Mary Williams: I live with my first and only husband (how did I manage that!) in a strange little house in Shropshire full of paintings, shared with the fourth of our four sons. I dig our allotment and run errands for sick neighbours, travel when I can (Cuba, New Zealand, Sicily recently) and write with monotonous regularity every day.
A gecko hauls up the wall; hides under the sticky Havana Club rum bottle fixed to the display behind the bar. A tiny breeze rattles the palms beyond the veranda, carrying a scent of warm, stale water. It is three o’clock and the air is sodden with moisture. Sweat hangs in beads from the greasy faces of the two men who wait, bellies straining against too tight trousers, as they lean back against the cushions of the creaking bamboo chairs in the lobby of the Santa Clara Hotel.