On the gold pastel scene of sea and sand, silver gulls and driftwood, one human may have seemed incongruous. But she was not. Gina Addams-Smith was tall. Forty. Grey hair, waving to her shoulders, framed an oval face, cool and smooth as if carved like glass in the ocean’s tumble. The one thing sensuous about her was the way she ate. Ripe pears, wounded by a deep, wide bite, would spurt juices to her cheek-bones and thickly down her chin. Grapes, held above her back-thrown head, were played with by teasing lips. Cherries tossed and caught. Pips spat. Chops, barbequed, held by their bones, were torn by strong, shellwhite teeth.

Gina ate, always, alone.