‘Kalimera sas,’ she greeted them. ‘Morning all!’

‘Kyria,’ shouted a white-haired man in French beret, with a distinct twinkle in his eye, ‘If you want to find your Aphrodite you should ask us!’

Moira’s spirits soared. Generosity was being rewarded. But when she asked him more he suddenly began to laugh and put a finger to his lips, rocking backwards and forwards like a lunatic. Was he just having her on?

‘Kalos!’ chorused the other old men as they drank their coffees. ‘Poli kalos!’

‘Very kind,’ thoughtfully translated an aged gent with a long bushy beard.

‘Tell them to take the tray back to the hotel after, or Cassandra will kill me,’ she informed the English speaker.

She picked up her basket again and headed up the path towards the olive grove. So much had happened since they’d first arrived. Almost unconsciously Moira realized that for the first time she could remember, she was genuinely happy. As she walked through the olive grove she stopped for a moment. Was that myrtle? Was the goddess telling her to listen to the old men? Bloody hell, she was as bad as Ariadne. What had happened to academic rigour? It was probably some kind of hysterical reaction. Freud would no doubt have a name for it.

Moira laughed out loud. Academic rigour could get stuffed!

Down at the bar, she was relieved to find a row of bottles already laid out on the counter. She began to merrily chop fruit, even successfully managing to put some music on the sound system. She wouldn’t have exactly chosen Status Quo, but at least they were upbeat.

Half an hour later Nell arrived, looking slightly more dishevelled than her usual neat appearance.

‘Hey,’ Moira greeted her. ‘How was it last night?’

Nell grinned. ‘I’ll tell you later. Dora has demanded a re-enactment this evening. In her room, in case you-know-who gets wind of it.’

‘Isn’t it stupid?’ The morning had gone so well, Moira felt strong enough to confess her weakness. ‘I thought that Do Not Disturb notice was just for me. I felt really hurt.’

‘Put your knife down,’ Nell commanded. ‘Come here.’ She opened her arms and gave Moira a hug. ‘You’re my friend!’ And Moira, who didn’t even cry at funerals or at the end of Love Story, found a tear blurring the corner of her eye, and wiped it into the nearest Tequila Sunrise.

‘I just had a hangover, that’s all. Mr Expensive Garden Centre kept buying me martinis, but don’t worry; I minded my Dorothy Parker. And as it happens I’ve got a pretty hard head, so he didn’t get anything out of me, though believe me, he tried.’

‘I can’t wait to hear. And by the way –’ Moira shook her head at the outrageousness of what she had to reveal – ‘we need to talk about Marigold.’