She felt a little giddy, but that was OK – just the heat, probably, or her pre-brekky espresso. She picked up the ladle, swung it towards the silver bowl and filled it to the brim with water, then lifted it carefully, meniscus shimmering, not spilling a gorgeous drop, over to the glowing orange coals. With a twist of her wrist she turned it, then laughed like a child as the steam foamed up into the little cabin, the heat just behind it, like sound following light.

Two more minutes, that would do it, don’t be silly, deep breaths, feel that rasp of heat on the back of your throat. Ah, how she loved it! Heat, heat, heat, right through to her bones, chilled as they were from her refreshing early dip in the pool outside. And with the heat, the scent of lavender, from the blue glass bottle of Neal’s Yard essential oil she had brought out with her from home. It reminded her of long-ago summer holidays in the South of France, lying in the hammock in the barn in her bikini, après-déjeuner, waiting for one of those nice young men to come and pay court to her. Annoying Anthony, now there was a chap she’d given a bit of a run around to. Hey ho, was it her fault he’d felt he had to kill himself? Absolutely not. His life, his decision. I wasn’t that marvellous. Or was I? Later, of course, the crazy trips abroad. India in ’66, Morocco in ’67, long before the dreaded scourge of ‘backpackers’, when it had been a novelty to be a traveller, when there was adventure to be had, spliffs to be smoked, gurus and Berbers to be seduced and all the rest of it. She hadn’t been that nice to boring Bobby in Essaouira, had she, or humdrum Harry in Kashmir for that matter, but what was life for if not for living, as her dear Papa always used to say. ‘Look before you leap, but don’t look for too long, or you may never leap.’ That had been another of his bon mots. She had never, to be honest, met a man to match him. His wildness, tamed by his sheer, impeccable style.

Another wave of giddiness rocked her. What was going on? She was normally fine for as long as she wanted dans le sauna. OK, time to get back to reality. Far away from desert dreams to the dear little souls of ‘the writing group’. What a funny bourgeois bunch they were, tedious as burnt toast most of them, but still, maybe she was learning something. Francis the tutor had a twinkle in his eye, it had to be said. Were she only thirty years younger, and still in possession of the famous ‘body’, who knew what might have transpired? But hey ho, tempus fugit, Anno Domini and all that. This was what you did in your early seventies, when flesh sagged and memory lagged. Studied the art of memoir and stuffed your creaking carcass with yummy nosh. And then – Christ, what was that – got dizzy in the sauna.

Carefully, putting her hands down on the natural pine planks to steady herself, she lifted her dainty old bottom off her towel and got to her feet. She was short of breath and could feel her heart racing wildly. What was this? Was she having a heart attack or a stroke or something? Desperate now to get out, to gulp fresh air, she reached for the door handle and realized it wasn’t there. What? Where on earth? Oh my Christ, the bloody thing had come off and fallen to the floor. How had that happened? She’d used it, surely, to get in, how else would she have opened the door? But hang on, the outer one was still there. Mocking her from the other side.

She reached down to pick it up and almost fell over. Hands shaking, she got to it, grasped it, held it up to the square fixing on the door. But no. It didn’t, wouldn’t engage. Where was a decent man when you needed one? She staggered sideways on her feet, reached out with her other hand for the bench. She felt like a woman on a ship in a storm. Like she’d felt on the Santander ferry with David the Dreary, why had she wasted even a minute of her life with him? Was she about to be sick? Oh Christ, those prawns must have been off last night.

Without the handle, she couldn’t get out. She could see the tantalizing little steel catch that was holding the door shut, keeping her in, like a prisoner. Even as she stared at it, it swam out of focus. The handle, too. The whole cabin was a blur. She threw herself against the glass but nothing moved. Ouch. All she’d done was hurt her shoulder. Don’t panic, she told herself, as she hammered on the door with both her fists, then screamed at the top of her voice. Would they hear her? Surely they must, even though the walls were thick and the sauna was deep in the basement of the villa.

With another wave of nausea she grabbed the bench, gulped at the throat-searing dry air. OK, OK, keep calm in an emergency, that’s what Daddy would have said. It’s hot but not so hot, if you don’t put any more water on the coals the cabin will slowly cool. You can bear it. You can drink the water from the bowl, keep hydrated. Someone will come. It’s breakfast time, for God’s sakes! They will miss you and be here. Fabio will come. To check. Handsome, saturnine Fabio will c—

She slid sideways past the bench to the floor. As she fell, she was aware of a blurry face in the shadows beyond the door. Shouting at her, as hands gesticulated and fingers tapped loudly on the glass. Rat-tat-tat! Oh mercy be, thank the heavens, was she saved? No. The fingers didn’t reach downwards for the handle. They pointed up, and around, wildly, as the gaping mouth yelled on …