Not any more, though. Now she was the darling of the Hotel Amarilla. The bold, impetuous woman who had turned up alone and defiant, having shucked off her husband like an unwanted jacket at the airport. Not only that, but she’d paid the Amarilla the ultimate compliment by changing her mind about leaving, by prolonging her stay. They could not do enough for her in return, and it was, quite simply, heavenly. Field calls from her family, telling them that she was fine, but didn’t want to talk to any of them right now? Not a problem. Save her favourite sun-lounger for her in the morning until she was ready to take her position there? Absolutely. Shower her with little treats – a cool drink here, a bowl of plump chilled grapes there, a bunch of flowers in her room? Nothing seemed like too much trouble.

Of course she wasn’t completely made of stone. She did keep panicking about what she had done by postponing her return – and what that might mean for her marriage. When she had turned her phone on, to tell Paula she wasn’t on the plane home, it had buzzed and chirped with so many messages and missed calls that she had panicked and switched it off again, just as soon as her text was sent. She missed her children and grandchildren terribly, it was killing her not being able to pop round and chat away with them as she usually did, and if she started reading their messages, she might have second thoughts about staying. She missed her friends in the knitting group, too – she loved those women (and their token man) – and despite everything, she found herself missing Harry as well, whenever she forgot to be angry with him, that was. But soon enough she’d remember his betrayal – his other daughter! – and she’d feel her heart frost over and harden towards him once more. No. She wasn’t ready to forgive Harry just yet.