They’d set off this morning, at 5 a.m., Bristol damp and shrouded in fog, and flew into blazing sunlight, ice-white clouds and brilliant blue skies. The children were tired and whiny on the plane, but after croissants and muffins at the train station in Pisa and slices of pizza by the harbour in Grosseto, they’d grown increasingly excited, shrieking as they were sprayed by sea water on the boat, screaming at a flock of seagulls that tailed them. Chloe had ignored everyone, keeping her headphones clamped over her ears for the entire journey. Amy, although she’d been irritated with her, remembered all too well what it was like being a teenager and wanting to distance yourself from your younger, annoying siblings. Nick had said some last-minute work had come through and he’d booked a later flight: he was due to arrive the following day.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they arrived on the tiny Tuscan island: Isola del Piccolo Giglio – Little Lily Island. Carlo Donati, a dark blond-haired teenager whose family owned the holiday house, collected them from the port in a pickup. He slung their luggage into the back with ease. Theo begged to ride in the front, and Luca went with him; Matt drove the rest of them over in the people-carrier they’d hired. Amy tried not to worry about the lack of booster seats for the children – at six and eight years old, they still needed them.

Now they pass a vineyard with a terrace cafe and then they drive between two sandstone pillars onto a rough track, veering quickly down another one and through an olive grove.

‘Maregiglio,’ says Carlo, grinning at them as he jumps out of the truck. ‘Mean “Sea Lily”.’

It’s perfect, Amy thinks.

Her first thought is that Ruby-May would have loved it and she bites down on the inside of her cheek and swallows hard to get rid of the lump in her throat. She stands on the rough green grass of the olive grove in front of the house and looks out towards the sea. It’s so blue, the sky and the water seem to have merged. There’s the gentlest of breezes and the leaves of the olives turn like a shoal of silver fish. She can smell salt and oregano, baked by the heat.

She’d been anxious since she booked it. She’d found the house through an online company that lets people rent out their own properties via the website. She’d been worried it was too risky, or that it wouldn’t match the description, which had been written in terrible English, or that the travel arrangements would fall through. But it had all gone to plan, and in the warmth and sunlight her tiredness and her spirits lift a little.