‘I’ve known these people since I was two feet tall. I used to get to school early to bury the dead bumble bees with him’ – pointing at Luke – ‘and we’d have funerals for them. Remember?’

‘I just did what you told me.’

‘You were always so bossy,’ said Mary, laughing, putting a hand on Juliet’s shoulder.

They had left their normal life behind – work, obligations, in some cases spouses and children – and were in carnival mood. They wore their holiday clothes – bright shirts, flip-flops, baggy shorts or skimpy dresses. Neil opened the champagne. Juliet dug out one of the bags of olives Irene had bought and handed them around. Mickey lit a cigarette and sat back in the deckchair.

‘I thought your sister was going to be here,’ said Neil to Jem.

‘Irene. She is. She should be back any minute.’ He looked at the dusty road that snaked down the hill; saw in the distance a cyclist, crouched over the handlebars in Irene’s characteristically tense posture. ‘In fact, I see her now.’

Irene retreated to her room, saying she had to change before anything else. She felt out of place. The house, which for five days had been tranquil and safe, was suddenly full of strangers who spoke in code, tousled Juliet’s unruly hair, called Jem a ‘toy boy’, rooted around in the fridge, chucked clothes and towels everywhere, turned the shaded garden into a playground in which they smoked, drank, shouted comments at each other, swapped stories. She pulled out her sun dress, suddenly wishing she had something a bit less old and drab to wear, and went self-consciously downstairs to join them.