From the outside, Hotel Panarea looked like a pretty white villa, much like all the others I’d passed on my long, arduous trek up the hill, but once I was inside, everything changed. The hotel had been built into the side of the hill and it was deceptively huge, the cavernous lobby full of elegant furnishings and even more elegant people. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, winking at me every time the front doors opened to let in the low winter light, and the white walls were accented with panels of golden silk that cast a glow over everyone like a beauty filter come to life.

And then there was me, the rumpled, damp disaster, standing in the middle of so much beauty and opulence with three empty drinks cans and looking like something several cats had worked together to drag in.

‘Excuse me, signora. May I be of assistance?’

A silver-haired gentleman in a midnight-blue suit appeared at my side, a mild expression on his distinguished face.

‘Sì,’ I replied, pulling back my shoulders and attempting to look like I belonged right where I was. My old boss always said the richest and most successful people weren’t the ones who were perfectly put together and dripping in designer labels, but I assumed they didn’t often arrive at luxury hotels on foot, with scraped back pink hair, sweat stains under the arms and a damp bottom either.

‘I’m checking in,’ I said confidently.

He gave me a very short, very polite smile, his eyes only briefly dancing over to the squad of impeccably dressed security guards that had gathered by the entrance.

‘Please follow me,’ he replied before turning to cross the lobby and place himself safely behind a white marble check-in desk.

I trotted after him and an assistant placed a silver platter with a warm hand towel in front of me, only the slightest flicker of horror crossing his face before he regained his composure and added a second towel to the tray. I took them both gratefully and dabbed at my wrists, neck and temples, resisting the urge to bury my face in the flannel and scream until I passed out.

‘Could you confirm the last name on the reservation?’ asked the gentleman, Paul, according to the discreet silver name tag pinned to his lapel.

‘There isn’t one,’ I replied in Italian. He looked up at me, half a smile on his face. ‘I’m checking in on behalf of Juliette. I’m her assistant.’

Paul looked up at me from underneath his eyebrows.

‘And the code word on the reservation?’

The code word. The code word I couldn’t remember, which was printed in the itinerary that was on my desk in my cabin on The Songbird.

‘The code word is …’ I began, buying an extra moment with a bright smile. ‘Moist.’

The one word no one on earth would willingly say to a complete stranger in a fancy location with zero context.