“Get a move on, Connor! I’ll replace you, if you can’t cut it!  A job’s a job.  You know that.”

The shoulder blades of Erika, her German boss, seemed indifferent to the daggers, as Niamh glared at her retreating back. How she hated the greasy film on the water, and the endless procession of dirty tableware.  This was no life for a pretty twenty-five year old, dishwashing on the Costa Brava, but she had to earn a crust.   Things had gone so horribly wrong. How different it had been when she was just another girl on holiday, barely three years before.

                That was when she’d met Mick, while enjoying their favored pastime of scuba diving.  She’d fallen head-over-heels, and so, she believed, had he.  Like two giggly, passionate teenagers, they’d been.  He was also from Dublin, but now lived here, at his parent’s hotel, one of several they owned around the Mediterranean.  When her holiday was over, they’d kept in touch. She’d emigrated here with high hopes, but where was he now? The renewed sound of Erica’s voice broke her train of thought

                “Connor! Phone-call.  Be quick about it, though. You’re behind as it is.”

                Puzzled, Niamh frowned, as she picked up.  It couldn’t be Mick. He’d got her and Penny these jobs, before they arrived, but was himself working at the place on the Algarve that his family had just acquired.  Maybe it was Penny, on reception.  She picked up the receiver.

                “Hello. Niamh here. Everything all right?”

                “Of course,”  breezed Penny’s voice, “just wanted to say I’ve bought you a surprise present. Your birthday tomorrow, after all.  Come and get it at the end of your shift.”