‘Sounds a bit like my future mother-in-law,’ I replied. ‘Miss her Boxing Day buffet once and you’ll never see another invitation.’

‘Someone else has taken over the organizing committee this year, so it looks like I’m in favour again, even if it is as a performer and not a guest. Instead of partying, I’ll be flying across the room in a giant plastic bubble, literally singing for my supper. I have to suffer my punishment, I suppose.’

‘Pretty nice punishment,’ I said, a hand covering my full mouth. ‘I hope it pays well.’

She pouted and poked a foot through the railing, her shoe hanging from her toes and dangling perilously over the water below. ‘It doesn’t pay at all because it’s for charity, but no one turns down the Crystal Ball. Plus, Bey told me they spent a million on the firework display last year, and I love fireworks.’

‘Really?’ I didn’t acknowledge the namedrop but I did file it away for future reference.

‘They’re my favourite thing,’ she nodded. ‘They always remind me of being little, watching the displays, all bundled up in my hat and scarf and a sparkler. Everyone’s happy on bonfire night.’

I smiled at the thought of little Juliette oohing and ahhing at Catherine wheels, a miniature sparkler in her hand. ‘I know what you mean,’ I said, picking up the teapot and topping her off.

We sat in companionable silence, drinking tea and watching the outline of Italy melt away until an unseen mobile phone pinged loudly. Juliette flipped her legs off the railing and onto the floor, arching, cat-like, to pull a tiny flip phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She read the message and sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

She stood and slid the glass door open wordlessly, leaving me alone on the terrace, but the look on her face was enough to answer my question. I placed our teacups back on their saucers, neatly folded the napkins and followed her inside. I had an excellent radar for disaster and could tell to within a one percent margin of error when the proverbial shit was about to hit the proverbial fan. Given the set of Juliette’s jaw and the two hard lines carved between her eyebrows, I was fairly certain someone somewhere was about to hurl an entire sack full of faeces at my new boss.

‘I’m going to take a nap,’ she announced, still staring at her miniature phone and practically vibrating with rage. Whatever was in that text was not good news and whatever she was about to do, it was not sleep.

‘Anything I can do to help?’ I asked.

Juliette looked up at me with dark, flat eyes, all her easy smiles and warm looks gone.

‘Yes,’ she said, marching over to the suite doors and holding one open. ‘You can leave.’

CHAPTER SEVEN