My father and I stop, exchanging doubtful glances, but then a short, chubby man, wearing mud-stained overalls and a big smile trots down the steps of the hut to welcome us in surprisingly capable English.

‘I am Samuel, hotel manager, my sister-in-law told me all about you. Some character, isn’t she? And this is Tamia, my daughter – and Customer Service Assistant.’ He winks at the little girl, now bouncing up and down on the spot with excitement. ‘Come, come, I will help you make yourselves at home. You are in luck, we have one room left.’

One room?

Dad and I exchange glances again, my own dismay reflected in his face. Eventually he shrugs, and we allow ourselves to be led up the rickety wooden steps to the front door.

In ten swift minutes Samuel has written our details down in a notebook behind a small desk covered in tourist leaflets advertising white-water rafting and nocturnal jungle tours, and led us up another flight of wooden stairs to our room.

Despite the fact the whole building seems to be made entirely of varnished wooden boards, the room is clean and tidy, bare except for twin beds covered with bright purple-and-green hand-woven fabrics.

‘Dinner will be served downstairs in the restaurant in ten minutes,’ Samuel beams, handing me the room key. ‘And please remember – today is Day of the Dead, or Halloween in your world.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘So do not be alarmed if you experience anything… a little strange.’

My father and I look at each other, then turn in unison to stare at Samuel in alarm.

He lets out a hearty laugh. ‘I am just joking! But at nightfall, there will be a procession of villagers going to the local cemetery, to pay homage to our ancestors, and share a meal with them there. It is tradition. You are very welcome to join us.’

My father and I exchange glances again. ‘Er… thanks. We’ll consider it,’ I reply politely.

The ‘restaurant’ is in fact a wide balcony at the rear of the building, directly overlooking the rushing river just feet below us and surrounded by exotic plants and flowers in an array of vivid colours.

Samuel indicates for us to sit at one of the balcony’s three tables and places a jug of lemonade before us. ‘Dinner is trout,’ he declares proudly. ‘Would you like it boiled or fried?’

After ordering, I check my phone for the first time since getting off the bus in Mindo’s main street hours earlier. There are two missed calls and a single message from Harry, sent two hours ago, saying simply ‘???’.

I fire off a minimal response telling him I am with my father, we are both fine, and will be returning to Quito… when? Dr Rivas’s words from earlier ring in my ears. No buses today. Until after the fiestas are over. Tomorrow. Sometime tomorrow during the day.

As soon as the message has been sent, the battery dies. I stare at the blank screen for a moment, realising with a sharp dart of sadness that it makes no difference, I doubted there would be a reply anyway.

I swallow back the lump forming in my throat and stuff the phone back in my pocket, then look up to see my father watching me intently. We’ve barely spoken since leaving the clinic, only the necessary formalities for me to help him sign the discharge papers and navigate our way here, and suddenly I feel overwhelmed at the thought of sharing a meal, a room, and possibly the next twenty-four hours or more exclusively in his company. All the closeness and understanding I’d begun to feel between my father and me in Quito, after the mugging, after he said goodbye to me at his hotel, seems to have evaporated, leaving us with a stifling awkwardness and no idea what to say to each other.

I thought something awful had happened to you, I think, watching him take a sip of his lemonade and look out at the river as if nothing at all untoward had happened over the last twenty-four hours. All I could think of was what would happen if I lost you. But somehow I can’t find the words.

‘Was that Harry?’ Dad asks, turning and nodding at my phone.

Please don’t start, I implore him silently, nodding with my eyes closed. ‘Yeah.’

‘Are you okay?’

My eyes flash open, wondering if I have heard him correctly.

‘Me? Yes, of course.’ I reach forward and take a sip of the lemonade, trying to hide my surprise. ‘How about you? How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better, thank you.’ Dad doesn’t meet my eyes but continues gazing out towards the river and tree-lined horizon.

We lapse back into silence, the sound of the rushing river below us coming into focus alongside the chattering and humming of a hundred different species of animals and insects. At some point the little girl, Tamia, appears with a shy smile and places two steaming plates of rice, and what look like folded parcels of green leaves, on the table before us.

My stomach turns slightly as I unfold one of the deep green leaves and find an entire fish, perfectly intact from its silver flowing tail to its beady black eyeball, staring back at me. But, flicking a glance at my father and seeing him unflinchingly cut his open and tuck into the meat inside as if it were no more than a roasted chicken breast, I do the same.

And, in fact, once I’ve inexpertly prised away the layer of skin and scales, and strategically positioned the plantain leaf over the fish’s face so that its grimly shining eyeball is not visible, the soft white meat inside is simple and delicious.

‘So… I wonder if Dr Rivas is on commission for this place?’ my father finally says.

I turn and stare at him. He has a dribble of orange chilli sauce running into his beard, but I don’t feel able to say anything.

‘What… you mean sending us here to stay at her family’s hotel?’

‘Yeah, I mean, I wonder how many of her patients she sends here?’ He puts his knife and fork down thoughtfully, staring out at the river. ‘What if they have some kind of deal? Every poor, injured or dehydrated tourist that passes through her clinic ends up getting recruited into an all-in-one, rustic jungle experience at her brother-in-law’s house?’ There’s a hint of a smile on his face.

I think about that for a moment, then sit forward. ‘Okay, and what if… in order to orchestrate this dastardly plan… Dr Rivas actually kidnapped Dorice and is currently holding her hostage in the basement here, refusing to release her until we pay the extortionate ransom?’

Dad turns to me with a deadpan expression. ‘There is no basement, Kirsty. The house is on stilts.’

A brightly coloured bird suddenly launches itself into flight from somewhere just in front of us, skimming across the river with a strange chattering noise, then disappearing off into the air. I feel my face breaking into a smile.

‘Ah, but it’s not really Samuel’s house at all, is it?’ I turn to my father. ‘It’s all a set-up, remember? They’re probably putting away the props right now… the fake wooden floor, the chickens running about outside…’

‘And wheeling out the widescreen TV.’

‘With Dolby surround sound.’

‘And built-in 3D functionality.’

‘Don’t forget the voice-controlled lighting and body-temperature activated -heated sofas.’

‘Now you’re just being ridiculous… that hasn’t even been invented yet.’

We’re both shaking with laughter now, our half-eaten meals forgotten in front of us.

‘Dad, we’re actually being really mean. Stop it.’ I wipe my eyes and try to rein in my own laughter, such a refreshing feeling after all the tension of the last day. ‘This hotel is Samuel’s livelihood, he’s obviously really proud of it.’

Dad continues chuckling. ‘I don’t think he’d mind. I’m sure if Dr Rivas told him about my escapades yesterday, he’d have a good old laugh at my expense, too.’

As we gradually lapse into silence again, it dawns on me that I didn’t even know what my father’s laugh sounded like until now. I realise with an unfamiliar, warm feeling that I quite like it.

We watch as a group of dirty, shrieking children chase a chicken around the muddy riverbank below us. I realise one of them is Tamia and, as she catches me watching her, she turns to look up and gives us a joyful wave. I wave back, feeling a pang of envy for her young, carefree life.

‘So can you…’ I begin tentatively, edging my chair slightly closer to Dad’s. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? I mean, with Dorice?’ I cringe inwardly, realising that the closest Dad and I have ever got to discussing our romantic lives with each other has been me texting him every year to remind him to send Harry a birthday card. But looking at him now, seeming somehow a little sadder, and older, and more tired than I have ever seen him before, I realise I want nothing more than for him to open up to me.

Dad lets out a small laugh. ‘Oh, you don’t want all the disastrous details, love.’ He pauses. ‘She was pretty awful, really, though, wasn’t she?’

I remain diplomatically silent.

‘Go on, admit it, she was. She was a totally different person after a few drinks in the local pub, a few meals out or cinema trips – she seemed nice, and dynamic, and interesting – so passionate about her career. But it was silly of me to invite her on holiday with me so soon. There’s no better way of getting to know someone than going abroad, right?’

I shift uncomfortably on the spot. ‘But I still can’t believe she just left like that… there must have been something to set her off, to make her angry?’

Dad is looking awkwardly at his feet. ‘I’ll spare you the details, really… but it was an ongoing dispute right from the start of this trip. She wanted to get out there and photograph her stupid bloody poisonous reptiles or whatever they were, and I wanted to spend more time in Quito… with you.’ His voice quietens so much towards the end of the sentence that I barely hear the last two words. But yes, I’m sure that’s what he said… with you. I think back to our goodbye in the hotel lobby and Dad promising me he’d speak to Dorice about coming back to Quito sooner.

‘But why didn’t you stand up to her, Dad? She was so rude to you…’ My voice, also, lowers to a whisper. ‘I hated it.’

‘Thanks, love.’ Dad looks at me in surprise. ‘Trust me, several times I felt on the brink of snapping at her or just jacking in the whole thing and going home early. And – in the end – she beat me to it!’ He laughs bitterly. ‘But… I really wanted it to work. I mean, how many more disappointments do there have to be? How many more awkward meetings in pubs? Look at me, I’m a bloke in his fifties with an online dating profile. I don’t want to keep going like this for ever.’

I find myself staring at my father and suddenly seeing him differently. Partly because I’ve never heard him speak anything remotely like this before. Until now I’ve always thought his romantic escapades were a source of pride for him, something he thoroughly enjoyed, at the expense of anyone and everyone else. But looking at him now, seeming somehow older and wearier than ever before, I start to see it for what it really is. He’s no different to anyone else, I realise. He’s just a lonely person trying to find someone to share their life with.

‘Your mother was lucky,’ Dad says, sounding wistful but with no trace of bitterness. ‘She found someone not too long after we split up, and it seems to be working out okay. I mean, Steve is a good bloke.’ He frowns out at the river. ‘Whereas, to be honest, I’ve felt adrift all this time, waiting for someone else to come along… my house still feels like a bachelor pad, after all these years, instead of a home. But, I suppose… the search continues! At the age of fifty-five…’ He trails off and lets out a sad little chuckle.

‘Dad,’ I begin carefully, still unnerved by this new, raw honesty. ‘When I left you that voicemail, asking if you wanted to come out here and visit…’

‘Yes?’

‘What made you go ahead with it? I mean, I know it was for Dorice to do her photography stuff, but…why else? Why are you really here, Dad?’

He is quiet for a very long time, until I start to think he didn’t hear the question. A piercing shriek rises up from somewhere below us and a circular rubber raft suddenly swirls into view on the river, occupied by a group of tourists in neon-orange life jackets all clinging on for dear life. The raft dips and spins hazardously between rocks and the tourists all squeal with delight as it continues its way downstream.

‘It wasn’t for Dorice,’ Dad finally says.

I turn to look at him, needing this to be true.

‘For me, honestly, that was just a pretext… ever since I met her, at the start of the year, she’d been talking about going somewhere exotic for her photography, and I was thinking of going with her. Then I got your voicemail, and I could barely believe it… perhaps for the first time ever, it sounded like you really wanted to see me, Kirsty.’

I look up at him. ‘I did… I do, Dad.’

‘So… your message encouraged me to do it. To finally pick up the phone to you, reach out to you in a way I know I should have done long ago. All the postponed dinner invitations, forgotten phone calls… it’s not something I’m proud of.’ His voice has dropped to a low murmur now, as he turns away from me and watches the raft disappear from sight, swirling off down the river. ‘But I want you to know, I am proud of you, for being the one to make that phone call.’

I continue staring at him, barely believing what I’m hearing. Dad has never said he is proud of me.

‘Plus… I was worried about you.’ He raises his voice just enough for me to hear, looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Your mother and I were worried about you.’

It sounds so strange hearing him utter the words ‘your mother and I’ that I’m rendered temporarily speechless.

‘But… but I was with Harry,’ I eventually manage.

‘Exactly,’ he says grimly. ‘We thought you…’ He trails off.

There it was again. The ‘we’.

‘You and Mum have actually been talking? About me?’

‘Well, we haven’t got much else in common that we’d want to talk about, have we?’ Dad’s attempt at a laugh dies on his lips, seeing the expression on my face. ‘Er, yes, we did exchange a few phone calls when you first left. And before, when you told us you were going.’

I can’t work out whether I feel betrayed or touched. Perhaps a little of both.

‘You have to understand, your mother only heard from you a few times for the first week you were in Quito.’ He’s looking at me steadily now, and something in me feels ashamed enough to make me lower my gaze. ‘She started to wonder whether something awful had happened, like you and Harry had broken up and you couldn’t tell us…’

‘Why the hell would she think that?’ My cheeks flame with indignation.

Dad continues looking at me steadily. ‘Listen, your mother is not stupid. And I’ve had enough… difficult… relationships myself to recognise when something is wrong.’ He says this mildly, with no trace of accusation or judgement, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed with tiredness. I’ve been trying so hard to keep going, to convince everyone, to convince myself that things with Harry are okay.

