I guess I was lucky. I’m a writer, not very successful. But my luck came from the lotto win of nearly three-quarters of a million. I’m in my late 40s and on my own. I was planning on making a home in Spain but keeping a small property here, too, as a fallback. I hadn’t told anyone about my win and I hadn’t gone wild. I’d bought a cheap, small car and a bigger investment. Just over $10,000 on a secondhand cabin cruiser.

It was nearing time to go to Spain on an exploration trip where I hoped to find a property. Nothing expensive. I needed a marina for my boat, a place that was lively, but not a drunken, wild destination. I would write there and maybe would strike lucky with that. I wanted a place overlooking the beach and sea and within walking distance of shops and cafes.

But that was the future. Right now, I was down on the coast back home where I had a mooring in a marina. I was here a lot. I was getting to know the local shops and cafés now after a few weeks. I’d started taking my dirty washing home when I went but was soon using the local laundry wash. I’d found a couple of really friendly cafés, and the local boat yard had become a wealth of information and store for supplies and equipment.

The Laundry Service was a self-service place, a row of washing machines opposite several commercial driers. It was simple. I wasn’t rushed for time, so I would sit and wait. Gave me time to think about my day and what I would be doing. Kay ran it with her daughter. They would take dirty washing, put it through the process, and even iron for a modest amount. Some days, they were really busy, and on others, they sat and chatted. Usually, there was just one of them there except on Mondays and Fridays, which seemed the busiest.

It was a Wednesday, and Kay came and sat with me. She was slim, but not skinny. She must have been at least 38, as Penny, her daughter, had just turned 19. But she looked about 28 years old. Kay was blonde, probably out of a bottle, her hair cut short and in a bob. She was average height, certainly shorter than me. She was always cheerful and smiling. I’d noticed she always wore bright red lipstick and had matching nails. She often wore red heels, too. Maybe that should have sent signals to my brain.

She usually wore figure-hugging trousers and a blouse; often open one button too much for modesty, showing her breasts, which looked firm and round.

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