‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine. Would you like more coffee? I could pop out this time to get it,’ she said, hurriedly, suddenly wanting to get away from him. But then a stab of her old step-counting anxiety reared up and she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Thinking about Phil’s phone call was making her feel unnerved. Whilst it was a relief to not have to pretend their relationship was anything real any more, his words had still hurt. Since last night, she’d had a little voice of doubt whispering in her ear … ‘not much cop in the sack’ … and the inevitable conclusion to that being, no wonder Matthew cheated on me. And so she was battling to get back those euphoric feelings of renewal that she had felt on first arriving here in Italy.

‘I’m not sure we have time for more coffee,’ Ellis said, looking at his watch. ‘We need to head to the station soon to catch the train to Santa Margherita.’ And Grace could have kissed him in relief. Aghhhh. No. Not a kiss. That’s not what she meant. Sorry Jennifer. Certainly not. Maybe just a courteous hug instead, perhaps …

Chapter 15

The train journey from Venice to Santa Margherita gave Grace plenty of time to rinse her head of all the negative thoughts as she gazed through the window at the sheer magnificence of the Italian scenery. Romantically remote farmhouses in lush green fields. Vineyards with ride-on tractors trundling up and down the rows of vines. An ancient little white church with a bell tower flanked by cypress trees, olive groves stretching as far as she could see into a cloudless, sunny blue sky above. Grace had been mesmerised and now, once again, felt light and energised, because Italy was so cathartic and restorative and she just loved the way it made her feel.

Letting out a long sigh of contentment, she reached into her bag to retrieve her laptop. They had changed trains in Milan, but with only an hour or so there, they hadn’t had time to look around the city, but just outside the station they had discovered a coffee bar. And Grace had loved people-watching the smart Italian women with their tailored clothes and chic leather handbags and swingy hairstyles and such sophisticated style. Not to mention the breathtakingly beautiful architecture of the actual station building, with its intricately carved stone, reminiscent of Roman baths, and with winged horses standing majestically on the roof. Grace had captured it all in photos on her phone, but she was really here to work. To find out what had become of Connie’s relatives, and not daydream in a semi-meditative state as she stared out of the train window.