‘Is it really that obvious?’ My voice feels thick with long-repressed tears and I scrape my chair back abruptly, going over to the edge of the balcony, desperate for Dad not to see me cry. I hold on to the wooden rail and watch the children playing below us. ‘Is it really so clear to everyone that my relationship is just a big sham?’

Dad doesn’t say anything, which only pierces my heart more. Then I hear him get up, too, and feel a hand come to rest almost tentatively on my arm. The tears overflow.

‘Ever since we arrived… he’s been really different, sneaking around, making strange phone calls, hiding something from me.’ Still facing determinedly away from Dad, I wipe my sleeve across my face and sniff. ‘I know what you’ll think. That he’s got someone else…’

Somewhere at the back of my mind is the uncomfortable awareness that I should stop, and not pour my heart out to Dad, of all people, when the whole reason I wanted him to come here was for him to see me at my best, to fix whatever was broken between us so many years ago… but somehow I continue, my voice taking on a will of its own, spilling out all the suppressed pain and suspicions of the past few weeks in total detachment from my brain and common sense.

‘At first that crossed my mind – the thought of another woman. It would be the obvious answer, after all. But then I heard all the stories from the prisoners I’ve been visiting… how they lied to their families and crept around for ages, and it made me think that perhaps he was involved in… something more sinister. I’ve been tearing myself up over it… I think that’s partly why I threw myself into visiting the prison, and helping Naomi. Something to distract myself with, focusing on someone in a worse situation than myself… perhaps, in fact, that’s all I’ve been doing for years, Dad…’

I finally turn to face him, despite the tears now flowing freely down my cheeks.

`’But you know what I’ve realised now?’ I wipe my eyes and look up at him. ‘It doesn’t even matter. I don’t actually care what he’s been doing. Because it’s not the same… he’s lied to me anyway.’ More tears spill over and I wipe them impatiently away. ‘Whatever it is that’s going on, in a weird way, it’s helped me finally face the truth. We don’t talk any more, we don’t have things in common any more. In fact, I don’t think we… I… I couldn’t even say whether I still love him.’

There it is, I finally said it. My words and their terrible implications hang in the air between us, leaving me feeling strangely lighter.

Finally, Dad speaks. ‘It happens, love.’ He reaches out and awkwardly squeezes my arm. ‘I don’t mean to make light of it by saying that. But if anyone knows that it happens, it’s me.’ He lets out a sad, cynical laugh. ‘And all I can advise is… don’t let it make you feel like a failure. Don’t let a failed relationship turn into a failed life.’ He looks at me pointedly.

And what the hell is that supposed to mean?

‘My life’s okay, you know,’ I say, trying to keep the defensive tone out of my voice. ‘I’ve managed fine, actually, I think. I’ve been to university, got a good job, a house… and I’m not, like, on drugs or in debt to the mafia or anything.’ I force a smile through my tears, and hope I sound convincing.

Dad’s mouth is set in a tense, hard line, and I gradually feel the smile fading from mine.

‘Kirsty, do you remember your work experience?’ The question catches me so off guard that I’m unable to answer, and Dad doesn’t wait for me to. ‘Then, some time afterwards, do you remember coming to my house one evening, and talking to me about your future plans?’

Remember it? I feel a cold shiver trickle down my back. ‘Of course I remember it, Dad.’ More than you could ever imagine. My voice is little more than a whisper, and I suddenly feel unable to look at my father.

‘Good. I’m glad. I’ve often wondered if you did.’

I keep my eyes focused on the floor, staring hard at the lines in the bare wooden boards, realising what is coming next and not knowing if I can bear to hear it… out loud, in my father’s voice… rather than simply the quiet, nagging conviction in the back of my own mind that it has been up to now.

‘I’m not going to start lecturing you on how to live your life, or tell you what you should be doing,’ Dad says quietly. ‘But I just want you to understand… please… how frustrating it is for me, to have to sit back and watch you not fight for your dreams. No, wait!’ He holds up a hand as I open my mouth to protest. ‘You know it’s true. I’m not saying your life is a failure or even that I’m not proud of you. Coming out here, seeing you dedicate so much of your time and energy to helping that young lady in prison… even foregoing a trip to the Galápagos to see through your promise to her. Since I arrived in Ecuador, I’ve seen the quality of person you’ve become. And it has only served to convince me further of what I already knew… that you do not belong where you are.’

I turn to stare at him, feeling indignation and anger begin to prickle inside me.

‘And I don’t mean on a balcony in the middle of the jungle in Ecuador,’ Dad continues. ‘I mean you don’t belong with—’

‘Yes, I get what you mean, thanks, Dad!’ The anger overflows. ‘But what would you know about fighting for dreams?’ I force myself to maintain eye contact, even though my cheeks are burning and tears pricking my eyes. ‘Fat lot of good that did me, fighting and pleading for you not to leave!’ The unvoiced anger and pain of the last twenty-three years bubbles up and explodes from within me in the form of a noisy sob. ‘I fought then, didn’t I? I begged you not to go. I pleaded with Mum to bring you back, to not split up, to be a family… who listened to me then?’ My voice sounds high-pitched and hysterical to my own ears, and I see the spreading alarm across my father’s face, but I don’t care. I need to say this.

‘So, don’t lecture me now about fighting or striving for what I want. You were the very first person who taught me how pointless that is.’

I hold on to the rough wooden rail of the balcony and stare down at my hands, knuckles white and trembling. Dad looks completely shell-shocked and unable to speak. I’ve truly blown it now, I think, horror slowly spreading through me at the realisation of everything I’ve just said.

I don’t know how long we stand there in silence, but after a while my pounding heart returns to normal and my tears subside. I gradually become aware of the sounds of birds chattering in the trees around us, settling down for the night, and the thick clouds on the horizon descending further as the light begins to fade. To my amazement a tiny hummingbird no bigger than my little finger, its feathers a luminous sapphire blue, appears by the edge of the balcony rail. My father and I are standing so still and silent that the hummingbird seems unaware of our presence, hovering gradually closer until it is barely a foot away from me, level with the banana plants overflowing the balcony, and so close I can hear the gentle hum of its wings.

Then, amazingly, Dad reaches over and takes my hand.

‘I know I haven’t been the best father,’ he says, at last, very quietly. ‘I won’t try and explain all that your mother and I were going through back then, only that we were very young – so much younger than you are now, even – and at the time it really seemed that leaving was the only viable option for me. It was either leave – and separate a family – or stay, and watch it self-destruct completely. I hope, on some level, you can understand that, Kirsty.’

Not trusting myself to speak, I can’t even look at my father, but a brief flash of awareness jolts through me at his words. A fleeting vision of some possible future life, my almost future life, in which Harry and I have a baby. For a few agonising moments I imagine what it would be like to feel how I do now – I force myself to be brutally honest – misunderstood, unsupported, unloved, while being irrevocably bound to the very person causing you such unhappiness. The thought makes me shiver. I feel myself glancing sideways at my father, a seed of understanding reluctantly taking root.

‘There’s no excuse for my absence from your life ever since, I know that,’ he continues grimly. ‘And don’t think I’m not aware that you resent me for it. All I want you to know is… I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry ever since the moment I made that terrible, impossible decision. The guilt has haunted me ever since.’

Out of the corner of my eye I notice, with a pang of alarm, that tears are filling my father’s eyes. For the first time ever, I find myself wondering whether that day with the removal van as is indelibly etched on his memory as it is on mine.

I hear my father take a deep breath beside me, as if willing himself to continue.

‘So in truth, Kirsty, part of my reason for coming here to Ecuador was also… to ask for your forgiveness.’

I still say nothing, but continue watching the hummingbird on its winding trajectory around the vivid flowers at the balcony edge, allowing myself to be hypnotised by its simple beauty, feeling my anger begin to disperse and float away from me.

‘It took you doing something drastic and unexpected like going travelling for me to realise – life is just passing us by, and my only daughter is… twenty…’

‘Eight. I’m twenty-eight, Dad.’

‘Right. You’re twenty-eight, and I don’t even really know you. See, I can’t even remember how bloody old you are.’ Tears start to roll down his cheeks.

Suddenly I realise the resentment I’ve felt towards my father for all these years is evaporating as effortlessly as the last clouds over the river as night falls around us, leaving only the need to console this sad, ageing man beside me, consumed with regrets. I do the only thing that feels right and turn to wrap him in a hug. He squeezes me back, his arms solid and tight around me.

‘God,’ Dad eventually says, pulling gently away to reveal a trail of my tear stains on his jacket. ‘Shall we see if Samuel’s got anything stronger than lemonade?’

I’m about to ask him whether he thinks that is a good idea, after everything that’s happened, when suddenly little Tamia bursts out of the undergrowth and comes sprinting towards us. ‘Kristie! Kristie! Your boyfriend is here!’ She beams at me, skipping in circles around us, savouring the word boyfriend. ‘He’s come to rescue you!’

WHAT?

Exchanging puzzled glances with my father, we stumble back into the house behind Tamia. Could Harry really have come all the way here to find me? Even as the thought crosses my mind, I realise with a sick lurch of adrenaline that it doesn’t fill me with the hope or excitement it would have done barely even weeks ago. Heart in mouth, I stop abruptly in the doorway as I reach the main reception room, a split second after I spot a familiar black dog stretched out on the floor in the entrance and realise that the man at the table chatting to Samuel is not, in fact, Harry.

It is Sebastian.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Samuel stops in mid-sentence as I appear in the doorway, and steps aside to let me past. Tamia jiggles on the spot in excitement, grinning at me, before running over to pet Lewis. My father looks from Sebastian to me and back again, then raises his eyebrows.

Desperately trying to slow my racing heartbeat, I approach Sebastian, trying to keep a polite smile on my face. I hear my father engage Samuel in awkward conversation in broken Spanish behind us.

‘I promise I’m not a stalker,’ he says quietly, meeting the silent question in my eyes. ‘But I just felt so awful leaving you to get home on your own after the hearing this morning.’

I blink, momentarily unable to process the fact the Naomi’s hearing had taken place only today, suddenly feeling very tired.

‘I tried phoning to check you got back okay, but your mobile was off,’ Sebastian continues, looking anguished. ‘I called Liza and Roberto’s home phone but no one was there… eventually I got through to Liza on her mobile and it turns out they’re away for the whole weekend visiting family; she told me what happened, that you’d headed off to Mindo on your own… so I left straight away. Liza gave me the name of the clinic… it took me a while to convince them I was here to help you, but I eventually managed to get this address from that barmy old doctor… what was her name…’

‘Okay, okay, you’re really not convincing me of your non-stalker status right now!’ I hold up my hands to make him stop, but can’t help laughing. ‘Seriously, you really didn’t have to… I mean…’

‘It’s cool, Quito gets crazy during public holidays, and it’s nice to get away for a weekend. You know, give Lewis a change of scene.’ He nods at the dog, still spread out in the corner of the room, his head being adoringly stroked by Tamia. ‘And I thought you might appreciate a lift back to Quito.’

‘He came to rescue you,’ Maya whispers in delight from the corner.

‘Well, it’s very kind of you to come all this way. But you know I didn’t actually need rescuing, right?’ An edge I don’t recognise has crept into my voice.

‘Of course, I didn’t actually…’

Suddenly I realise my father is standing behind us. He leans over and pumps Sebastian’s hand heartily. ‘A lift would be fantastic, thank you.’ He claps Sebastian on the back with his other hand. ‘Poor Kirsty has chased around after me quite enough for one weekend, I’m sure she’s keen to get back. It’s very kind of you to come all this way and help us.’

‘No problem, all part of the service,’ Sebastian says gruffly, shaking my father’s hand back but still looking at me. ‘We wouldn’t want any of our citizens to get in trouble over the bank holiday weekend.’ I think I see a fleeting blush pass across his face, but I can’t be sure. ‘Also, I’ve got your passports.’ He indicates his backpack. ‘I was going to call you to arrange to give them to you in Quito, but after I heard what happened today…’ He takes a brown envelope out of the backpack and holds it out to my father, at the same time as a question springs into my mind.

‘But – Dorice!’ I turn to Sebastian. ‘Her passport was also stolen that day by the cathedral… how did she…’

Sebastian is looking a little sheepish, avoiding my father’s gaze. ‘I was wondering how to bring this up. She came by my office this afternoon – I’d just got back from visiting that man in the hospital.’ I remember him dashing off after Naomi’s hearing this morning. ‘She was all flustered and in a hurry with a taxi waiting outside to take her straight to the airport. She asked for the passport and didn’t tell me anything more. But after I spoke to Liza and Roberto, I pieced together what had happened.’ Now he does look up at my father. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Ah, that’s okay, mate,’ says my father in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone, reaching out to punch Sebastian on the arm a little awkwardly. ‘Probably not the first time someone’s been dumped and left in the middle of the jungle in a foreign country, eh?’

