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.’

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