‘Great. That’s exactly the kind of line Penny would fall for – a poor little damp cuckoo. I’d better tell her to watch out. He wouldn’t go down too well in the age of Time’s Up, would he, your Zeus?’

‘What is Time’s Up?’

‘You don’t want to go there.’ Dora didn’t relish explaining this tricky concept to a fifteen-year-old inhabitant of a tiny Greek island. ‘Your Zeus, he always seems to be having his wicked way with something, from swans to cows.’

‘You do not understand,’ corrected Ariadne. ‘Zeus did not make love to a cow. He turned her into a cow so his wife would not see her.’

‘I know the type.’

She glanced round the olive grove, wary that its owner might appear and chuck them off. ‘Oughtn’t we to get moving?’ she suggested.

‘The goddess is angry today. She has been here not long ago. Can you not smell her perfume?’

Dora breathed in. There it was again: a distinct aroma of myrtle. It was most disconcerting.

‘And today she left this. She has never done this before. It is a bad omen, I am sure of it.’ Ariadne produced a large bunch of fluffy white flowers from behind her back.

Dora regarded them sceptically. ‘I think it’s more likely these are from Mr Georgiades than the goddess Aphrodite. Ouch!’ Focused on the flowers, she had stepped too close to a thorn bush and ended up with a thorn in her toe. She looked round for a rock to sit on. Instead there was a convenient stone bench about three feet long, with some faded carving on it, next to the ramshackle cabin.

Again looking nervously round, Dora sat down on it. ‘Funny,’ she commented as she pulled out the offending article from her big toe, ‘I didn’t notice this here the other day. Did you?’ Ariadne shrugged. She was too concerned with the current mood of the goddess to care about benches.

Dora had no idea why, but she suddenly felt an overwhelming instinct that she should take a photograph of the bench with her iPhone.

Ariadne gave Juno a shove in Dora’s direction. ‘She wants to be in the photo!’

Dora shooed the goat out again. ‘Sorry, Ariadne, but I just want the bench. I’ll take a photo of Juno afterwards.’

Six

Penny and Nell were amazed to find about thirty people gathered on the narrow beach in front of the boathouses. Some were solid, silent fishermen with dark sun-leathered skin, one or two with impressive moustaches, their eyes permanently narrowed from scanning the horizon for changes in the weather. Their wives, even the ones dressed entirely in black, twittered round like noisy parakeets, no doubt gossiping about these strange English ladies who seemed to think they could help bring tourism to the island.

‘Oh Jesus,’ Nell murmured. ‘I hope I’ve got enough food for this lot.’