‘Actually, it isn’t,’ Sebastian chuckles. ‘You see it all in my job…’ His gaze slides towards Lewis, now snoring gently in the corner of the room. ‘If it’s any consolation, when my ex-wife left, I only realised when I got home from work and found a three-month supply of dog food lined up by the kitchen door. No note, and almost all her belongings still in the house…’ He laughs quietly. ‘People can be strange.’

I feel a strange chill pass over me hearing Sebastian mention his wife for the first time, and suddenly don’t know where to look. I stare purposefully at Lewis and Tamia in the corner, feeling my cheeks burn, until I realise the conversation between Sebastian and my father has finally moved on to safer territory.

‘I’m afraid we’re travelling by taxi,’ Sebastian tells my father. ‘My car is back in Quito getting new brake pads.’ He nods towards a man standing just outside the house, who I notice for the first time.

There is something familiar about him. As he turns to hand a plate to Samuel, a jolt of recognition runs through me.

‘Rodrigo?’ I reach back into my memory and dredge up the name of the taxi driver who collected Harry and me from the airport, what feels like a hundred years ago. As I take in his little hunched frame and basset-hound droopy eyes, I remember him subjecting us to his Best of the Eighties cassette tape all the way from the airport to Casa Hamaca and feel a pang of nostalgia for that moment. When there were no secrets, no big decisions to be made… Harry and I had been nothing more than another couple of tourists, standing on the brink of a new adventure.

The blank expression on Rodrigo’s face confirms as much. He has absolutely no idea who I am.

‘You picked me up from the airport a few weeks ago, with my boyfriend… never mind. How do you…’ I glance from him to Sebastian, wondering at the sheer coincidence.

‘Rodrigo is one of our trusted drivers, he’s been helping out the embassy for many years.’ Sebastian claps the old man on the shoulder, then turns to mutter to me, ‘Once you get past his proclivity for eighties love songs, he’s one of the best people I know.’

‘At your service, señorita,’ Rodrigo nods at me.

We don’t leave for another hour. Samuel insists we all sit down to chocolate cake and steaming mugs of strong, sugary black coffee before beginning the journey back to Quito. I keep sneaking glances at Sebastian, wondering at how incongruous he looks in the rustic, jungle setting, even in casual jeans and a T-shirt, his tall, athletic frame folded into the narrow wooden bench on the balcony where my father and I were sitting only minutes previously. I drink in his striking profile as he smiles and makes easy conversation with Samuel and my father, switching effortlessly between languages. On one occasion I don’t glance away quickly enough and he catches my eye, flashing me a sudden warm smile back. Tamia giggles.

Finally, Rodrigo starts clearing his throat and muttering things about traffic. We apologise profusely to Samuel for cancelling our reservation, and my father gives him with a generous tip.

By the time my father, Sebastian, Lewis and I have piled into Rodrigo’s old Hyundai, Mindo is in complete darkness and the sound of nature all around us has intensified. The hum and chatter of a thousand different insects and birds surrounds us as we wind down the windows and call out our goodbyes. Then another sound, loud and rhythmic, rises over the rest – the sound of a drum beat closely followed by a large number of human voices. As we reach the end of the main street to leave the town, a stream of people rounds the corner towards us, all walking slowly in unison and singing in low, cadenced voices.

The Day of the Dead march! My father and I twist round in our seats to watch in fascination, as Rodrigo slows the car to walking pace as we pass. The procession is made up of over a hundred people of all ages – fathers and sons, grandmothers and granddaughters, teenagers, middle-agers and even some people leading dogs on leads. They’re not dressed in fearsome skeleton masks and elaborate costumes as I’d imagined when Samuel told us about this, but just in normal clothes, jeans and jumpers and some woolly hats to protect them from the newly arrived evening chill. The first ten or so people are carrying candles, illuminating the movement of their faces as they all sing along to a song or hymn I do not recognise. At the very front, held up on the shoulders of two men, is an ornate, gilt-framed painting of the Virgin Mary.

‘Today is actually a very religious festival,’ Sebastian explains, as we leave the procession behind and gradually pick up speed again. ‘A time to remember our loved ones who have gone, and pray for them on their next path. Even though it actually began long before Christianity reached this part of the world.’

I turn to watch the last bobbing lights of the procession fade from view, knowing I will never forget the sight of so many families and neighbours walking together to spend one evening in the company of their departed loved ones. I look at my father and see my own enthralment mirrored in his face, feeling a sudden pique of conscience at the fact that I haven’t even been able to get along with one of my closest living relatives until a few hours ago. Without saying a word I reach forward to the front seat and squeeze his hand.

Nobody speaks for the next half an hour or so of our journey, but we sit in tired, companionable silence as the car judders and bobs along the uneven roads leading out of Mindo. I leave my window half down and enjoy the cool breeze on my face, looking up at the impressive starscape twinkling to life above the thick forest of palm and banana trees. Then, once we’ve navigated the narrow roads leading out of the town and joined the motorway, Rodrigo solemnly leans forward and presses a button, inundating the car with the opening notes of ‘Eye of the Tiger’.

‘Nobody mind music, no?’ He diverts his eyes from the road for several heart-stopping seconds to twist in his seat and address Sebastian and me in the back, then my father in the passenger seat. It is clear the question only has one acceptable answer.

***

I wake up feeling the car slow to a halt and something hard and plastic digging into the side of my head. A wet nose nuzzles against my cheek, and I open my eyes to see Lewis’s face inches from mine and his tail thumping frantically against the seats in front. Rodrigo’s car radio is thankfully silent now, and soft snores emanate from my father’s seat. Sitting up and pulling the seatbelt holder out of the way I realise shamefully I’ve been asleep with my head on the seat, inches from Sebastian’s lap.

‘We’re just coming in to Quito,’ he says from somewhere to my right. I can just make out his silhouette looking out of the car window, and feel thankful he can’t see my blushes or the dribble I hastily wipe from my mouth as I sit up.

‘Next stop, Royal Colonial Suites hotel?’ Rodrigo asks over his shoulder.

‘Yes, that’s right – Dad, wake up!’ I nudge him gently on the shoulder, feeling a jolt of some unidentifiable emotion as I realise what this means. We have to leave Dad in the hotel, and his flight is tomorrow. I don’t feel ready to say goodbye yet… but even so, I think of all the hopeful plans I had been making for his return to Quito, and can’t help but laugh to myself. Instead of an elaborate dinner at a fancy restaurant, or a museum tour of the city centre, we had spent his last day in Ecuador sitting on a wooden bench by a river, talking. And, I realise now, actually I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Sebastian gets out to help my father with his bags, and has to ring the hotel reception buzzer three times before they open the gate. Inside the courtyard is buzzing with life, a quartet of Mariachi singers wearing skeleton ‘Day of the Dead’ masks are playing lively guitar music in the corner, with wreaths of coloured paper lanterns, strung up among the fairy lights, twinkling from the palm trees. The tables are filled with hotel guests having late dinners or early cocktails, laughing and applauding the Mariachis.

‘I’ll phone you tomorrow? Before I leave for the airport?’ There’s a sort of imploring tone to Dad’s voice.

I reach up and hug him.

‘Of course. Now go inside – and no wild partying with the other guests, please.’

Dad laughs and squeezes me tightly back. ‘I’m going straight to sleep.’ He steps back and looks down at me seriously. ‘Honestly, thank you for everything. For going all the way to Mindo, for understanding about Dorice, for…’

‘Yeah, yeah…’ I punch him lightly on the arm. ‘We’ve already established that you owe me twenty-eight years’ worth of decent Christmas presents and lunches out. So, let’s start tomorrow.’

Dad squeezes my arm, then lifts his backpack on to his shoulder and turns towards the hotel. ‘We will, I promise.’

I can feel Sebastian looking at me as I climb wearily back into the car beside him.

‘All okay?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say lightly, resting my hand on Lewis’s head where he has now climbed up on to the seat and is curled up meekly in between us. I can’t begin to explain to Sebastian what my father and I have been through in the past day, or my feeling of quiet hope that our relationship has taken on a new trajectory. Nor can I even begin to dissect the mixture of emotions running through me, knowing I will see Harry again very shortly, after how we left things. But smiling weakly back at Sebastian, something in his expression tells me he understands all this.

We drive on in silence, and I watch the lights of Quito flash past as we head south to Liza and Roberto’s house. Then Rodrigo flicks his trusty tape-deck to life again, and the crooning overtures of Elton John fill the car.

Can you feel… the looooove tonight? He beseeches us. As would any other person in the world of a certain generation, I think of The Lion King. Rodrigo turns around briefly with a wicked grin and smutty laugh. There’s a soft thud as Sebastian rests his head against the car window, muttering what I think is ‘Oh, Christ’.

By the time we arrive at Liza and Roberto’s house we have been serenaded with ‘Is This Love?’, ‘The Greatest Love of All’ and, Rodrigo’s grand finale, for which he turns up the volume several notches, Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s ‘Power of Love’. Rodrigo pulls up outside the house, and we have to sit awkwardly waiting for the very last notes to die away before it’s possible to speak.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say, feeling suddenly guilty at all Sebastian has done to help my father and me in the short time we’ve known each other.

Through the dull light of the street lamps outside I see him smile widely. ‘It was a pleasure, honest. Nice to get out of Quito for a bit.’

Sitting in the back of the taxi next to Sebastian in my mud-stained clothes, I can’t help feeling like I have been on a very bizarre date. And right about now would be when we kiss, I think irrationally.

Seeing that I show no signs of getting out of the car, Rodrigo wordlessly turns the ignition off.

Summoning up courage I lean over Lewis to peck Sebastian on the cheek. But before my lips can make contact with their target, something makes me freeze. The light is on in our apartment, clearly visible up ahead above the rest of the house in darkness. This in itself would be nothing strange, but through the half-open slats in the blinds I can see a figure that is unmistakably Harry’s, and just in front of him there is someone else. Shorter, slimmer, the silhouette of a woman.

In the split second it takes me to register all this I reach out to stop myself on my trajectory towards Sebastian’s cheek, and grab hold of Lewis’s fur. The dog yelps and jumps on to the floor, my hand continues forward and lands on Sebastian’s thigh.

‘Oh my God!’ I cry and jump back, simultaneously cracking my elbow on the car door. Lewis starts going crazy and trying to jump up and lick my face, Sebastian pulling him back on to the floor by his collar, laughing.

‘Oh dear… down boy! Are you okay?’

‘Yes… God, I’m sorry… I just thought…’ I turn to look back up at the apartment. The light is still on but both figures have gone from the window.

‘Okay… good. Because actually I wanted to tell you something.’

I’m aware Sebastian is talking to me, but my brain is too busy noticing other things about the house, a series of little alarms pinging in my head at each one. The strange car parked outside just ahead of us – who would Liza and Roberto know that drives a purple VW Golf convertible?

‘The thing is, I’m leaving on Monday for a training course, in Colombia.’

The garage door – it’s wide open. They never leave it open. Roberto always goes down and checks it right before going to sleep, sometimes several times.

‘It’s for three weeks. And I might stay on afterwards to do some sightseeing. I mean, it depends. Will you still… be around here, then?’

I turn to look at Sebastian, aware he has asked me something but unable to think of anything other than that unmistakably female figure, standing upstairs in my living room, and the realisation that this could, finally, be the answer to all my suspicions about Harry.

‘I’m sorry… got to go. There’s a… something has…’ Already fumbling for the door handle, I turn and give Sebastian what I hope is my best apologetic smile. ‘Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you for everything – thank you, too, Rodrigo – bye!’ I grab my backpack and throw myself out of the car.

I run the short distance to the house, dimly aware of Sebastian calling my name, then the car ignition starting up. I don’t slow down, and take the steps to the upstairs apartment two at a time, adrenaline racing through me. The door is closed but not locked and I hesitate for just a second, sensing on some deep, instinctive level that what I find on the other side will blast my whole world to pieces. Then I fling it open.

Standing before me, looking up to meet my eyes in startled surprise, is the mirror-image, identical, eight-year-old version of Harry.

***

His eyes are different, a light hazelnut brown instead of Harry’s clear blue. And his skin has a warmer tone to it, a soft caramel, the colour Harry would turn if he spent enough time in the sun. But the thick shock of dark golden hair is unmistakably, hauntingly the same. The parting that never quite lies flat. The long, straight nose and high forehead and good cheekbones. I stand frozen to the spot and just stare and stare and stare.

Even the angle of his shoulders sends a chill down my spine as he steps hesitantly forward to shake my hand, stepping back again quickly like someone scalded. The feeling of his hand, small and cool and soft, stays seared on to mine as if he had not let go.

‘This is Nicholas,’ A woman’s voice says quietly somewhere to my left, cutting into the silence.

