Jaime Gill

I’m late downstairs for breakfast and find Charlotte has already mauled today’s Manchester Guardian, folding it clumsily to the small ads.

Guillem arrives late, as always, rapid-firing apologies at his boss as he bustles through the beach bar and pulls on his apron. He stops at my table first, pointing to my near-empty glass. “Another beer, Miss?” Miss. Sweet, when I’m old enough to be his mother.