Moira too was in an unusually soul-searching frame of mind. She realized that her life until now had both protected and narrowed her. It had fed the life of the mind, and she would never regret a single moment of learning and teaching about the classical world; but it had been at the cost of wider experience. And here she had tasted that. If anyone in her college had heard that Dr Moira O’Reilly was running a beach bar catering specifically for booze cruises, they would have laughed in disbelief. But she’d done it. In this short time, she’d changed from being a teetotal bore who took the joy out of any situation into someone who could be the life of the party.

And it was all thanks to Penny for inviting her. Moira was, she knew, about as sentimental as a brick wall, but somehow she’d come to care about Kyri and its inhabitants, and even more extraordinary, they’d come to care about her. Back home people were all so busy, staring at their phones, dashing for deadlines. Dashing, dashing, dashing, with no time for anyone or anything. It was only when you were away from it that you noticed life didn’t have to be like that. Kyri might be slow, but somehow it was never dull.

She felt a sudden swell of pride. How many times in your life did you help save a statue that had been created two hundred years before the birth of Christ?

Later that evening, for no reason she could think of, Nell changed into her prettiest dress and added a pair of dangly earrings. This climate certainly suited her. Her skin had been burnished into an attractive olive that, together with her large brown eyes, gave her a Mediterranean look that would have astonished her steadfastly British parents.

Her phone beeped. It was Willow. Her amazing daughter had already updated her blog with the headline BRITISH HEROINES DISCOVER VENUS OF KYRI, illustrated by the photos of them standing with the statue.

She was about to text a reply when her phone actually rang. This was such a rare occurrence that she jumped. Breathlessly, she pressed the Accept button.

‘Mum, Mum,’ shouted Willow. ‘I’ve just had the Daily Post on the phone! You know how much they love stories about ladies beyond the first flush of youth!’

‘You mean old bags like us?’

‘Exactly! Anyway, a journalist on the paper follows my blogs – you know how desperate they are to be first with something – and she’s picked up the story about you and the Venus, so you may get a call. The woman’s called Delilah.’

‘Of course she is,’ Nell laughed.

‘I got the impression they might be planning something big.’ Willow was almost bursting with excitement. ‘I so wish I was still there! Good luck, and keep me in touch!’