For the first time I become aware of the other people in the room. The owner of the voice – the woman from the window – small and slender with long black hair pulled back in a plait, standing to my left by the breakfast bar. And Harry, at the opposite side of the room, staring at the floor and looking as if he is about to throw up.

‘And I’m Lorena,’ the woman perseveres, her voice tight. She steps forward and offers her hand to me, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else in the world but here. ‘We were just leaving, it’s far too late for Nicholas to be up…’

I take her hand but can’t tear my gaze away from Harry and the boy. Nicholas. I look from one to the other, mesmerised. It’s like stepping into some sort of twisted This Is Your Life episode that shows you what your children would have looked like.

Bile rises up my throat, and I feel my legs backing away and carrying me from the room before my brain fully registers that I’m going. I fumble for the door and trip down the steps. I hear voices calling somewhere behind and above me, and scrabble frantically for the lock to the door, the cold air of the street hitting my face and a strange rushing sensation filling ears.

Then I faint.

‘Kristie…’ A woman’s voice is murmuring in my ear. I become dimly aware of a hand lightly resting on my shoulder, and the warmth of another body pressed against mine.

‘No, don’t get up, just keep your head there…’ The hand moves to the back of my head and gently pushes it back down between my knees. I open my eyes and see a pair of pink flip-flops next to my muddy trainers, illuminated by the streetlight beside us. The woman’s toenails are painted a silvery colour.

‘How old is he?’ My voice sounds strangled and unfamiliar.

‘Listen, Kristie, I—’

‘How bloody old is he?’ I raise my head and meet the eyes of the woman sitting beside me, noticing with vague surprise that they are brimming over with tears.

‘Nine.’

The mental arithmetic takes me less than a second. I slump my head back against the concrete wall behind us. ‘I’m such an idiot.’

‘Listen…’ Lorena begins cautiously. ‘Harry didn’t know. Not for years.’

She speaks English very well, I find myself thinking distractedly, irrelevantly. Just a light accent.

Lorena takes a deep breath, perhaps psyching herself up to continue. ‘We met when he was a traveller, just passing through, and I was at college. He signed up for a city tour with my family’s company, and I met him sitting in reception. I couldn’t help it, it was one of those instant chemistry things…’

I wave my hand, trying not to gag, not wanting to hear details but at the same time needing to know everything.

‘What do you mean, your family’s company?’

Lorena blinks at me, perhaps wondering why I have chosen to hone in on the one piece of irrelevant information from everything she’s told me.

Except, to me, it’s not irrelevant.

‘Your family owned a travel agency?’ I persist.

‘Yes… my parents did, now I’ve taken it over… why does that…?’

I’m already shaking my head, feeling even more sick, remembering the night Harry tried to convince me I was imagining things, that his secret phone call had been to a travel agent, arranging a surprise trip away… the guilt I’d felt for ever suspecting Harry. The young voice answering the phone when I called back. My mum handles all that.

Nicholas.

‘Anyway, we started going out,’ Lorena continues, oblivious to the concentrated effort I am making to stop myself from vomiting on the pavement in front of us. ‘He had dinner at my house a few times, I showed him around the city. But I always knew he was leaving – he had a flight to Argentina, then after that he was starting university in England. I was sad when he left, of course. But we were so young. We both always knew what it was.’ She fiddles with the end of her long plait, pulling the hairband out, twisting it around and around her fingers in an endless nervous gesture. ‘But then I did a positive pregnancy test.’

My mind whizzes back through time and space to when I first saw Harry, stepping into our Spanish classroom with his inappropriate clothes and scraggly hair, confident smile, carefree attitude to everything. How long after his travels in South America was that? Six months? A year? I can’t remember the exact order of Harry’s life events before we were together. But I knew he went to Australia for a while before finally starting university. So, most likely at that very moment, unbeknownst to anyone, the course of events that has led us to this evening was already set in motion. It had already happened… Harry was already a father.

Lorena stares blankly out at the road before us, also transported back to another place and time long ago.

‘Luckily my parents supported me completely. They let me stay at home, stay in college. I had been a good student up until then… there were only a few months to go before graduation. I wore a long robe, but it was still obvious to everyone.’

I turn to stare at her, feeling a confusing mixture of emotions towards this woman. Jealousy, sympathy, resentment…

‘I made the decision right away not to tell Harry. What would have been the point? I knew he wasn’t coming back. He had told me all about his family, his father’s business, his university plans. And I didn’t want him to think I was asking for anything.’ She juts out her chin defiantly. ‘It was only much, much later, when Niko started asking about his father, that I finally realised Harry should at least be told. I owed my son that much. Of course it was up to Harry what he wanted to do with the information… and I didn’t promise Niko anything. But for his sake I felt I had to at least try. He was old enough by then to express his wishes… and he was determined he wanted to know more about his dad.’ She stops, twisting her hair around her fingers again, frowning out into the dark street. ‘I didn’t even know whether the message got through. I just had one email address. I had no idea what had happened to Harry or what he’d done with his life since he left here.’

‘How long ago was this?’ My voice is barely more than a whisper. ‘When did you tell him?’

‘Last year. Easter Sunday. I’ll never forget it. I’d had the email drafted up for ages, but… it took me until then to press send.’

My mind goes spinning back again, frantically trying to remember where we were, what Harry had been doing then, when it was that things started to turn strange between us. Was there a correlation?

‘He didn’t reply,’ Lorena whispers, answering my unvoiced question. ‘I spent a few weeks nervously checking my email every five minutes, then gradually went back to normal. I told Niko I simply hadn’t been able to trace his dad and we had to leave it there. He’s generally a happy kid… I think he was just getting to an age where they start to ask questions, you know? Especially looking like he does… so blond, different to all his friends here.’

Lorena barely seems aware of my presence any more as she loses herself in the recounting of her story. ‘I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing… not trying harder to find Harry. I knew there were ways to trace people if you really put your mind to it. But I met someone and got married three years ago. He treats Nicholas like a son. I was terrified of upsetting the delicate balance of that… our little family…’

She turns to me now, as if remembering I am here. ‘I never expected Harry just to book a flight and come out here. Or for how he behaved when he arrived – to be honest, he got a bit crazy. Phoning and emailing all the time. He even turned up at the house. And I was so angry to begin with… how could he ignore my email for over a year, then just decide to drop by, at his own convenience? I wasn’t sure I even wanted my son to meet someone like that.’

‘And then… you finally agreed to let them meet? This weekend?’ I don’t need Lorena’s answer. As she’s been speaking, all the missing pieces have been falling into place, piling on top of each other faster and faster like the end of a Tetris game. Harry, shouting down the phone in Spanish on our first day here. Harry, getting a job here and becoming increasingly vague about how long he wanted to stay, about our supposed travel plans. Harry, sitting outside a house in downtown Quito, his head in his hands. The repeated Skype calls. The lies.

Then, most painfully of all, his reluctance to leave Quito to go with me and help find my dad.

Fury bubbles up inside me, forcing me to my feet.

‘Kirsty, wait!’ Lorena scrambles to her feet, too. ‘I was angry at first, and didn’t want him to see Nicholas – but then I realised. The reason Harry didn’t reply for ages, the reason for all his strangeness, was you. He finally decided he should see his son, because he was on the brink of getting married and starting a family – with you. It’s so obvious.’

I’m already backing away from her, back through the garage towards the house.

‘He was so desperate for you not to find out about Nicholas, because he was desperate not to lose you. He loves you, Kirsty.’

My foot is on the first step to go up to the apartment, but I whirl round and turn on her angrily. ‘If that’s true, then why is it YOU sitting here now, finally telling me the truth? Instead of Harry?’ And why did he never tell me the truth, any time over the last year?

I charge back up the stairs and crash straight into Harry on his way down.

‘Kirsty! I was just coming to look for you. Please, can we…’

I push past him without even replying and march straight into the living room, grabbing my backpack from the floor where it had slid from my shoulder, forgotten about, just moments earlier. Nicholas is sitting on the edge of the sofa playing with some sort of handheld device, seemingly oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him. I gape at him again for a few seconds, unable to help myself, then go into the bedroom and, with a grim determination, start gathering armfuls of clothes and shoving them into the bag.

‘Kirsty, come on, for God’s sake – please!’ Harry is hovering in the doorway, and I can see Lorena marching up the stairs behind him, calling for Nicholas to put the tablet away and get his coat on.

Not caring that the backpack won’t zip shut and half my belongings are still in the wardrobe, I turn to run back down the stairs again. Lorena and I pass at the top and our eyes meet for a fleeting moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, then I run past her back down the stairs and out into the street, flagging down the first taxi that passes.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘You’re going to have to get up, you know.’

I roll over and pull the pillow over my head to block out the rough Scottish accent rudely invading my sleep. ‘Go away,’ I grumble. ‘Please just let me—’

‘No! You don’t understand – we need you to man the bar. I am driving Gabriela to the hospital. She is having… what’s the word in English? Pushes.’

I haul myself on to my elbow and frown at Ray uncomprehendingly.

‘Contractions! Yes, that’s the word. She is having contractions. The baby is coming!’

I almost fall out of the bed in my haste to pull a jumper over my head and gather up the clothes I’d left strewn across the floor last night. I haven’t even seen Gabriela yet. I was let in last night by a half-awake Ray who took one look at my shocked, tear-stained face and gave me a room key, a towel and a long, cigarette-scented hug before going back to bed again. I dimly remember crawling under one of the classic Casa Hamaca brightly coloured blankets and shivering myself to sleep, images of Harry and Nicholas swirling before my eyes until they merged into one twisted, mutated figure that haunted my dreams.

Ray is practically bouncing on the spot with impatience. ‘Please, Kirsty, we need you to help downstairs – it is already full for lunchtime. And we cannot close today, it is nearly time for Fiestas de Quito – the big Independence Day party next weekend!’ Ray bounces a little on the spot in panic.

Lunchtime?

I grab my phone and see that it’s nearly midday. There are two missed calls from Sebastian and sixteen from Harry. I ignore all of them, pull some shoes on and follow Ray downstairs.

‘Barry will be here in an hour,’ he says over his shoulder, leading me at a trot down the wooden spiral staircase to the hotel reception. ‘He knows the ropes. And the kitchen staff will help you. We just need you to keep things running until then.’ Gaining momentum as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Ray sweeps through reception and into the bar and restaurant, me trotting to keep pace with him.

‘Menus, cutlery, glasses, mugs.’ He sweeps an arm in the general direction of some shelves. ‘This is the till. This button to open, just type in each amount manually, and if anyone wants to pay by credit card tell them to bugger off until mañana. Tell them there is a management emergency.’ Ray stops and runs his hands through his hair, and I glimpse the wild, terrified eyes of a man about to be cannon-balled into fatherhood.

I cast a nervous glance around the half-full restaurant, then rest my hands on his arms. ‘Leave it with me. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine… give Gabriela my love, and please phone as soon as there is any news.’ Ray stares back at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Now go – go! Get to the hospital.’

I have to push Ray towards the door and watch him almost trip over his untied shoelaces as he unlocks the car, where Gabriela is already waiting in the passenger seat, her head in her hands bowed low over her knees. I wave them off then turn to the task in hand.

The next two hours are spent relentlessly collecting plates of fish and chips and sandwiches from the hatch in the kitchen, printing off bills, taking money, and cursing Ray’s antiquated till as the drawer either refuses to shut or slams closed on my fingers. Throwing myself gratefully into the work, I squash the confusing hangover of emotions firmly down inside me and put on a welcoming smile. I don’t even notice when Barry arrives, but at some point realise the queue of food on the hatch has decreased and look over to spot the thick-set, silent man I recognise from my first night at Casa Hamaca, wordlessly depositing a platter of empanadas on a table at the back. He looks up, nods at me, then goes back to the kitchen hatch.

At some point the lunchtime rush dies down and I manage to escape back to my room to have a shower and change, wondering that none of the hotel guests or visitors has commented on the fact I served them their lunchtime panini with my faded hoodie on inside out. Just stepping back into the bedroom and taking in the chaos of discarded clothes brings back the events of last night with a wrench. Nicholas’s face swims before my eyes, its every detail so similar to Harry’s… the face I had loved for so many years.

Had loved.

And now, it turned out, the face that had lied openly to me so many times. Feeling a cloying nausea start to spread through me, I hastily get ready and run back downstairs and into the fray.

Barry collars me at the bottom of the wooden staircase. ‘Ray called. Says no news yet, he reckons it’s going to be a long night. He said they’ve just given Gabriela an epi…’ He trails off helplessly.

‘An epidural?’

‘Yeah. Think so. He said it’s fine for us to close up early. So last orders in two hours, okay?’

A mutiny threatens when we ring the last orders bell. Rowdy groups of locals and tourists alike have already started to break off into groups and begin loud, enthusiastic games of ‘forty’, a traditional card game that Barry explains to me is always played in the lead-up to the annual Independence Day festival in Quito.

