The ground was hard, dry and uneven beneath her thick shoes. They started to walk. Trousseau had insisted upon taking the umbrella, but rather than giving shade, it tended to prod at Anne Marie's face, uncomfortably close to her eyes.
A sign announced Tara beach and invited visitors to remove their clothes.
Trousseau straightened his tie, allowed himself a sly grin and they went down the steep incline that led to the beach. From time to time he held out his hand to give his support. Anne Marie noticed, not without pleasure, that he was considerably less agile than she. He grunted from the effort. After a while, he closed the umbrella.
Out of the wind, the air was close. Insects danced in Anne Marie's eyes. A pervasive odour of rotting plants. Dead cactus.
Suddenly the path opened out and they came on to the crescent beach, brilliant beneath the tropical sun. With relief Anne Marie rediscovered the breeze. She could feel the sweat running down her back, her linen shirt clinging to her hot skin.