‘Put that away,’ Nonna Maria ordered with such directness it made Grace’s face flush; she did as she was told to right away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ellis, who was sitting on her left, surreptitiously slip his phone back inside his pocket to avoid a telling off too. ‘You young people with your phones stuck in your hands. No wonder the passion has gone from your lives. No wonder the beauty … you don’t see it. Pah,’ and Nonna Maria batted her hand in the air before giving her dog a reassuring pat on the head. ‘And no wonder you ruin my special rugs with your bacchanalian parties.’ And she gave Tom a withering look. ‘My dear friend, Connie’s rug, I should add. She chose it from a shop in Rome. Handmade. And your friends … they come and vandalise it.’ And Grace held her breath, poised to hear more about Connie.

‘Nonna, it was an accident,’ Tom soothed, pulling up a chair close to his grandmother. ‘And we’ve been over this many times – plus the rug is spotless now that it has been expertly cleaned.’

‘Nothing is ever an accident,’ she said slowly, lifting a shot glass to her crimson-coated lips containing a liquid (which looked very much like the grappa that Grace had struggled with at the pool party) and chugged it in one without so much as a flinch. Grace widened her eyes in awe. Nonna Maria was certainly some woman, and Grace hoped she had even half her panache when she reached old age.

‘Nonna, please tell us about Connie,’ Tom said to move Maria on from her angst over the rug.

‘Who?’ And she gave them all a blank stare. Grace smiled to stifle a sigh of disappointment.

‘Your friend,’ Tom prompted. ‘Connie and her husband, Giovanni.’

‘I have a picture, if that would help. But it’s on my phone.’ And Grace tentatively put a hand back inside her bag in the hope that Nonna Maria would agree to seeing it to help her fading memory return.

‘Let me look.’ Nonna Maria seemed to have no issue with the phone now. ‘Ah, darling Connie. That’s my friend. The English lady. Everyone knew her when she came to live in Santa Margherita. And they all want to be her friend. The new bride with a dashing American husband. A golden couple. The best socialites. You know …’ she paused to clasp Grace’s arm again, ‘they threw the best parties on board Gio’s yacht. Cocktails and caviar. And dancing. He was a marvellous raconteur and Connie with her fine English manners and gentle warmth … well, we all glowed in their company. Superb.’

‘Ooh, how wonderful that you were at the parties. I’ve read about them in Connie’s diary,’ Grace told her.

‘Does she mention me?’ Nonna Maria swiftly asked, ‘they used to call me, Cristal.’