‘Couldn’t Gabriela have held on until after the festival next weekend?’ he grumbles, tipping a smashed glass into the bin next to me and rolling his eyes at the cries of ‘Viva Quito!’ and ‘Long live Quito!’ from all around us.

I would have quite happily continued working until late, finding a strange comfort in the noise, the hectic back and forth and the friendly anonymity of serving drinks to a room full of people you will never see again. Anything better than going back up to my room alone, left at the mercy of my thoughts and the questions churning painfully through my mind… the greatest of all being what next?

But I help Barry shepherd people gradually towards the door, letting him handle the more boisterous ones and field the drunken objections with a stern ‘Landlady’s having a baby, all right? Now ‘op it!’

We wearily gather the last glasses from the tables and stack them along the bar in a queue for the dishwasher. Almost as soon as the last punter leaves I notice Barry’s eyes sliding towards the door as he shifts from foot to foot.

‘Get going, if you want,’ I say as casually as possible, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly desperate to be alone. ‘I’ll finish clearing up here.’

‘Would you mind?’ He turns to beam at me. ‘The missus has given me another chance… so I should be getting home, really don’t want to cock it up this time.’

I wave him off and lean back against the bar for a moment, watching as Barry saunters out into the night, breaking into a whistle as he heads home to his wife.

Tiredness suddenly overwhelming me, I peel myself away from the bar and lock the door behind him, then switch off the old stereo system at the wall, kick my shoes off and turn back to the pile of dirty glasses.

Then I hear the knock on the window.

I turn around slowly, already knowing it is Harry seconds before seeing his face pressed anxiously to the glass, pale against the gloomy street outside.

In a twisted perversion of that Ross and Rachel scene, the one that shaped a whole generation’s romantic expectations, I walk slowly to the door and slide back the lock, my eyes never leaving Harry’s. But instead of falling into his arms, I step backwards quickly holding my hands up.

‘I’ll listen to what you have to say, but that doesn’t mean…’

Harry doesn’t even hear me. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Your phone goes to voicemail, Ray and Gabriela aren’t answering, Liza doesn’t get back from visiting her brother until tomorrow…’ The words come out all in a rush. It occurs to me that he looks slightly deranged, one side of his hair standing up on end and his eyes bloodshot.

‘Ray and Gabriela went to hospital,’ I say flatly. ‘The baby’s coming.’

Harry doesn’t even seem to register this fact and turns back to me, wild-eyed. ‘I just want to talk to you. Explain things. I can’t believe you just ran away like that last night!’ His voice rises a pitch as he stares at me accusingly. ‘You didn’t even let me—’

‘Okay, Harry. Talk.’ I fold my arms and lean back against the bar.

He stops pacing and stares at me.

‘Go on, talk,’ I say again. A strange sense of calm, of inevitability, is slowly spreading through me. It makes me feel a little sick, as if knowing that whatever Harry can say to me will only take us one step closer to our inescapable end. But even as my stomach churns and my heart starts pounding faster, I keep my arms folded and my eyes fixed firmly on his.

‘Talk, Harry. Say what you have to say.’ Finally, after all this time.

Harry runs his hands through his hair and glances at me one more time, as if hardly believing me, then slumps down into one of the bar chairs with a long sigh.

‘You have no idea what I’ve been going through, Kirst. For such a long time.’ He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor now, his voice low, shoulders slumped. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to get an email one day, telling you that you have a son? One single email that can turn everything you thought you knew about your life upside down. I thought life had no more surprises for me – I’d done the travelling, had the adventures, been to uni, built up my career… I thought I knew what path my life was on. I was resigned to it. Then that email arrived…’

A bad taste has started seeping into my mouth. ‘Resigned?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry looks up at me earnestly. ‘You know. We’re at that age, aren’t we? I know you want to have kids. And fair enough. I mean, it’s what people do, isn’t it?’

I look at Harry, his blue eyes staring back at me totally absent of guile, and something clicks into place. Harry’s parents – the textbook marriage, the model home, the privately funded education and clearly mapped-out career path. He’s never known anything different. His life had only ever had one planned trajectory. It’s not something he wanted, not in the way I do. Or did. It’s just the ‘done thing’, another step up the ladder for him, devoid of emotion or excitement. I realise I’m shivering.

‘Then that email arrived, the news that simultaneously tore my world apart and gave me something to live for, to get excited about. For a while it totally consumed me. I stopped painting. I could barely concentrate at work. I stopped being… the same… with you. I know you noticed, Kirst.’ He hangs his head. ‘I tried to forget it and carry on as normal, so many times, but it was no good. I just had to know, I had to find Nicholas.’

Something to get excited about. The words stay ringing in my ears even as Harry gets to his feet again and starts walking agitatedly back across the room.

‘I felt so guilty, too.’ His voice cracks then. ‘How could I be thinking about starting a family with you, doing the right thing and being a responsible adult, when I had a son on the other side of the world who didn’t even know me?’ He turns round and paces back towards me, his eyes pleading with me to understand. ‘Can’t you see I just had to meet him, to find out, before I could move on to the next level with you?’

There it is again. ‘The next level.’ I’m transported back to the night Harry asked me to go travelling with him, the way he had implored and beseeched me to consider his idea, his promise that afterwards we would ‘level up’ or whatever other video-gaming analogy he had used to allude to having a family. As if it were my reward for going along with his crazy mission. His lies. Anger courses through me, caustic and boiling, the anger I have held back from Harry ever since we got to Ecuador, perhaps before.

‘But you fucking LIED to me!’ I yell. ‘All the way through. You lied and lied and lied. You made it sounds like we were going on this cool adventure, you convinced me to take a sabbatical from my bloody job, you sold the idea to me… I started getting all excited about going TRAVELLING, then we get here and – what happens?’ My voice is getting higher and higher and my legs start to shake. ‘You seem to forget all the plans we had, all the places we were going to see, you get a job and refuse to leave Quito. Then you have the nerve to try to convince me that I’m the one going mad – the weird phone calls, waiting until I go out to use Skype, disappearing into town on your own – then telling me I’m the one being paranoid because I’ve been spending too much time with PRISONERS!’ Tears are pouring down my face now, and through them I can just make out Harry staring at me with what looks like a mixture of amazement and outright terror. ‘And speaking of the prison,’ I sniff, ‘do you know what I think is ironic? In just two visits to a prison I met people who are more honest and trustworthy than the man I was sleeping next to every night! The person I was supposed to have a future with.’ I turn away from Harry and lean against the bar, burying my face in my hands, letting all the anger and frustration flow out in noisy wet sobs.

Harry hovers behind me, placing one hand on my shoulder, then taking it away again. Finally, he holds out one of the table napkins and tries to press it into my hand.

‘Babe, please don’t—’

‘Oh, just let me cry for a moment, can you do that?’ I wave him away, feeling slightly mad. Distraught, relieved, and weirdly on the brink of hysterical laughter. ‘Don’t you think I deserve just to have a fucking good cry?’

He backs away again, sitting down, looking at the floor.

I blow my nose messily into the tissue and swipe it over my eyes, glimpsing the wildness of my reflection in the window behind Harry’s head, and really not caring. Tears still brim over my eyes and cloy my voice as I sit down in the chair next to Harry. I can feel him glance at me nervously, waiting for me to speak.

‘The thing you don’t seem to have realised, Harry, is… I would have understood.’ I keep my eyes fixed on the window, watching the mottled shapes and flickering lights of the street outside. ‘If you had confided in me from the start, talked to me, told me about Nicholas… for goodness’ sake, we bought a house together! Do you trust me so little?’ Harry tries to speak, but I hold up my hand, knowing somewhere deep inside that I owe it to both of us to say this, whatever happens next. ‘If you had only told me the truth… I would have found a way to support you, whatever you decided to do. We could have moved on from it.’

Harry looks up from the floor to stare at me. ‘But you wanted your own kids so much… surely it would have torn you up? Would you have forgiven me?’

‘Forgiven you a mistake? No – not even a mistake – an accident, something you didn’t know about, that happened years before we even met? Yes, of course.’ As I say the words out loud I realise for myself their undoubted truth, the answer to the question I have been asking myself over and over during the last twenty-our hours. If Harry had simply told me about Nicholas from the beginning, sat me down one evening, after receiving Lorena’s earth-shattering email, to tell me the truth… instead of cheating me into following him on a madcap journey to Ecuador… of course I would have stayed with him. Even if that meant things between us would always be a little bit worse.

As I realise this, a new feeling starts to swell inside me. Rising up past the anger and betrayal and sadness, is an unmistakable feeling of relief. I remember the certainty, the conviction I had felt when I told my father in the jungle that things weren’t the same between Harry and me. Even before knowing his secret. Before understanding the extent of his lies and betrayal.

A series of memories rears up before my eyes – Harry, rolling over and turning out the bedside light, not even letting me finish reading out the part of the guidebook I wanted to share with him. Quashing my excitement, dismissing my plans. Harry, criticising my interest in the prison and my desire to help Naomi. Harry and his endless string of excuses not to spend time with me, not to make an effort with my father, not to be a couple.

My mum’s time-old lecture rings in my ears, the one about sticking together through everything, about working at a relationship, about not becoming my father. I’d spent so much time listening to that, I’d stopped listening to myself. Stopped seeing what was right in front of me.

‘Listen, Kirsty, you have to understand,’ Harry continues, fidgeting and running his hands through his hair in anguish. ‘I just didn’t know what to do… I knew you wanted more from our relationship. You wanted a bigger commitment, plans… kids. I kept telling myself I was ready to give those things to you, but… every time, something just made me freak out.’ He grimaces and buries his head in his hands. ‘It’s so pathetic, I know. But I’d grown up in this… this… suburban normality. Marriage, house, kids. And I always felt there had to be more to life, something more exciting out there.’ Harry keeps staring at the carpet, tears streaking his face, oblivious to the expression of distaste I can feel spreading across mine.

‘Then I found out about Nicholas. As I said, it turned my world upside down… if I’m honest, Kirsty, it breathed life into me again. It gave me something to strive for. I became obsessed. All I could think about was planning how and when I would meet him. That meant deceiving you, and for that I’m… I’m so sorry. And now I’m here, I’ve done it, all I feel is… even more empty and lost than before.’

At some point during his speech I realise I’m not really listening any more, but am searching Harry’s face for any vestiges of the man I once fell in love with. The man who I couldn’t believe asked me out at university. Who laid out a carpet picnic with candles the first day we moved into our new house, making me giddy with happiness even though we had no furniture or money or cutlery. Who smiled back at me from halfway up a hillside in Devon, hair blowing everywhere and eyes full of love, as I took his picture.

The face beside me now is the same. The messy, sandy-blond hair and greyish blue eyes, apart from a few more crinkles around the edges, are all the same.

But looking at him tonight, I feel absolutely nothing. Closely following the nothing is a creeping, profound sadness that all I felt before has gone. Then, behind even that, a new, unfamiliar feeling of… freedom.

‘Listen…’ Harry speaks again, his voice fainter. ‘Is there any way we can move past this… you can forgive me?’ With vague dismay I notice tears spilling out of the corners and oozing fatly on to his cheeks. ‘Because… you’re all I know, Kirsty. And I really don’t want to lose you.’

He frowns down at the stained pub carpet as if this realisation has only just come to him.

I take a deep breath and prepare myself to say the words that have been swelling, gaining momentum inside me for days now.

‘Actually… you already have.’

He lifts his gaze from the floor and stares at me in horror.

‘What do you mean?’

I release the breath, an unexpected feeling of peace filling me.

‘I mean, I was going to break up with you anyway.’ I stop, and let the words sink in – my own ears tingling in disbelief at their boldness. Harry gawps at me, his mouth opening and closing unattractively.

‘But – surely you can’t mean—’

‘Yes, I had already decided to break up with you even before I met Nicholas.’ The voice speaking does not sound like my own. It sounds better, firmer, more confident. ‘All you achieved yesterday by revealing your secret was… giving me closure.’

‘But – Kirst – wait! How can you… how can you be so…?’ Harry flails for the right words, casting his eyes wildly around the bar as if they will be found inside the coffee machine or behind the rum and vodka optics.

I stare back at him coolly. ‘There was no sabbatical, was there?’

Harry gapes at me, his mouth still slightly open, perhaps wondering why I am choosing to fixate on this particular detail of the entire mess we are in. Even now, he doesn’t understand.

‘From your job at the Academy? You didn’t take a sabbatical. Did you?’

He takes several moments to answer, and when he does, he’s staring at the carpet again. ‘They said I could reapply next year. They promised they would consider my application favourably.’

Silence falls between us, expanding to fill the room and make the space between us seem larger.

‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’

‘I think you should leave now.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next few days pass in a blur. Gabriela comes home, exhausted and radiant, bearing her baby daughter. Little Isabella is tiny and perfect and spreads a tornado of dirty laundry and nappy-changing paraphernalia throughout Casa Hamaca and its facilities.

I do what I can to help, trailing behind Ray and Gabriela to pick up dropped cardigans and socks and empty overflowing nappy bins. They’re too sleep-deprived and besotted even to really notice I’m there, let alone ask me about Harry or how long I want to stay, and that suits me just fine. I have my own plans to be getting on with.

The hotel and bar remain closed. Ray pulls the blinds down and sticks a scribbled sign in the front window saying simply ‘closed until Independence Day’. Its apocalyptic undertone makes me laugh, and Ray sleepily explains that each city in Ecuador has its own independence date, rather than a big, all-American, fourth-of-July-style national day. The Ecuadorians clawed back their independence from Spanish rule gradually, city by city, liberating themselves one piece at a time. Something about that makes me smile, and realise I have more in common with Ecuador than I had ever imagined.

Quito’s very own Independence Day is next Friday, and through the shuttered windows I glimpse the world outside already coming to life and transforming itself into a sea of banners, bunting and balloons in the royal blue and true red and of the city’s flag.

The local tourist population is outraged at the sudden closure of one of its main drinking spots at this important time. After an unshaven, semi-deranged Ray has already shouted at several hopeful punters to ‘bugger off’ from a top window, I take charge of public relations, fielding enquiries from impatient tourists waiting outside the front door, phoning reception, and, in the case of one particularly ambitious Australian backpacker, bum-sliding down the back wall and knocking expectantly on the kitchen window.

We remain inside, under siege, each of the three of us gradually coming to terms with our new reality.

To anyone on the outside it may look like we are hiding. But I, in fact, am using this precious time out from the world, this suspended reality, to do something very important. Several things, actually. Every possible moment not spent answering enquiries or cleaning up in the wake of Ray and Gabriela’s sudden launch into parenthood, I spend on the computer. The desk in my little room at the back of the hotel soon becomes a colourful medley of scribbled notes and lists, maps and leaflets, wedged in among and underneath empty coffee cups and uneaten sandwiches. Somewhere at the back of my mind I know this level of disorder is very unlike me, and at some point I’ll have to clean it up – but right now I’m on too much of a mission to care. Everything else can wait.

Only when, on about day two or three, the poor ancient laptop borrowed from Gabi exhaustedly splutters up a message telling me ‘tab limit reached’ and grinds to a standstill completely do I sit back for a moment, stretching, and allow myself to feel satisfied with what I have achieved. Now it is just a case of waiting.

At that moment there is a knock and Ray appears, bleary-eyed, in the doorway. He looks momentarily horrified at the chaos surrounding him, with me sat, grinning, in its midst.

‘Er…’ His eyes flick to me, then to the overflowing desk, then back to me again. Then he shrugs. ‘Liza and Marion are here. You should come down.’

I take a few moments to make myself look as presentable as possible in the circumstances, acknowledging that I really must shower this afternoon whatever happens. Then I trot downstairs after him.

Liza, Marion, Ray and Gabriela are sitting around the big dining table in the restaurant kitchen, which is piled high with Tupperware containers of food and a big knitted bag overflowing with baby clothes.

Everyone stops talking abruptly as I appear in the doorway, and four faces turn to look at me in unison, smiling exaggeratedly.

‘Kirsty!’ Marion exclaims, her voice strangely high. ‘How lovely to see you. You’re looking… well.’

‘Er… hi.’ I make my way around the table, greeting them in turn with the usual cheek-kiss, and making appreciative noises at the containers of lasagne, tortillas, roast chicken and empanadas filling the table.

‘We wanted to stop by and bring you something to eat,’ says Liza sternly. ‘As heaven knows what you’ve all been living on for the last week since Isabella arrived.’

It’s been a WEEK?

I realise with a vague sense of surprise that I haven’t seen or heard from Harry since he disappeared from this very room, at my request, seven days ago. And I haven’t minded that, either.

‘Shall we get the kettle on, then?’ Marion turns to Liza, still speaking with the strange, over-cheery tone she had used to greet me. ‘These two look like they could do with a cup of tea.’ She indicates Ray and Gabriela.

Liza nods and starts bustling about with cups and saucers, while Marion doesn’t budge, still staring at me. ‘Now, how about we go out for a nice walk, hey, Kirsty? Get some fresh air? Would you like that?’

I notice her exchange a subtle glance with Gabriela, and suddenly realise what is going on.

‘Thanks, Marion, but actually I’m fine here just having a cup of—’ I start to sit down at the table beside Ray.

‘It’s perfectly normal, you know,’ Marion suddenly blurts, reaching out to take my hand in hers, and squeeze it tightly. Another exchanged glance with Gabriela, then Liza. ‘When I first lost my John, I spent days at a time just sitting indoors playing Gem Buster Royale online. Signed up to international tournaments and everything. I got quite addicted. Only afterwards my bereavement therapist told me it was quite a natural reaction – a coping mechanism – and all part of the grieving process.’

‘And a relationship ending is a grieving process in its own way,’ Liza declares, reaching over and plonking a steaming cup of tea on the table in front of me. ‘But the important thing to remember, Kristie, is that you’re not alone in this.’ She stands behind Marion with her arms folded, as if daring me to contradict her. ‘We are all here for you and we are going to help you get over it.’

In the end, I humour them. I sit back helplessly and let Liza serve me an enormous plate of lasagne, refusing to allow me or Gabriela to leave the table until we have each finished our food, Marion bustling off to change little Isabella’s nappy when she wakes up in the next room. It seems easier this way than trying to explain to them how I am really feeling, to try to voice the emotions I haven’t even fully registered myself yet… the realisation that, actually, I am fine. More than fine.

At the back of my mind I know I will have to return to England and face Harry again at some point, to begin the systematic disentanglement of our lives – cancelling the standing orders, un-jointing the joint account, selling the house… an unappealing but necessary task, like putting the bins out. I also know that the time will come, in my not-so-distant future, when all that will be over and there will be nothing but a blank page of opportunity before me. Maybe, at some point, Harry and I will even be friends. But right now, as impossible as it is for me to explain to Liza, Marion and the others, all that is the last thing on my mind.

Half an hour later, when we are all sitting in contented silence, full of lasagne, and Marion has brought a clean and changed Isabella in to rest in Gabriela’s arms, Marion’s phone rings. She turns away to take the call, her face breaking into a smile.

‘Well, of course! Yes, come on by.’ She flicks a glance at me. ‘Yes, she’s here. Yes, I’m sure she would. Okay, see you shortly.’

She turns to beam at me. ‘Kirsty, someone is on their way who I think you would love to see. Someone who I know will not fail to cheer you up.’

For a fleeting, hopeful second, I think of Sebastian.

But the person who comes bursting through the kitchen door less than five minutes later in a clatter of high heels is none other than Naomi.

Her presence fills the room in a way I remember from the prison. As she flings herself at Gabriela in an enthusiastic hug, squealing in delight at the tiny Isabella, I find myself mesmerised by her energy. She seems even more vibrant and vivid out here in the real world, like in certain black-and-white films where one character is suddenly transformed into Technicolour. As she hugs everyone in turn then comes over to me, I find myself squeezing her back just as tightly and exclaiming absurdly, ‘But what are you still doing here!’

‘My flight’s tomorrow.’ Naomi’s smile is radiant, contagious, winning over her whole face.

‘And your dad…?’

‘Hanging on. I spoke to him today… well, sort of. He’s in and out of consciousness, but…’ She stops and takes a breath, collecting herself. ‘I’m literally going straight from Heathrow to the hospice once I get there.’ Something in her face changes and her eyes well up with tears. ‘Mum and the kids are meeting me at the airport. I’m physically ITCHING to see them, you can’t even imagine…’

‘It’s so amazing that your paperwork has all been sorted so quickly,’ Gabriela exclaims. ‘Only a week after your hearing… mine took longer than that, and I wasn’t even leaving the country.’

‘I know, I’ve been so lucky. I think Sebastian has really pushed hard with the authorities to get me home quickly,’ Naomi beams. ‘Kirsty, are you okay?’

I realise my mouth is actually hanging open in astonishment. I turn to stare at Gabriela, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place. Memories flash before my eyes, suddenly making sense – the crumpled note Naomi had handed me inside the prison to give to her, and Marion’s reluctance to explain the relationship between the two women when I had asked her.

Gabriela looks back at me levelly, a slow smile spreading across her face. ‘You’ve only just figured it out, haven’t you?’ Her smile widens and warms at my blank expression. ‘I was in the prison. With Naomi. Well, I was there when she first arrived. You could say I took her under my wing.’

I’m stunned into silence for a few moments, unable to reconcile the dainty young woman sitting opposite me, wearing a Minnie Mouse nightie and holding her newborn daughter, with… a criminal?

‘Your face!’ Gabi giggles. ‘Is it that hard to believe?’

I think back to my visits to the prison, remembering my first experience of Naomi and her uncomplicated warmth, middle-aged Marta and her well-spoken, dignified politeness, lively Ariana working hard in the bakery and teasing Naomi in her thick Italian accent.

‘No, actually… I suppose it’s not.’

‘We’re going to get going,’ Marion whispers, squeezing my arm and reaching over to hug Naomi and Gabriela in turn. ‘Leave you girls to chat. We’ll pop back tomorrow – I daresay we’ll all be going to see Naomi off at the airport, right?’ She glances sternly at Liza, who has been listening to the last five minutes of conversation with delight, and shows no signs of leaving. ‘Come on, Liza. Let’s leave them to it. Bye, Ray.’

Ray, who has momentarily fallen asleep in his seat at the table, head lolling against his chest, jerks awake with a start and pushes his chair back. ‘Oh, yes, er, right – I’ll see you out. Then I’d better start getting things ready for reopening.’ He rubs his eyes and hauls himself to his feet.

‘Make sure you eat!’ Liza orders by way of goodbye, indicating the pile of Tupperware containers on the table. ‘I’ll see you all tomorrow.’

Once they’ve finally left, Gabriela, Naomi and I sit in silence for a moment. I think of the irony of it, three women of about the same age, each standing at the beginning of a whole new chapter. And Isabella, of course, who has miraculously remained asleep throughout everything. I turn to Gabriela, desperate to hear the rest of her story.

‘Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to be shocked when they learn of my… how can I say this in English? Shady past.’ She is still smiling in mild amusement. ‘It’s not something I go telling people when I first meet them, of course. Oh hi, nice to meet you, did you know I served four years in prison for smuggling cocaine up from Peru?’ She chuckles. ‘When I do tell people, I always hear the same thing – you don’t seem like that kind of girl.’ She pauses, suddenly serious. ‘But as you’ve probably learnt by now, Kirsty, there is no such thing. Anyone can make a mistake. Anyone can be deceived, or desperate, or just plain stupid.’

I remember my first visit to the prison and seeing the diverse throng of women, young and old, from many different countries, as they stood singing in unison to a God they all seemed to believe in.

‘It’s not something I’m proud of, obviously,’ Gabi continues, her eyes sliding away from mine to watch her daughter, still sleeping soundly in her arms. ‘I come from what Liza and Roberto would refer to as “a good family”. Which means, put bluntly, that they have money.’ She continues gazing at Isabella, gently stroking the soft tuft of hair across the top of her head. She stays silent for such a long time that I start to wonder if she is going to tell me any more at all. But then she continues, speaking slowly.

‘There was no excuse for what I did, no excuse at all.’

‘There never is, though, is there?’ adds Naomi, her face serious. ‘None of us has any excuse for what we did.’

‘No – you’re right,’ Gabi concedes. ‘But what I mean is, I didn’t have a boyfriend who tricked me into it. I wasn’t destitute or homeless or trying to escape an angry horde of Sicilian gangsters. I was, simply… eighteen, and bored.’ She looks up and her clear brown eyes meet mine. ‘I’d just finished school with good grades, and was all set to start university and study catering.’

‘So… why did you… I mean, how?’

‘I went travelling with a group of friends the summer before university. Peru, Bolivia, Chile, all by bus. We thought we were so cool, just grabbing our backpacks and leaving behind our nice homes to live like vagabonds for a few months. My parents thought it would be good for me – see something of the world, experience different cultures.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘All I will say is, it’s incredible the different types of people you meet, and the stupid things that can seem a good idea, after weeks of living from hostel to hostel.’ Gabi pauses. ‘Five of us girls went on that trip, and met a group of young men in Peru who offered us money to bring cocaine across the border into Ecuador. Three of us went through with it. And I was the only one who got caught.’

I stare at her. ‘And that’s it? You got caught coming back in to Ecuador, then… four years?’

‘Four years.’

Gabi gazes down again at the tiny little person cradled in her arms.

