I glance at the headline of the newspaper folded in my lap, and smile. The plane takes off and the island shrinks into a chocolate-box toytown, surrounded by a champagne sea.

Only a week ago, I hauled my bag up the path that spirals around that cliff. The hotel loomed above me, built into the rocks and incandescent in the sunshine.

She was by the lift, talking into her phone when I walked through reception. I recognised her voice immediately: that same grating, high-pitched lilt. She looked up. A flash of recognition and – was that panic? Then she plastered on a smile.