‘If I had a phone,’ says Elizabeth, stepping out of the cottage door and stretching her body out in a great yawn, ‘I would take a picture of the three of you looking out to sea and post it to Instagram. It would be an amazing shot.’

‘If you had a phone,’ says Nelson. ‘But you don’t.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Nor do I miss it.’

‘Liar.’

‘Well, I miss it a bit. But not as much I thought I would.’

It had taken six weeks for Elizabeth to convince the authorities that she was neither a terrorist nor did she have any plans to take a machete to the Prime Minister’s head. While she received a caution for her behaviour, it was nothing compared to the ignominy that fell on her when it was revealed that @ElizCleverley and @TruthIsASword were, in fact, the same person, a revelation that led to a long and distressing conversation between George and his daughter. Once again, the newspapers revelled in a week’s worth of revelations, going back through her tweets, likes and replies before contacting every famous person she had ever messaged for their response to her unkindness. Most had been disparaging, of course, saying that she must have some form of mental illness, or perhaps been bullied in school as a child, since she had now turned into such a bully herself, and the more she was reacquainted with the messages she’d sent, the more ashamed she felt of her behaviour.

What was wrong with me? she asked herself as she scanned the hundreds of abusive tweets that had sprung forth from her mind. Why was I like that?

Which is one of the reasons that she had agreed to accompany her parents to this part of the world, a place she would never have even considered visiting in the past and where there is absolutely no possibility of returning to the digital grid. Although she can’t anyway, having been banned for life by all the social media platforms and finding herself under a court order not to set up any fake accounts. But, like George, she finds that she doesn’t really miss any of it. Sitting down next to Nelson on the steps and looking out to sea, she realizes that there’s something wonderful about simply enjoying this view, in the company of her family, without having to document it for the world to see. The only likes that matter now are her own.

‘What’s going on?’ asks Achilles, emerging from the beach in microscopic Speedos and ascending the steps towards them, having just come from his morning swim. The sea water still clings to his body, but he’s deliberately waited until this moment to shake his head like a dog so all the drops fly out of his hair and drench his assembled family.

‘Idiot,’ says Elizabeth, wiping her face with her T-shirt.