‘My family had no more to do with me, of course. My parents didn’t come to visit me in the prison, didn’t return my letters. I don’t think they could stand the blemish on their reputation,’ she continues matter-of-factly. ‘Besides, I have three other sisters who have degrees in medicine, chemistry and… some sort of agricultural crap.’

There is no resentment in Gabriela’s voice. In fact, she is smiling at the memory. ‘Liza and Roberto became kind of like adoptive parents to me. I got to know them when they came to visit their daughter, and they kept on writing to me even after…’ Her face clouds over.

‘You knew their daughter? Abigail?’

Gabi meets my eyes. ‘I shared a cell with her.’

I suddenly remember Sebastian’s words, she was found by another prisoner. I stare back at Gabi, but can’t find the words to ask.

‘They were there for me when I was released. Helped me look for jobs, wrote references for me, made sure I didn’t starve in the meantime. Eventually someone agreed to employ me, just a little café in the Mariscal area – you know, where we went on your first night here.’

My throat clenches at the sudden memory of Harry, on our first day here, misguidedly protecting me from an old woman selling cigarettes and chewing gum. How much I have learnt and how far I have come since then.

‘…and it was there that I met Ray. At first they seemed like just another gang of scruffy, hungover backpackers, trying to chat me up over their fried breakfasts. They sat at the very farthest table in the outdoor seating area and kept calling me over for trivial things, obviously thinking it was hilarious to make me walk all the way back over there then mutter dirty comments as I walked away again. They were so annoying.’ Gabi pauses and her voice changes. ‘But then, at the end of the day, I went back outside to clear up and Ray was still there, alone, fast asleep with his head on the table.’ Her face softens at the memory. ‘I asked him where he was staying, and he looked up at me with this forlorn expression and said he had no idea. Turns out he’d been drifting around South America for months, after losing his mum and dropping out of university, and being disowned by the rest of his family, who disapproved of the way he was blowing his inheritance. Between you and me, Ray was from a “nice family” as well.’ She laughs bitterly. ‘We were both dropouts in our own way. And… I know this is going to sound terribly cheesy, but… we saved each other.’

We sit in silence for a moment and I digest all Gabriela has told me, trying to imagine a young, lost Ray washed up at Gabriela’s feet, the two of them clinging to each other gratefully in the absence of family or any real friends.

They seem to have everything figured out now, I think wistfully, looking around the spacious kitchen and through to the pristine restaurant and bar, chairs stacked and glasses lined up ready to reopen in a few days.

Then I think of Liza and Roberto, their lives shattered into pieces at the loss of a daughter, yet still somehow finding enough love among the wreckage to reach out to another lost young woman and help her change her life. Not just one, I recognise, as I think of Liza’s kindness to me over the past few weeks and realise I may not have got through them without it.

‘Luckily I saved him just in time before he completely blew the inheritance,’ Gabi grins. ‘Three years later we opened this place, and worked hard to expand it gradually and build up a reputation. I don’t know where either of us would be now if Ray hadn’t chosen that table to fall asleep at that day. And I still feel so very lucky.’ She looks down at Isabella again, her eyes brimming with love, drinking in every molecule of her sleeping daughter.

‘Of course, not all of us is lucky enough to get out of prison and have a knight in shining armour waiting for us,’ Naomi chuckles, leaning back and kicking her feet up to rest on the chair opposite. ‘Oh, that reminds me!’ She jumps up again and starts rummaging around under her chair, finally pulling on to her lap a voluminous, red-patent handbag. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

She reaches into the handbag and pulls out a small, square package wrapped in brown paper with little antique globe maps stamped all over it. A wicked grin spreads over her face at the same time as my heart begins to thud faster in my chest.

‘So, I saw Sebastian yesterday…’ She holds the little parcel tantalisingly just out of my reach, obviously enjoying the moment immensely. ‘I had to go to the embassy so he could give me the last of my paperwork for my journey home. Can you believe I finally got my passport back? It made me feel like a proper member of society again at last…’

Get to the point, I find myself thinking selfishly.

‘…So, anyway, I also took it as a perfect opportunity to mention you,’ Naomi adds, her wicked grin widening.

‘What do you…?’

‘I told him about you and Harry splitting up,’ she continues, looking positively gleeful.

‘Naomi!’

‘And he asked me to give you – this.’

Finally she hands me the parcel.

I stare down at the careful wrapping, turning it over and feeling its pleasant heaviness, its rectangular solidity between my fingers.

‘Go on, open it!’ Gabriela urges impatiently.

‘He already had it there, on his desk, ready to give to you before I even told him about you and Harry,’ Naomi continues smugly, but I’m not really listening to her any more. With a will of their own my hands are ripping away the paper and scrabbling for the object inside. As the globe-printed paper floats to the floor revealing a section of smooth, unvarnished wood, my hands begin to tremble… as I already know what it is.

The delicate, painstakingly carved vine-leaf pattern captures my attention so much that at first I don’t even register the photo held within the frame. I run my finger over the intricate shapes, marvelling at how they bring out the natural swirls of colour within the wood, remembering how this frame had caught my eye for its simple beauty from the moment I saw it in the handicraft shop.

He remembered.

‘Oh, that’s such a gorgeous photo!’ Naomi exclaims, leaning over my shoulder to peer at my gift. ‘Is that your dad? And I recognise the carving – it’s one of Marta’s, right?’

I nod, unable to speak, staring at the photo.

Lewis is up on his hind legs with his paws resting in my lap, tongue lolling out cheekily, his whole face imploring to be fed something from the colourful array of food spread out on the table before us. My hands are buried in his fur and my head tipped back as I laugh openly, in the unselfconscious way that is only possible when you have no idea your picture is being taken. My father is to my right, just inside the frame of the picture, laughing too and looking sideways at me, his face glowing with an expression I don’t remember ever having seen on his face before.

I don’t look like me, at least not the me I see when I look in the mirror every day. I look happier, freer, completely swept up in the moment.

It’s perfect. The perfect photo. And I hadn’t even realised Sebastian had a camera on him that day.

‘Look, there’s a note, too,’ Gabriela murmurs, tugging a piece of paper from the back of the picture frame and handing it to me. ‘Open it, open it!’

I realise it may have been better to open the parcel later, in the privacy of my own room, but it’s too late now. Both girls are practically bouncing in their seats with excitement. I shakily unfold the note and read it out loud to them.

Dear Kirsty,

Before you ask, I paid triple for this. And I know Marta would love you to have it, after all you did for Naomi. Thank you again.

It was a real pleasure to meet you. More than you will ever know. I’m only sorry I won’t get to see you before you leave – as soon as Naomi is safely on her flight, I have to go to a training course in Colombia, and won´t be back until Christmas. From what I understand, you will have left by then. But I hope we can keep in touch… here is my email address.

Love,

Sebastian (and Lewis)

Even as I finish reading the words I feel an inevitable plunge of disappointment – he’s leaving Quito. Until the end of the month. I won’t see him.

But overlapping the disappointment is also a quiet, persistent thrill of excitement, a spark of future possibility. Just maybe, one day…

I scrape my chair back and clear my throat, addressing the open-mouthed, smitten expressions on the two faces before me. ‘Er, I’m just going to…’ I indicate the door. ‘Put this away.’

I stumble from the room, feeling somehow overwhelmed by Sebastian’s gesture and the joyful moment captured in the photo, suddenly unable to look at it for a moment longer. I climb the stairs to my room and throw open my bulging rucksack, ignoring the chaos of socks and T-shirts spilling from its innards. I look at the photo again, and the note, tracing my finger over every swirl and shape of Sebastian’s handwriting. Then I refold it and carefully tuck it back inside the frame again, before placing it inside a soft jumper at the very bottom of my rucksack.

I know I will get it out again, at some point in the near future, and reread it, probably several times… save the email address to my phone… perhaps even start writing an email. But right now, today, as I had promised myself – I have other things to do.

When I go back into the kitchen I see Isabella has woken up, and is making little gurgling, contented sounds from where she is cradled in Naomi’s arms. Naomi stands beaming down at her, swaying gently on the spot with the natural tenderness of someone who has done this before, many times.

She and Gabriela look up as I enter the room. ‘Hey, do you want to hold her?’ Gabi offers. ‘I don’t think you’ve even held her yet, have you?’

Only properly admitting it to myself now for the first time, I realise I have been keeping my distance from Isabella since her arrival, limiting myself to helping out with the practical side of things – washing, tidying, keeping an eye out. But on some level I have not let myself actually touch her, for fear of unleashing upon myself a tidal wave of emotion.

But now I take her in my arms, letting Naomi gently position her tiny, fragile head to rest in my hand, feeling the soft warmth and surprising weight of her little body. She looks up at me solemnly with twinkling, dark-grey eyes, and reaches out one minuscule hand to touch the bare skin of my arm. I hold her tightly against my chest and breathe in that unique, perfect, powdery baby smell, allowing myself to feel the familiar plunge of longing. I gaze down at her for I don’t know how long, lightly stroking the impossibly soft skin of her face, allowing various waves of emotion to crash over me, feeling a tear escape from the corner of my eye and fall on to her little pink cardigan.

Just maybe, one day…

Then, with great care and tenderness, I hold out my arms to Gabriela and hand her back.

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Did you know that Baltra Island is one of the most spectacular places in the world to land an aeroplane?’ the friendly Australian girl in the seat beside me says. ‘You can see the whole pacific ocean – look!’ I lean past her to peer out of the window, and drink in the beautiful scene spreading out below us.

The water is a deep azure blue, blending to a lighter jade green as it nears the rocky shore of our destination.

The island somehow doesn’t seem big enough for an aeroplane to land on it, appearing from this height to be no more than a small circle of inhospitable jet-black volcanic rock, surrounded on all sides by the vast expanse of striking turquoise water and frothy, dancing waves at its edges. But as we begin our gradual descent, signs of civilisation start to come into focus – dotted colours of buildings and a grey stretch of runway slowly growing in size as it rises to meet us.

Suddenly the captain’s voice crackles through the aeroplane’s stereo system, welcoming us to the Galápagos Islands and wishing us, only a few hours prematurely, a Happy New Year. As his voice fades out, the generic landing music switches to a fast-paced bouncing salsa beat, and two members of cabin crew stride down the aisle, cameras held out in front of them, filming, shouting ‘Last flight of the year – Quito to Baltra, Santa Cruz Island, Galápagos! Happy New Year!’

I find a cool glass of fizzy wine has been put in my hand and turn to see the rest of the passengers also raising their glasses in salute to the cabin crew, cheering and clapping and turning to hug each other.

It’s only late afternoon on the 31st of December but everyone on board has been in a festive spirit since we took off three hours ago – families and couples, and even the odd lone traveller like myself – bubbling with excitement at the thought of seeing in the New Year from one of the most naturally beautiful locations in the world.

I turn and chink glasses with the Australian girl, who also seems to be travelling alone.

‘Do you have plans for this evening?’ She stoops to rummage in her bag, and pulls out a colourful business card showing a photo of a floodlit hotel, framed by palm trees. ‘A group of us are going here tonight – it’s one of the island’s best bars, right on the beach. It should be great. It’s really popular with travellers, if you fancy joining us.’

‘Thank you.’ I smile warmly at her and take the card. ‘I just might.’

I deliberately haven’t made any plans beyond securing a booking at a beachfront hotel that, two months ago, I would have persuaded myself was too expensive. The open space and time stretching out ahead fill me with a thrill of freedom, knowing that, from the moment we land, whatever I do here will be my decision. Perhaps I will head along to – I glance down at the card – Iguana Falls Hotel and Bar, to join the beach party. But likewise I may choose to stay completely alone on my hotel balcony, with a cocktail or iced coffee in my hand, looking out to sea as the New Year dawns.

‘Baltra airport is actually on a separate little island, right next to Santa Cruz,’ the Australian girl – Michelle, I’ve learnt – continues. ‘Once we land we have to get a ferry across to the main island. Get your camera ready, as sometimes sea lions and turtles swim right up to the boat.’

Excitement swells inside me as the plane bumps down on to the runway and I join the eager throng of fellow tourists queuing for the door. We’re met by posters of manta rays and giant tortoises and gilded signs in English and Spanish welcoming us to the Galápagos Islands. As our bags are deposited one by one on to the clunky little baggage carousel, an Alsatian dog trots purposefully between them, sniffing and investigating each one under the close supervision of a man in heavy army uniform. For a second I think of Naomi and shiver, recalling our day in court and the story of the very different journey she began all those years ago from Quito airport.

Then the cool breeze and sound of gulls reaches me through the open doors to the world outside and I push that thought behind me, focusing on the new life that lies ahead for both of us with the advent of this dawning new year.

As I join the queue for immigration and pull my passport out from my pocket I can’t help staring down at it for a moment and remembering whose hands, only weeks ago, had printed these very pages. Suddenly Sebastian’s warm smile and twinkling green eyes fill my memory and cloud my vision, and I stand paralysed to the spot by a sudden jolt of longing, wondering where he will be spending this New Year’s Eve.

