Dover, present day.

A WHITE CHURCH WITH BLUE domed roof dazzled against a backdrop of the Aegean Sea. The glossy travel brochure lay on the kitchen table. Shelly Summer placed a hand flat on her chest and turned away to suppress anxiety palpitations. At the kitchen window of her cliff-top cottage in Dover, she gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and peered out across the grey English Channel.

Shelly knew how people saw her: a busy vet who was respected and admired. But she needed an escape – to be alone for seven days, to lie on a sunbed and lose herself in a good book. To swim in the warm Mediterranean and dive to an abandoned wreck. If only she could come to terms with what happened . . . She tried, really she did, but it still haunted her. She could not forgive herself, and wondered if David would, if he could. But, it was too late for that. Twenty years too late.

She would embrace Greece, love every moment of her great escape; the beaches, villages, food, music and perhaps even find a little romance. Then return home refreshed, ready to face the obligations of another year.

Now, there was an added complication. Her father, Gordon, always grumpy in the morning, was becoming so forgetful. He was a constant worry, and perhaps even a danger to himself.

Gordon ignored the brochure and set about consuming his boiled egg. The only sounds were the clock ticking towards 8 a.m. and the wind whistling under the kitchen door.

Shelly kicked the old sausage dog draught-excluder into place, then sat at the table.

‘Sleep all right, Dad?’

He grunted and without looking up, asked, ‘You going away, then? ’Oliday, is it?’

He’d spotted the brochure.

‘It’s Eve’s. She said I have annual leave from last year and I thought, perhaps, a week in Greece. Will you come?’ A flurry of wind and rain hit the window. She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to get some sun on your shoulders, Dad?’

Gordon didn’t reply.

‘It sounds really lovely. Listen to this . . .’ She flipped the brochure open and read from a random page, injecting a wistful tone into her voice.

‘The island of Syros, heart and soul of the Cyclades, sits under the blue brilliance of a Greek sky. Crystal-clear water and deserted beaches await. More traditional than its famous neighbours, Santorini and Mykonos, Syros is a working island that preserves the glamour of a bygone age. Villages nestle in the natural landscape. Alleyways wind around white houses where plumbago and bougainvillea emblazon picturesque hamlets.’

She glanced at him. He’d stopped eating.