‘Taking? I was worried you’d say stealing. They’re my inheritance. All I’m doing is accessing them a little earlier than legally expected.’ He leaned in as the music around them grew louder. She could smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Look, I can imagine what Olivia’s been saying. That I’m a thief. That I’m lazy. That I don’t care about my father. Far be it from me to defend myself, Eliza, but please remember there are always two sides to every story.’

She felt the need to defend Olivia. ‘She hasn’t said much. She’s just worried about the future of the hotel. About Edgar.’

‘Olivia worries too much about that hotel. She needs to realise there’s more to life than that place. Not just her life. My life. Rory’s life. And while we’re on the subject, she’s not the only person who worries about my father, even if she thinks she is. I don’t visit him as often as she does. But I do visit him. Care about him. He’s been my father longer than he’s been her husband. I wish she’d let me love him in my own way.’

Eliza didn’t get the chance to reply. Alex was called over to the reception desk by a trio of disgruntled-looking backpackers. She saw him instantly switch into his most charming persona.

‘So, any more takers?’ an American voice called out from the corner. ‘Have scissors, will travel! Ten years’ salon experience, here at your fingertips!’

It was the impromptu hairdresser. A young woman, dressed in a bright-red jumpsuit, her own hair wound into a loose bun, a fifties-style scarf wrapped around it. She looked so carefree, so stylish.

‘Only twenty pounds for a whole new look!’ she called out again. When it seemed as though she had no takers, she began to fold up the plastic cape she was holding.

Eliza stood up. ‘Wait. Please.’

The young woman turned to her with a smile. ‘Hi, I’m Becky. Please, take a seat.’

Eliza had worn her hair long since she was a child. She knew her mother had liked it that way. Her godmothers, too. Olivia had often told her how much she liked seeing it in the long plait. Gillian had always insisted she wear it in a low bun. Rose had never voiced a preference either way. She’d only expressed jealousy at how dark and glossy Eliza’s hair was. Rose had fought her grey hairs for years.

Eliza had never even considered changing her hair. But here, tonight, a feeling like recklessness was coursing through her. Before she could change her mind, she pulled her hair out of the plait and ran her fingers through it, loosening it around her shoulders.