‘For crying out loud! Honestly, I’ve had enough of today. Seriously?’ Sally took the phone. ‘Look, Marianne, why don’t you just piss off and leave me alone. You’re getting on my nerves. So just bugger off and sort out your own boring love life. I’m too busy for this puerile crap.’

When she handed the phone back she saw that the First Assistant’s expression was one of shock. His mouth had fallen open. He was almost a comedy picture of astonishment: eyebrows raised, eyes wide open and a gaping O for a mouth.

‘What?’ she asked. ‘What? Why the face?’

‘You do know who you were just talking to?’

‘My daughter Marianne, from the Hotel Astra.’

‘No, Sally. That was the producer and star, Marina. Marina Martel calling from the Hotel Astor.’

Sally’s intake of breath was so severe she almost lost her balance. She reached out for the mobile phone. ‘I misheard you.’ She stuck out her hand, pleading. ‘Give me that thing. Call her back. Call her again for me. I thought it was my daughter, Marianne. Stupid hotels with names so alike.’

The First Assistant was still gaping at Sally. ‘We can’t phone her. They won’t put us through. When she needs us she phones in.’

‘Oh, no.’ Sally put her face into her hands. What had she done? ‘Can this evening get any worse?’

As Roger, Cynthia and Theresa ran down the hill, Theresa shouted out, ‘Where exactly are we heading?’

‘How would I know?’ cried Cynthia Muffett. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’

‘I thought you knew, Theresa.’ Roger stopped in his tracks. ‘We can’t just run around aimlessly, like headless bloody chickens. We need a plan.’

‘Perhaps we should check my flat again, in case they’ve gone back there.’

‘Whatever . . .’ said Cynthia. ‘Honestly, Roger. I knew that stupid judge should never have let Neil choose where he wanted to live. You’re incapable.’

‘I know I am.’ Roger let out a sob. ‘I know. Really. I’m so sorry. I made such a mistake.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Everything!’

The three turned on to the quayside, scanning the street for a sight of the two teenagers.

Cynthia jammed her phone to her ear, trying Neil’s number again.

Theresa opened up and ran through the flat, searching all the rooms.

‘Have they taken any food?’ asked Cynthia, standing on the threshold. ‘Could you check?’

Theresa hastily threw open the fridge and looked. ‘No, nothing. Oh wait. They took some chocolate brownies.’

‘Typical kids,’ said Cynthia. ‘Always fantasy over reality.’

‘Oh buggeration!’ Roger was agitatedly patting his jacket pockets, checking them all in a frantic manner. ‘My keys. They’ve taken my ruddy keys.’

‘The keys to what?’ Cynthia turned to him with an ominous stare. ‘The keys to what, Roger?’

Roger threw his hands up and shouted, ‘To the bloody boat, that’s what.’