But appearances were deceptive. Dr Angela Wendham’s love affairs were brief because her true, enduring love was her work. Her ethereal look concealed a brain that had carried her through medical school with honours. She’d gone on to four exhausting years post-graduate training, including stints in Accident and Emergency departments, coping not merely with casualties but with drunks and vicious louts. She was skilled at dealing with both kinds of crises.

But now she planned only to enjoy herself. Heather was about to marry Lorenzo Martelli, a young Sicilian. Angie was to be the bridesmaid, and since it was her first real holiday since she-couldn’t-remember-when, she was going to make the most of it.

It was still raining when they reached the airport. They got quickly into the main hall, pushing a trolley piled high with bags, most of which were Angie’s. Her petite figure and striking beauty repaid good dressing, and she happily gave them their due.

As they were waiting to check in there was a strangled cry of, ‘Angie!’ from the crowd, and a damp young man appeared beside them. In his hand he bore one perfect red rose.

‘I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,’ he said soulfully, offering it to her. ‘You won’t forget me, will you?’

‘Of course I won’t,’ Angie said, deeply moved. ‘Oh, Fred-’

‘Frank,’ the young man said edgily.

‘Frank, you’ll be in my thoughts every moment I’m away.’

Frank seized her hand and kissed it. Luckily they reached the head of the queue and in the check-in formalities he was forced to retreat. Angie couldn’t meet her friend’s eye.