Sofia’s own gift to Jude was a little Greek icon, which she said would protect her, and an ‘evil eye’ on a silver chain to ward off unfriendly spirits. Catrin said she didn’t really like the sound of this, though admittedly it was much nicer to look at than her tacky St Christopher. The most moving gift, though, was a beautiful plaited gold ring that Sofia took from a small box in the dresser. It had belonged to George’s mum and Judith wouldn’t accept it at first – but Sofia wouldn’t let her leave until she had agreed. It fitted her finger perfectly.

Sofia sent them on their way with repeated hugs, buckets of tears and two big Tupperware boxes full of home-made food: one sweet, comprising baklava, galaktoboureko and koulouraki, and one savoury – olives, koukouras, dolmades and slices of halloumi, along with two loaves of delicious sesame bread.

‘I tell you what, Cat,’ whispered Lana as they climbed into Iannis’s car. ‘I’m not half gonna miss that woman’s cooking!’

They arrived in Athens mid morning and booked themselves a room each as a treat in a cheap and cheerful hotel called Maxine’s, where they dropped off their stuff before heading to the Parthenon and the Acropolis for their last round of sightseeing, sustained all day by Sofia’s never-ending Tupperware feast. By six p.m. they’d showered and dressed up in their only remaining, vaguely clean clothes.

‘Right, come on, ladies. Let’s hit Athens where it hurts!’ Lana announced. ‘We’re gonna end this holiday with a bang.’

A few hours later they’d landed in a tequila bar called Demetri’s. Lana had drunk more than the other two and was well and truly wired.

‘She frightens me a bit when she’s in this mode,’ Judith yelled over the music to Catrin, whose face dropped as she looked over her friend’s shoulder towards the bar.

‘Oh my God, look!’

Judith turned around and was horrified to see Lana dancing provocatively on a table, cheered on by some lively Irish guys.

‘I think she’s gonna strip!’

The two friends ran over, pushing their way through the crowd.

‘Lana, get down!’ shouted Judith, but Lana laughed back, ignoring her, and continued the routine.

It was Catrin who managed to get through to her. ‘Lana Lloyd!’ she yelled. ‘Stop showing off and come down from that table right NOW!’ And with that she grabbed Lana’s arm and pulled her off the improvised stage.

The Irish guys booed and turned back to their beer.

‘You are a bloody spoilsport, Catrin Kelly!’ Lana sulked.

‘Come on,’ said Judith. ‘I think you need to eat something. Soak up all that tequila.’ And between them, Judith and Catrin wrangled their drunken friend out of the bar and along the busy tourist-filled street, till they happened upon a quiet little taverna.

‘Table for three, parakalo,’ said Catrin to the kindly owner, who couldn’t have been more welcoming.

They shared a big bowl of makaronia and stuffed peppers and gorged on an endless supply of Greek bread until Lana was several degrees more sober, though still pretty merry. She’d reached the ‘emotional’ stage that the girls always recognized in her after she’d consumed a certain amount of booze. She insisted on their singing ‘Calon Lân’ and ‘I Bob Un Sydd Ffyddlon’, including the harmonies, and they knew there was no point in objecting.