‘Shall we push the boat out and have a glass of Greek brandy? Metaxa is supposed to be pretty good,’ Karl suggested.

Dora laughed. ‘No, no, you must try Ariadne’s recommendation. Not Metaxa but Mastiha!’

‘What on earth is that?’

‘A local spirit made from the resin of the mastic tree. It tastes like ouzo, but with a slightly resinous flavour. According to Ariadne it’s also useful for acid reflux, heartburn, indigestion and ulcers!’

‘Sounds just about perfect after three courses and Turkish Delight. Waiter! Two glasses of Mastiha please!’

The waiter looked momentarily nonplussed. Clearly this was not your everyday request.

‘While we’re waiting I’ll nip off to the ladies’,’ Dora smiled. ‘If I can find it!’

‘Excuse me, madam, ladies’ toilet is down the road a little. I am very sorry,’ the waiter told her apologetically. ‘Ours not work and we share with cafe nearby.’

‘Never mind. Send out a search party if I’m not back in five minutes. No, maybe make it ten.’

The shared ladies’ wasn’t too far away and Dora made the most of the tiny mirror to adjust her makeup and tidy her hair. As she was putting her brush back in her bag she picked up the tones of an urgent conversation taking place just outside. Even though she couldn’t speak Greek there was something about it that made her stand stock still. One of the voices was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place who it belonged to.

Without emerging into the lighted street, she glanced surreptitiously round the wall that separated them.

Two men were standing with their backs to her. The first managed to look both rich in a flashy sort of way – the sort of man you saw coming off the yachts that occasionally docked in the harbour – and also somehow untrustworthy. Maybe it was the unnecessary dark glasses, or the way he kept looking up and down the street for no apparent reason.

The second was Xan Georgiades.

He looked up just at the moment Dora was ducking back into the toilet, and for a fraction of a second their eyes locked. Pandora Perkins, the scariest PR in London, felt her chest tighten uncomfortably and her breath begin to come faster.

It was an unfamiliar emotion she recognized as fear.

Next day, Nell spent a delicious afternoon playing with her granddaughter on a shady rug on the balcony, with the waves lapping gently beneath, while Willow and Marigold sunbathed. Marigold, typically, wore a Heidi Klum bandeau bikini that Nell recognized with a jolt of envy as being the one she’d wanted herself, until she saw the £275 price tag and settled for a £7.95 version from Primark.

‘I hate strap marks,’ Marigold had announced as an explanation for why she had paid nearly £300, ‘they’re so unsexy. Besides, I used to know Heidi a bit.’