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almost hear what Ronnie would say about her missing her flight to their mum and dad, who had flown out the day before. Ronnie, who was always right even when she got everything wrong. Ronnie, the golden child. Not even her getting pregnant in the middle of her A-levels had drawn their parents’ disapproval. She’d always been their favourite.
    Ronnie texted: We’re here. Mum’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. You are actually coming tomorrow, right?
    Chelsea replied, Unless I can arrange a bomb scare. Then she lay back on the suspiciously shiny coverlet and prayed for a strike by air-traffic control.

Chapter Six
    Ronnie
    By the time she and her family arrived at the Hotel Volcan, Ronnie was just about ready to collapse. She had not slept much the night before. Unlike Chelsea, Ronnie had way too much at stake to sleep through her alarm.
    It was only when they finally arrived at the bright white-painted hotel that Ronnie could relax. Actually, forget it. She couldn’t relax even then. There were still rooms to find and cases to unpack. Her mother, Jacqui, and father, Dave, were waiting for them by the main pool (there were three), having saved four extra sunloungers. They had the room keys. Jacqui said she had opened all the windows to air the rooms.
    ‘Thank God you’re here. Hanging on to these sunloungers was like defending the Normandy beaches,’ said Dave. ‘This whole resort is full of Germans.’
    Sophie drew breath sharply. Born more than half a century after the end of the Second World War, she was well drilled in political correctness and made it clear without saying a word that she found her grandfather’s xenophobic humour embarrassing. Sophie found an awful lot of things embarrassing. It was a condition of being a fifteen-year-old girl. Her pain was almost visible as Jacqui gave her a squeeze and commented on how ‘big’ she was getting.
    ‘Big?’ Sophie was horrified.
    ‘Your grandma means “tall”,’ Ronnie chipped in quickly.
    ‘Tall? Yes. Tall. Of course I meant tall. That’s exactly what I meant,’ said Jacqui. ‘You’re turning into a real beanpole.’
    Sophie shook her head. She didn’t actually say ‘lame’ in response to her grandmother’s embarrassment, but Ronnie heard it all the same.
    ‘Am I getting tall too?’ asked Jack, pulling himself up to his full height. Unlike his sister, Jack couldn’t wait for his grandmother to sweep him into her arms. Ronnie smiled at Jack’s unselfconscious delight as Jacqui blew a raspberry on his neck.
    ‘Where’s Bill?’ Ronnie asked.
    Jacqui jerked a thumb towards the bar. Granddad Bill, Ronnie’s grandfather and the family patriarch, was inside in the shade. Jacqui explained that she and Dave had found him a nice spot beneath the wide-screen TV, which was permanently tuned to Sky Sports, and instructed the barman to make sure he was kept well lubricated. But not too well lubricated.
    Ronnie found Granddad Bill exactly where Jacqui said she’d left him. He was wearing a Coventry City football shirt, a pair of ancient Bermuda shorts, which showcased his knobbly knees to perfection, and his carpet slippers, which were dark red velvet with a gold-embroidered crest. Very regal if totally inappropriate, not to mention at least twenty years old and with soles full of holes. Still, he refused to wear anything else on his feet these days.
    ‘All right, Granddad?’ Ronnie pressed a kiss to his cheek, which was as dry and papery as an autumn leaf. ‘You OK in here on your own in the dark?’
    ‘I’ve got an armchair, I’ve got a bottle of beer, and I’m watching lovely young women play beach volleyball on Sky. I’ve won the bloody lottery,’ said Bill.
    Ronnie laughed. Her grandfather was having a good day.
    ‘I’ve won the bloody lottery’ was Bill’s catchphrase. Two Christmases ago, while staying at Ronnie’s house for a family celebration, Bill had fallen out of bed and been unable to get back up from the floor. When