Philip Pope stood at the end of the bed and surveyed the chaos. A week’s worth of his wife’s knickers lay strewn across a mound of T-shirts that had slipped from their folds on the journey from drawer to bed, and on top of them was a flip-flop that had lost its mate. Then, jumbled alongside, he counted three dresses in prints his wife loved but were too lurid for his taste, a pair of similarly bright shorts and two pairs of sunglasses minus their cases.

Laid neatly upon his pillow was his own packing: two pairs of cream shorts, both knee-length, two pairs of lightweight stone-coloured trousers, five polo shirts for the daytime, all white, three short-sleeved shirts for evenings, striped, and enough underpants to last the trip.

Missing from both piles were his trunks and his wife’s swimsuit. Patricia was insisting there should be no swimming or sunbathing; it would be improper, she argued, no matter how inviting the pool was, or how much they longed to warm themselves beneath the sun’s glorious rays. They had an image to project in the coming week and ‘carefree tourist’ was not it. Philip gazed down at the bed and wondered how the brightly coloured dresses and shorts fitted in with her vision.

The bedroom door swung open and Patricia entered carrying two folded beach towels. He winced as his wife threw them down on the bed with the rest of her stuff. For someone who had spent her entire professional life being orderly, and demanding the highest of standards from those she managed, she had all too willingly embraced chaos in retirement. It drove him mad.

‘Why haven’t you got the suitcases out of the garage yet? I asked you ages ago.’

Impatience nipped at her words, making them sound brittle and unfriendly. Philip mentally counted to ten as his counsellor had taught him, and his irritation at being nagged ebbed by the time he reached the end. It’s the stress of the occasion making her like this, he told himself. Don’t rise to it.

‘I’ll get them now,’ he said. ‘I was sorting my clothes out.’

Patricia eyed the neat stack on his pillow.

‘Is that all you’re taking?’

‘What else do I need?’

‘You don’t want to be photographed wearing the same thing every day.’

‘I don’t want to be photographed at all, I told you.’

‘Oh please, don’t start that again,’ said Patricia, sweeping across the bedroom to her glass-topped dressing table and picking through the bottles of scents and creams lining the top of it. Philip resumed his counting as she lobbed her selection onto the bed.

‘You know how important it is that we make ourselves as accessible as possible to the media throughout the holiday.’