So beautiful, thought Nina as ‘Beyond the Sea’ began in Italian, apt as she gazed at the brightly coloured houses covering the surrounding cliffs like wildflowers, cascading down to the sea. She propped her head on Flynn’s shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist. Her slim-fit yellow dress, with billowing sleeves, was cinched in with a cabochon-encrusted belt in blues and greens. They were tentatively exploring a relationship together, perhaps building a life. On Monday, when the others returned home, they were travelling from Ravello along the coast, to Positano and Capri, a much-needed break before her book launch next month.

Jules was resplendent in a Dolce & Gabbana white silk dress emblazoned with a green banana-leaf print, pointed cerise shoes and a clutch bag by her favourite designer: a yellow crystal-studded lemon. It didn’t work but it worked.

‘Things are really taking off for you,’ Nina said, as they walked further along the terrace to the ancient crypt where they could already see a long table, laid for dinner.

‘It’s because I’m a woman. A white woman in a smart suit with a big job and a house in West London. People are fascinated.’ She shrugged. ‘But whatever, I’m happy I can be useful.’

Jules had had what Nina would refer to as a therapy ‘breakthrough’, terminology Jules wasn’t ready to embrace just yet. She had moved from her father’s philosophy – to work hard and be the best – to Paul’s philosophy – to work hard to enjoy life – but she’d never stopped to consider what her own philosophy was. It wasn’t until the offers began flooding in – consultancy work at the investment banks (‘How can we harness women’s neuro-diversity most effectively, Julia?’), speeches at conferences and universities – that she realised this was where she thrived: helping others. She wanted to reach a hand down and help the neuro-diverse women below her climb on to her shoulders. When she stood on a stage and looked out across an eager audience, women who had grown up like Charlotte being told she was different, or masking like Jules, afraid to be her true self, she saw hope. She saw the future. She saw it as an evolving pyramid of cheerleaders, each pulling the next generation up and – when needed – letting her climb to the top with a megaphone, to get their point across.

‘I think it’s a little more than that,’ Paul said, sitting beside her in a sky-blue Tom Ford linen suit.

‘That was a beautiful ceremony, man,’ said Flynn, smoothing his shirt as he sat down. Paul, ever the gracious host, said that the beautiful thing was them all being there together. Jules’s mother, Nancy, joined them at the table, along with her brother William, his wife Gilly and their son Jasper, who was transfixed by one of Charlotte’s fidget spinners.

The table looked out to the sea and mountains beyond, exposed to the elements, which today were warm and mild. It was adorned with grey tapered candles, fistfuls of white blossoms, fresh herbs and small green apples. White plates were placed on blue-and-yellow Mediterranean tiles and replaced with dish after dish: red snapper carpaccio with melon, lobster ravioli, beef stuffed with mozzarella and porcini mushrooms, millefeuille layered with cream and wild berries, washed down with rich Tuscan wine and crisp flutes of Prosecco.