Then I remind myself that I will see him in just two short months when I return to Quito from my travels. So far we have only exchanged brief, tentative emails but I have told him of my plans to conduct a month’s paid work experience at the Public Defence Office in Quito. In his last email, which I have already opened and reread several times in timid anticipation, he has asked me to meet him for coffee once I am back in the city. Right now, I will have to contain my excitement and wait for that.

It had been wonderfully easy to arrange the work experience, once my mind was finally made up. One of the first things I did after Harry left Casa Hamaca – and my life – that night, was to email Dr Vélez and ask whether his offer of working for a short period in their offices still stood. I remember whipping open Gabriela’s old laptop and firing off the email before I could give myself chance to lose momentum or change my mind. He replied almost immediately, telling me he would be delighted to have me for whatever period of time I chose, and offering me the possibility of shadowing his work on several new cases. All that remained was applying for a work visa, and negotiating a start date. For the first time in years, I began to feel genuine excitement at the thought of my career, the possibility of doing something different and learning about a whole new area of my chosen subject.

That just left one more step… the one that had been tucked away at the back of my mind for so long, waiting to be taken.

After sitting in my little room at Casa Hamaca and submitting seven applications in short succession for the postgraduate Law Practice Course at different universities all across London and the South East, I finally sat back and accepted that what comes next is simply waiting. I won’t hear back from them just yet, as all the courses begin in September or October, with the selection process and interviews taking place in the first few months of this new year. But I surpass all the minimum entry requirements. With my undergraduate degree already gained, and several years of relevant work behind me – not to mention the international experience I will shortly gain in the Public Defence offices in Quito – I may even receive an unconditional offer from some of them. As I hit ‘send’ on the very last application, feeling exhausted but exhilarated, shortly before Gabriela’s laptop crashed in protest… all I could think was you should have done this long ago.

Even then, however, picking up the phone to Angela at Home from Home took me several attempts, as the voices of old doubts briefly filled my mind and held me back. What if you don’t get any of the university places, and can’t find another job afterwards? The fear of finding myself back in the UK with nowhere to live or work almost overwhelmed me. In the end, I realised only one person could help put my fears to rest.

‘Of course I’ll support you!’ my mother’s voice exclaimed warmly after I had explained my plan. ‘You can stay with us as long as you like – I’ll get the spare room ready now. Your sister will be back from uni in the summer but we’ll make space. I’ve been saying to Steve for ages that we need to get a new bed in that room. And you can go on my car insurance, I’ll phone them up now and get a quote…’ As she rambled on excitedly, I stopped really hearing her any more, instead finding myself staring at her little photo on the screen and suddenly wanting to dive into the computer to cross the distance between us and give her an enormous hug.

‘But… Mum, you do realise this means I’ll have to quit my job? And have no income for at least the whole year of the course… possibly longer, if I can’t get a job straight away afterwards?’ The feeling of mild panic at that prospect welled up inside me again. But Mum’s voice crackling out of the laptop speakers sounded different, firmer, and a million miles away from the anxious and fearful warnings I am used to hearing from her.

‘Listen, Kirsty, you already know you have to do this, or you wouldn’t have applied. Plus – I’ve been speaking to your father.’ Her new, businesslike tone reminds me for a fleeting, slightly terrifying second of Liza. ‘He made me realise several things. First of all, we are both really rather relieved that you and Harry have split up. Yes, I know it’s going to be hard for you, and there will be times when you will feel afraid of the uncertainty ahead. But your father helped me see that there has to be some level of risk involved if you are finally going to follow the career you have always dreamed of.’

Reeling, I hadn’t heard much beyond ‘I’ve been speaking to your father’.

‘So, er, you and Dad are… in touch, now then?’

‘In touch? Yes, we met for lunch the other day so he could show me all the photographs from his trip there. And we arranged to go to that Rolling Stones gig in Tunbridge Wells next week… we both always loved the Stones.’ She pauses for breath. ‘As friends, of course. I wouldn’t touch him with a barge-pole now, you know. He looks much older these days, doesn’t he? But anyway, we both fully support your decision.’

Well, that was that then.

In the end, Angela was very understanding when I told her I wouldn’t be returning to my job after the sabbatical. She even told me I could go back for a few months and work over the summer before starting my Law Practice Course.

‘And you never know, there may be a vacancy here when you finish – as a qualified solicitor,’ she adds, just as I’m about to hang up. ‘Nothing would make me happier – in fact, nothing has made me happier than this phone call.’

I think back to the cryptic message she gave me as I left my meeting with her, months ago before leaving for Ecuador… something about people following different paths to achieve their ambitions. I thank her profusely, grateful to have the option, but secretly doubting I will ever return to work anywhere near Fenbridge.

My sights are set on London.

As the airport doors slide open, a pleasant warm breeze tickling my face and the sound of the waves already audible in the distance, my focus turns back to the weeks and months ahead. Dr Vélez had wanted me to start straight away at the Public Defence offices, but I insisted on waiting two months… because I had already decided, almost from the moment Harry walked out of the bar that night, that there were even more pressing things for me to do.

Firstly, the Galápagos Islands. As soon as I agreed to come to Ecuador it was one of the places I yearned to visit, the first exotic location to be added to my wish list. But now, I’m going to do it my way – no pre-booked, all-inclusive cruises or luxury tours. Just a return flight from here, Santa Cruz, the most populated of the islands with the liveliest nightlife and tourist scene. I might spend a few days here before heading to Isabela, the largest island, famous for its snorkelling tours and wide open spaces of volcanic moonscape, perfect for long walks. From what I’ve been reading, all the main islands are easily connected by short motorboat trips, meaning the two-week period stretching out before me can be spent exploring each island at my leisure.

After the Galápagos, I’m catching a flight straight to Cusco in Peru to begin a four-day Inca trail hike, ending at the magnificent ruins of Machu Picchu. The next stop will be Lima, the capital, where I’ve already made contact with a national charity providing refuge for women who are victims of domestic violence, offering accommodation to volunteers in return for daily English classes to their clients. Even now, a dart of nerves shoots through me at the thought of standing up and trying to teach my language to a room full of women I’ve never met. But then I remember visiting the prison, and all I’ve achieved since, and ultimately Naomi’s memory spurs me on to go ahead with it. I’ve committed to at least three weeks there.

Finally, I will catch a flight to Canaima in Venezuela, to visit its much longed-for national park and finish up with a tour of the devastatingly beautiful Angel Falls.

From the peace and quiet of my room at Casa Hamaca I had carefully checked back through my travel folder, put together so many weeks ago and untouched ever since… I began looking up each place in turn and making the necessary bookings, one by one, slowly resurrecting the feelings of hope and anticipation I had felt when I began my long journey. Then, once everything was finally in place and booked, with an even greater feeling of triumph I took my travel folder downstairs to the industrial-sized wastebin outside the bar, and threw it away.

Stepping out of the airport doors, I follow the other tourists to the ferry boarding point, ready to cross the short stretch of turquoise water to the main island. I can’t help but marvel at my surroundings – the path leading from the airport is lined with soft, white sand, and lush reeds sway in the breeze where it joins the water. Birds of different colours and sizes circle overhead and swoop down into the ocean right in front of us, plucking shiny silver fish from the water before launching effortlessly back up into the clear blue sky. To my delight and amazement, a fat sea lion is lolling on the path right by the water’s edge, just feet away from the ferry, watching with interest as we all line up to board.

Completely mesmerised, I hand my suitcase to a member of ferry staff to be loaded into the hold without even taking my eyes off the animal, then I crouch in the sand to take its photo.

As the camera clicks, I hear someone behind me call my name.

Recognising the voice, but not daring to believe my ears, I very slowly straighten up to a standing position. I tuck the camera carefully back in my rucksack but don’t turn around, hardly even daring to breathe.

‘Kirsty!’

There it is again, unmistakable. My heart starts to pound.

I notice a few of the other passengers in line turn to look at me, wondering if I’ve heard. Then slowly, disbelievingly, I turn around.

Standing a short distance away from the rest of the passengers, wearing a white T-shirt, a pair of luridly bright Bermuda shorts, and a huge smile… is Sebastian.

The world spins slightly before my eyes as my consciousness catches up with what I am seeing. I stumble over to him and reach out to touch his arm, convincing myself that he is not a vision dreamed up by the yearnings of my imagination, but just as real and solid and alive as the sea lion that is still watching us from the shore.

‘Hi,’ he beams down at me.

‘Hi…’ I reply stupidly, still not really understanding, a part of me wondering whether he is here because of work or a consular emergency or by sheer coincidence, or…

‘I came to see you.’ He answers all my questions at once, reaching out to take both my hands in his.

‘But… how did you know where to find me?’ I’m vaguely aware I haven’t smiled yet, and I think my mouth is hanging open in shock still, and out of the corner of my eye I can see several of my fellow passengers breaking away from the queue to stand and stare openly at us. But I don’t care. All I am aware of is the firmness of his hand in mine, the green of his eyes as I finally look up to meet his gaze.

Sebastian grins again. ‘I work for the embassy, remember? We have cameras everywhere, and I’ve actually got a special alert on your passport so that an alarm sounds in my office whenever you…’ He trails off, the smile slowly fading from his face as he takes in the shell-shocked expression on mine.

‘Okay. Honestly? Your father told me.’

‘Whaaaaat?’

‘Yes… he sent me an email, once he got home, to say thanks for everything. At this point, I hadn’t had an email from you for a while. I knew you were going to be travelling for a few months, of course, so I… er… took the liberty of asking him if he knew where you were going to be spending New Year’s Eve.’

There is a long silence, in which time I send out silent, exasperated wishes of gratitude and vengeance to my absent, infuriating father.

‘He didn’t reply for ages – weeks. I was going crazy. I came this close to actually putting an alert out on your passport…’ Sebastian tries to laugh, but it doesn’t go very well, so he just looks down and clears his throat. ‘Then he finally replied, apologising for the delay, saying he’d met someone really amazing and they’d been away on some sort of mini-cruise, Scandinavia I think…’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘He told me you were coming to the Galápagos this week, so… well… I booked a flight. The flight right before yours, it would seem. I’ve been standing here for several hours now, looking like a…’ He clears his throat. ‘I think the ferry guys are starting to think I’m a bit dodgy.’ Alarm suddenly passes across his face. ‘But, Kirsty, if you want me to go…’

His uncertainty is adorable. I realise I’m edging nearer to him, without even intending to, and now we’re standing so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

‘So… you’re officially skiving from government service, right now?’ I ask, finding a smile creeping on to my lips. ‘To come and look for me here?’

Sebastian looks down at the sand, his ebony hair tousling in the sea breeze. ‘Actually… there´s something you should know. I’m not going to be working at the embassy much longer.’

I freeze, loosening my grip on his hand. After Harry, I’m not sure I can handle another mid-life crisis situation. ‘You… why?’

He takes a deep breath and looks at me for a moment, clearly unsure whether to tell me something.

‘Because… I’m going to start a Master’s course. In London. I’ve got an unconditional place at London Metropolitan University to study International Human Rights, starting in September.’

There’s a long, euphoric silence as the meaning and implications of this sink in. He’s going there to live! In London! I suddenly feel the urge to kick my sandals off and go running across the beach and splashing in the sea, whooping like a child.

Then a sudden thought brings my mind skidding to a halt.

‘What about Lewis?’

Sebastian looks a little surprised by my question, but then his face breaks into a smile.

‘Well, I suppose I’m going to have to find a place in London that’s pet-friendly.’

My shoulders sag in relief.

‘You didn’t think I’d leave him behind, did you? I know it’s a long way to take a dog, but he’s already a seasoned traveller, and I don’t think we could bear to be without each other…’

Something in Sebastian’s voice changes, and his expression becomes serious. ‘Listen, Kirsty - the truth is, you inspired me. The way you just picked yourself up again, started taking positive action to move your life forward… I realised it was high time I did the same. What I’ve always wanted to do. Also, knowing you would be there…’ He stops, the uncertainty returning to his face. ‘But I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. What I really came here to ask you, above all, is… whether you would like a date for New Year’s Eve.’

Suddenly I can’t bear his tortured expression any more, and by way of answer I stand up on tiptoes and kiss him.

I don’t know how long we stand there, entwined, but I gradually become aware of the seaside noises coming back into focus around us… the gentle roll of the waves, the delighted shouts of children splashing at the water’s edge, the ferry attendant calling to us impatiently to get on board right now or come and take back our suitcases.

‘Oops, we’d better get going.’ Sebastian smiles, taking my hand again.

My heart surging, I pick up my backpack from the sand and step towards the boat.

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Copyright

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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Rachel Dann 2017

Rachel Dann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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E-book Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 978-0-00-819697-4