Page 43 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

‘Bugger. I didn’t think I loaded it properly. And now I’ve left the bag of extra film on the Highlander.’

The man dipped his hand in his pocket and pulled out a yellow roll of Kodak. ‘Your lucky day.’ He smiled.

Bloody hell, he was good-looking, thought Grace, watching him swiftly reload the camera. His skin, the colour of pale coffee, stretched over fine bone structure. His dark, almost black eyes made him look serious, intelligent, even when he smiled.

‘Come on,’ shouted the father.

‘A slight technical hitch,’ said Grace, gratefully taking the camera. ‘All fixed now. OK, everyone say “Jellyfish”!’

In the end, Neil was right. The holidaymakers all wanted a memento of their trip to the island, so they were only too willing to pose, and now Grace knew which button to press, she felt like David Bailey. She was, however, disappointed that she was busy with her duties throughout the trip back and was unable to thank the man in the Bermudas.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Caro as they walked back from the marina. ‘So have you thought about coming to India? I reckon a few months there and you’ll be the naked one at full moon parties. It will do you a world of good.’

‘Thanks, Yoda.’ Grace grinned. ‘I didn’t realise all those pearls of wisdom like “Have another tequila” and “Aw, why don’t you just shag him?” were some sort of Zen-like spiritual training.’

‘We all have our reasons for coming travelling,’ said Caro more seriously. ‘We’re either trying to find something, or leave something behind. I’ve never worked out which one it is with you, Grace. What I do know is that you’ve got to stop living life like you’re scared of it.’

They reached the cottage and Caro put the key in the door. ‘Shit, we don’t have anything in for supper.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Grace, wanting to avoid Caro’s latest line of conversation.

She spotted him immediately, standing in front of a seafood restaurant, reading the menu. The handsome, helpful man from the boat had changed out of his shorts into sand-coloured slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. For a moment, Grace wondered whether to walk past without saying anything, but the man spotted her first.

‘Hey, it’s Diane Arbus,’ he smiled.

‘Who?’

‘A famous American photographer.’

His accent was American mixed with something else – Spanish she thought from his dark eyes and golden olive skin.

‘I thought Americans didn’t do sarcasm.’

‘Not American, South American.’

‘Ah, sorry,’ said Grace. ‘This place is good, by the way,’ she said, ‘I can recommend the red snapper.’

‘The locals always know the best places.’

‘Hardly local,’ said Grace. ‘I’m on the wrong side of the planet.’

‘English, eh?’

Grace nodded.

‘The English are known in my country as having excellent taste in all things.’

‘I’d better get on,’ said Grace, blushing.

The man gestured towards the restaurant. ‘Are you hungry?’

She grinned. ‘Starving.’

‘In that case, I’d be honoured if you would join me here.’

She couldn’t believe she was still wearing her Highlander uniform, dirty and sweaty from the day’s work.

‘I don’t want to impose . . .’