Once again, Shelly recalled Gordon ripping the decorations down on Christmas morning, his face nasty with anger, his sobs loud. She had curled up in her mother’s armchair, snuggling into the thick cardigan her mum had tossed over the chairback just before she left. It still smelled of her. The comforting, oaty smell of fresh porridge. Shelly had wrapped the sleeves around herself like a hug and cried until exhausted, yet nobody put real arms around her and said it would be all right.

She had longed for the father-figure she’d known and loved, her big, cheerful, Dad, always full of fun, but that person had died with her mother. Hardly surprising that she threw herself into the arms of the first man that showed any affection. She yawned into her hand. ‘Sorry, Dad, but I’m beat. Perkins’s story may have to wait until I’m back from holiday.’

*

Shelly fell asleep imagining all the pleasures of her upcoming trip. Packing, travelling, arriving – she loved it all and didn’t really care where she was going, so long as she could dive, take amazing photographs, and lay on a sunbed with a good book. She woke early, with a smile. One day nearer. She should get some clothes organised. Half a dozen cotton tops, shorts, jeans to travel, capri pants and a skirt, a few luxury toiletries, sandals and walking shoes, swimwear, and her snorkel kit, of course.

Just to get away from everything familiar was an adventure.

*

Shelly slept on the plane and arrived, reasonably refreshed, at Athens international airport. Pleased to have packed all she needed into a cabin bag, there was no waiting around. She stepped out of the terminal at precisely midnight, that magical moment between yesterday and tomorrow. To her left, an enormous sign said, WELCOME TO ATHENS, to her right, the blue and white Greek flag, and the EU circle of gold stars fluttered side by side. The excitement of arriving thrilled her. The heat of the day, tucked away under the paving slabs for the night, still left the air around her snugly warm.

Guided by an information board that promised to lead her to the coach terminal, she moved between pools of golden streetlight. Twenty minutes later, she was riding the coach past an enormous sculpture of the Olympic rings.

‘Madam . . . madam? We are here, the ferry terminal. I get your bag,’ the coach driver said.

She must have fallen asleep. The deserted port was a blaze of light, with several small ferryboats, but no people. The driver took her case from the hold. The wheels made an obscene noise on the concrete.

‘You go to Kea? You have boat ticket?’ the driver asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ she replied.

‘I take the bag,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘Is this ferry here.’ He nodded at a squat ferry, which it seemed had been waiting for the airport bus.