To her surprise, the helicopter seemed to be descending somewhere at the back of Kyri town.

‘I bet it’s the amphitheatre,’ Karl said. ‘That’s a big enough space for it to land.’

‘Since when do you know how much space helicopters need?’ Dora teased.

‘Karl’s right,’ Nikos backed him up. ‘The amphitheatre is surprisingly big.’

‘I’d better get some drinks in,’ Stelios grinned. ‘We may be in for some fun, and it looks like we’ve got a ringside seat.’

He disappeared into the hotel reception, and emerged almost immediately with a bottle of white wine.

‘That was quick,’ Dora remarked admiringly.

Stelios winked. ‘I know where Takis keeps his emergency supply.’

They sipped their wine and watched the approach of a short, bearded man with an exceptionally long lens on his camera, followed by a harassed-looking woman in white jeans and stilettos and behind them – clearly the VIP – a blonde in sunglasses and a long, clinging bodycon dress that left very little to the imagination.

‘Oh my God!’ Dora grabbed Nell, who was standing next to her. ‘It’s only bloody Venus Green! I’ve got to get out of here!’

She turned round to run off, but a surprisingly strong hand on her shoulder stopped her. ‘Don’t be a coward,’ Karl said softly. ‘I fell for a strong woman. You can deal with this.’

Meanwhile, Venus had just caught sight of her.

‘Pandora!’ she shrieked. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’ Dora willed herself to be calm. ‘That was some arrival. We thought you were Donald Trump, or the Pope!’

‘I’ve been sent here by the Daily Post. They’re doing a piece on this statue – Venus meeting Venus, or some such thing. Where is she by the way?’

‘Over there. They’ll be taking her off to the museum soon. She sleeps there for the night, in case of vandals.’

Venus Green took off her sunglasses and studied the two-thousand-year-old triumph of Hellenistic sculpture.

‘I didn’t realize she was lying down,’ she remarked pettishly. ‘I thought she’d be standing up, like that statue without the arms on the album cover of Critical Mass.’

‘You mean the Venus de Milo?’

‘Does she have arms?’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ Dora tried not to laugh. Her ex-client had never claimed to be culturally savvy.

‘Then that’s the one. I thought I’d stand next to your Venus for my new album cover and call it When Goddess meets Goddess, and the Daily Post could pay! But that won’t work now she’s lying down.’

She turned her full attention, which Dora knew from experience to be somewhat limited in scope, onto Dora and demanded: ‘Anyway, where have you been? I’ve been sending you endless messages, and nobody knew where you were. Have you had a breakdown or something?’