She carried on to the site’s private beach, part of the shoreline that curls round like a crescent moon from Trieste to Venice. She slowed down as she made her way through the heavy sand to the water’s margin then, turning her back on the tower block hotels of Lido di Jesolo, she started to run the hangover out of her system. It had been a hell of a party.

The family who owned the site, the Maciocias, had accepted her for no better reason than that her hairdresser in the UK was their niece. When she had turned up with her life in shreds, looking for a place to hide and heal, they had asked no questions. Instead, they had persuaded her to occupy her time by working for them. In the summer months, she’d been the ideal candidate for dealing with the English families whose Italian never seemed to encompass more than “Arrivederci Roma,” and whose demands caused constant chaos at Reception. And when the end of the season arrived, she had decided to stay on, living in her van, earning a few thousand lire a day for keeping an eye on things.

Last night’s New Year celebration should have reinforced her decision. The Maciocias had taken over a trattoria owned by someone’s brother-in-law, and she couldn’t remember ever having been at a party like it. The food had been lavish, delicious, and deeply traditional. Cousin Bartolomeo had brought his dance band along and the singing and dancing had enveloped her like summer sunlight. The kindness of these strangers who had become her surrogate family meant her glass was never allowed to become empty. It had taken the full resources of her Italian, her diplomacy, and her determination to persuade all the male relatives that she’d be safe to return to her van without an escort. But as she walked home alone with the desperate concentration of the mortally drunk, she had been overwhelmed with homesickness.

She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what she had longed for as soon as midnight struck. The mellow taste of good malt soaked up by shortbread, oatcakes, and caboc. The hysterical, ordered chaos of “Strip the Willow.” The sound of accordion, bass, and drums. The voice of her father singing “The Road And the Miles To Dundee.” The contented smile of her mother as she listened. The welcoming warmth in Cordelia’s deep, gray eyes. For too long, Lindsay thought sadly, she’d been looking into brown eyes. At the time, she had forced the thoughts away, telling herself she was maudlin and sentimental. Back at the van, a final tumbler of fiery grappa had brought a welcome oblivion.