‘Come along, Lola.’ Frances raised her voice and stretched out a hand behind her. ‘Let’s get back to that jigsaw, eh?’

As Frances shoved Lola along the corridor, she turned back to Theresa.

‘What did you mean when you said, “How did you know?” You haven’t lost Chloe again, have you?’

‘Between you and me, Frances, yes, I have.’ Theresa shut the door of the room which was a strange place of devotion, dedicated to herself. ‘But it was literally minutes ago that she ran out of my front door. And we all know she’s gone to Neil. His parents, Roger and Cynthia, are at reception. We’ve got to find them. Now!’

Theresa took a step away. Once more Frances touched her shoulder.

‘And who was responsible for that little reliquary inside there?’ Frances tipped her head in the direction of the storeroom. ‘Do you know?’

‘I think it’s a man called Cyril. He’s been weird to me for a few weeks now.’

‘And who is Cyril? An ex?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Theresa was appalled at the very thought. ‘He’s the local butcher.’

‘Butcher!’ Frances pulled a face of horror. ‘Good luck with that, Theresa!’

Theresa ran out to join Neil’s parents.

When she reached reception she found Edgar Markham standing there, naked but for a towel. He was yelling loudly in English to the desk clerk, telling him that he must call him a cab, pronto.

Such was the state of Edgar’s agitation the clerk could not understand a word he was saying.

Theresa hastily translated.

‘That bloody woman of yours.’ Edgar spun round to face Theresa. ‘She tied me up. Took away my clothes. Your friend. And Sally’s.’

Theresa hadn’t a notion what he was talking about.

‘Tall. Blonde. Very strong . . . as I discovered when I tried to fight her off.’ He ran his hand over his bald patch. ‘God. I’m so late on to set. This is a disaster. A disaster! And it’s my last filming day.’

‘How do you know she’s a friend of mine and Sally’s?’ asked Theresa, edging towards the front door, where Roger and Cynthia were still standing, squabbling.

‘Because she bloody drove up to that godforsaken village to pick Sally up that sodding night when we both got stranded. Or so she told me today. I was too bloody drunk to remember her. But I met her for lunch because I was labouring under the mistaken impression that she was going to be fun.’

A wardrobe girl ran down the beach and thrust hand warmers into Sally’s icy hands. ‘You’ll die of cold, darling.’

‘What a mess.’ Sally held her coat tight but in the gusting wind it made little difference. ‘Where is he?’

One of the runners was getting into Eggy’s costume and the scene would soon be ready to shoot.