For every kind of evening you imagine.

A bottle of Champagne held in ice on the terrace from seven onwards, never mentioned, never offered — kept ready only for after the answer.

A separate, quieter table set for the children at one end — same food, smaller portions, ceramic mugs of cold lemonade kept full without anyone asking.

No singing. The cake — a single olive-oil and orange tart, no candles — arrived as the eighth course. The toast was decided by the guest of honour, not us.

A separate gluten-free baking station set up off-kitchen on day one — the coeliac grandfather later said it was the first holiday in twenty years he hadn’t worried at every meal.

The fig leaf ice cream — folded together that afternoon, from a tree behind the villa next door, with permission asked over the wall and figs offered in return.

A late-night ouzo bar set up beside the pool on the second evening — unannounced, not on the brief, but exactly the kind of small permission a tired room needed.