‘Our table, I believe,’ Bee says, striding over to the biggest, which has a reservation sign on it, with ‘Flowers’ written in chalk and a hand-drawn daisy; there’s a bottle of wine already in an ice bucket.

They walk to the edge of the terrace and look down. The view is stunning. Below them, the sea whispers against the sand, leaving trails of foam. As far as they can see, there is only sea and sky, a rich indigo and dark plum, bleeding towards a horizon of tangerine and hot pink where the sun is setting.

‘Wow!’ says Theo.

‘Is that Grosseto?’ Matt nods towards the distant shoreline, sparkling with lights from the nearest town. It seems a million miles away and makes Amy feel small, as she realizes how remote the island is. The first star is shining.

‘My treat,’ Bethany says as she pours them a glass of chilled rosé.

‘What’s this in honour of?’ asks Matt. He’s sounding less grumpy now; she can tell he’s impressed by the restaurant, and the children are happily tearing into home-made garlic bread, the waiters fussing round them, chucking them under the chin and bringing them extra lemonade. He hadn’t wanted them to go out on their first night; the children are tired and it’s been a long day. Bethany had breezily brushed away their concerns.

‘I asked Luca and Joe to stay at the villa – thought this should be family only,’ she says now, her voice scratchy. ‘We haven’t seen much of each other over the last few months – I’ve been wrapped up in work, transferring to Bristol and the new job, blah, blah, blah.’ She takes a breath and a slug of wine.

Amy finds herself mirroring her sister, the wine loosening her muscles. She spears an olive and the taste seems to explode in her mouth: grass-green oil, thyme and salty lemon. The food tastes so much better here. She thinks of the bland supermarket tomatoes they get back home, as she takes slices of burrata layered with glossy green basil leaves.

‘I wanted to say thank you for inviting me…’ Bethany pauses again as the children shriek when they see the size of their pizza, the crusts floury, oozing with molten mozzarella. A waiter slides a plate of grilled fish in front of them, charred bulbs of garlic bursting in the juices; another of baby courgettes, their yellow flowers twisted into floral parcels stuffed with goat’s cheese; flame-roasted red peppers, and tomatoes still on the vine, their skins bubbling and crisped. Amy’s stomach rumbles.

‘We couldn’t not invite you,’ she says, stretching out her hand and clasping her sister’s.