Page 15 of The Honeymoon Affair

She continues in one direction and I go the other, towards the less developed part of the resort, where there are a number of small rocky coves. According to the website, people can fish there, but I’m not sure why any of the guests would. It’s not like they’ll cook the catch for dinner.

The first cove I reach is more of a narrow inlet, and there’s no beach, merely shingle that crunches underfoot. The second is wider, but also mainly shingle, and I’m thinking that I’ve done enough Famous Five exploring when I see yet another cove, this time with a small beach. I think it might be a nice place to sit and contemplate life, even though I have to access it by scrambling over some rocks. As I jump from the last, I land awkwardly and cry out in shock.

It takes me a moment or two to catch my breath, and then I tentatively test my ankle, which definitely twisted in my fall. It’s a bit sore, but nothing too awful, which I’m thankful for, because I’m trying to imagine clambering over those rocks again and getting back to the hotel with a dodgy ankle, and thinking that coming to this isolated spot on my own was actually quite stupid. I walk slowly to the water’s edge and allow the cool waves to wash over my feet.

When I turn around, I realise it’s not as isolated as I thought. I’m not alone.

Restaurant man is here, half hidden behind a twisted palm tree. He’s sitting under a parasol, a small folding table in front of him. On the table is a thin sheaf of paper. He’s not looking at the paper, though, he’s looking at me.

‘Hi,’ I say as cheerfully as I can. ‘Sorry if I’m disturbing you.’

He says nothing, and I walk slowly up the beach, keeping my weight off my bad ankle.

‘I’m going to sit here for a few minutes until my ankle is OK, then I’ll be out of your hair,’ I tell him. Closer to, I’m guessing he’s in his fifties rather than his forties. Pretty fit with it, though. He’s wearing a light T-shirt that allows his muscles to show, and it’s obvious he works out.

‘This is a private beach.’ He’s clearly irritated. ‘I come here precisely because it’s private.’

‘It’s part of the resort,’ I respond. ‘So not private if you’re a guest. And I am too.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen you.’

Is it good to have been noticed? Or has he noticed me in a ‘how the hell can she and her friend afford to be here’ kind of way?

‘Iseult O’Connor,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen you too.’

‘After the poet or the legend?’

‘Neither,’ I reply when I realise he’s asking about my name. I’m actually named after my great-grandmother, who I never knew and who was once arrested for throwing a stone through the window of a government office as part of a votes-for-women campaign. But I do know the legend of Tristan and Iseult (or Isolde, as she’s also known) and I also know that the poet is Iseult Gonne, who would have lived around the same time as my great-grandmother. Not that any of this is of the slightest interest to the man sitting at the folding table.

A puff of breeze rustles through the palms, and as I feel it reach my shoulders, the pages in front of him rustle too, and are then gently lifted and float on the air, spinning in all directions.

‘Oh bloody fucking hell!’ he cries.

I wasn’t sure earlier, because his accent held a mid-Atlantic twang that could be from anywhere, but his unapologetic swearing is pure Irish.

He gets up from the table, which topples over, and begins to rush after the pages. I manage to collect the ones that have blown in my direction, but at least half a dozen end up in the sea and are almost immediately carried out of sight.

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he says as he returns and rights the table. ‘An entire morning’s work wasted.’

‘I hardly think it’s my fault,’ I protest. ‘I don’t control the wind.’

‘You distracted me.’

‘You should’ve put a stone on them or something.’

‘So it’s my fault?’

‘Yes.’

He glares at me, and I shrug. I don’t know what he’s getting so worked up about. I’m sure he’s got all his data on a computer somewhere. Although I notice as I glance down at the top page in my hand that it’s full of handwritten comments. I hand the sheets to him.

‘A whole morning ruined.’ He groans.

‘It’s not completely ruined,’ I say. ‘You’ve got most of the pages. A few are probably on the way to the Bahamas or something, but I’m sure you can replicate whatever notes you made.’

‘I can’t replicate them.’ He’s practically snarling now. ‘They came from somewhere deep inside and I don’t know if I’ll ever find that place again.’

I’ve no idea what he means, so I stay silent.

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