‘Grazie mille,’ I replied gratefully, ducking my head and hurrying on. He wasn’t wrong. But no number of awkward looks and sideways glances could distract me from my mission. Juliette wanted orange San Pellegrino and orange San Pellegrino she would get. It wasn’t such an irrational request, I decided, nodding to a fisherman, who took one look at me and burst out laughing. She had drunk at least twice as much as me and I felt like utter dogshit, plus she was probably anxious about performing. Who wouldn’t want their favourite can of pop under those circumstances? When I multiplied performance anxiety by hangover dread, I could see how she had ended up in a mood. Besides, I was the person hired to keep her on the straight and narrow, and I had most certainly failed at that. She hadn’t asked to be dragged into my personal drama. Well, maybe she had, but it was still my fault for allowing it to happen. Personal problems did not belong in professional settings. Especially when those personal problems had been made worse by calling my fiancé and performing Elvis while twatted, from the observation deck of a yacht while dressed like an off-brand Little Mermaid.

The pale blue sky was smeared with white wisps, clouds stretched so thin across the horizon they couldn’t quite hold themselves together, and I knew exactly how they felt. Between Juliette, Stew, Sarah, Lenny and my hangover, I felt as though I was being pulled in a thousand different directions. Usually, I was so good at compartmentalizing but usually, I hadn’t drunk enough champagne to drown an ox. At least there was one thing I didn’t have to worry about. Assuming Sarah didn’t fancy calling in a search and rescue team to dredge the bottom of the Tyrrhenian Sea for me to check my voicemail, my phone was lost for ever. Unless I met a billionaire at the ball who thought it might be a laugh. I’d seen Titanic, I knew what was possible if you had enough time, enough money, and very little else to do with your life.

I arrived at the Supermercato da Pina and was immediately struck by a pure hit of grade A, childhood-holiday nostalgia. The bright white awning, the hand-painted sign above the open stable doors, the spinning racks of postcards standing sentry on either side, it was all so painfully, joyously familiar. Buckets and spades were stacked up against the wall outside, alongside a snorkel and mask set that hung off a piece of cardboard so faded I could barely make out any of the print, and a giant fridge full of ice cream hummed happily as I went inside.

‘Good morning,’ I said, stumbling over my pronunciation as I twisted my furry tongue around Italian words I used to know. ‘Do you have any orange San Pellegrino?’