The little girl in pink ran round in circles, round and round and round in her pink and white spotted hoodie and her cerise-coloured socks and trainers, round and round outside the family tent. Christian and Eva saw her from their VW traveller, as they sat in the front seats watching the sun go down, and Eva wondered what it would be like to have a family one day. Not long afterwards, Christian caught sight of her again, hand-in-hand with another child, the pair of them in pink pyjamas, prancing between the tents and camper vans. He was tempted to take a photograph. Later he wished that he had.

People didn't like you taking photographs of children. He had been warned off several times, on the strand at Brandon Bay and once in Murphy's Italian ice cream parlour. Okay. No problem. Christian photographed the full moon swathed in black clouds, mirroring the big white globes illuminating the campsite. Eva lit candles and played her guitar, and, not for the first time on their holiday together, her heart lifted with the music and the whisky and with longings she could never put a name to.

‘We’ll come back again, won't we?’ she said, as they were bedding down. ‘Maybe when we’re old and grey.’ ‘We’ll come back soon.’

She dreamt that she was back in Switzerland, and Christian was helping her move – for some reason she couldn't quite fathom she had to move urgently – and to get into the new flat she had to lower herself into something like a mineshaft, or large rabbit hole, but look, said Christian, you can try the back way – and then she woke briefly, to the sound of rain rattling on the roof.