‘Sì, sì, welcome to Hotel Panarea,’ he switched to Italian without comment, and something in him seemed to relax. ‘I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding us.’

‘None at all,’ I replied, patting the pink bird’s nest on top of my head.

‘Everything is in order here and the suite is ready. Would you like to see it now or perhaps refresh yourself at the bar until the rest of your party arrives?’

‘I think the suite,’ I said politely, not sure if there was enough alcohol in the world to refresh me. ‘Juliette is running behind, so probably best if I get things ready for her.’

‘Molto bene. And your luggage?’

‘Coming later,’ I lied smoothly.

Paul dipped his head and took a large silver key from a hook on the wall.

‘Please,’ he said, holding it aloft. ‘Would you follow me?’

The lift doors opened with a sigh on the third floor and Paul gestured for me to exit first before taking the lead down a long, carpeted corridor.

‘You must be very busy today,’ I said, looking out of the windows at the beautiful view. Sarah was right, it really was stunning.

‘Yes, the busiest night of the year,’ he replied, tapping the heavy silver key in the palm of his hand. ‘But we are preparing for tonight all year long. The hotel is always at capacity for the Crystal Ball, it is quite the event, quite the sight to see. Lots to do, always.’

‘I’m sure,’ I said, not knowing how else to respond. I wasn’t going to the ball. I was going in the shower and then I was going to bed, with a possible pitstop at the room service menu. A raging evening, to be sure.

‘Here we are, the presidential suite.’ Paul took a step back and waved his hand over a small silver square mounted on the wall. ‘We have a biometric lock for the room for maximum security. If you would press your index finger against the silver pad, for me?’

I did as I was told and a tiny green LED sparked into life, acknowledging my fingerprint.

‘If for any reason the biometric lock does not work,’ he handed me the silver key which was just as heavy as it looked, ‘you can open it the old-fashioned way.’

The door swung open on its own and we both stepped inside the room. Only it wasn’t a room, it was a palace. An extravagent, decadent palace filled with beautiful things meant for beautiful people.

‘Fuck me,’ I exclaimed, before clapping a hand over my mouth. ‘Sorry, I don’t know where that came from.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied, cheerful at my inelegant compliment. ‘This is not an uncommon response.’

The first time I saw The Songbird, I thought it was the most luxurious thing that could possibly exist on this earth, but the presidential suite at Hotel Panarea made the yacht look like the least pleasant toilet cubicle in a well-frequented service station.