As they drove home in silence, Connie wished with all her heart she could tell Neil about Jared. What a liar I’ve become. Mum would be horrified, she thought, glad for once that her mother was no longer around to witness her daughter’s shame. Talking to Neil without mentioning the momentous thing that had happened to her these past weeks was like making a cake with one vital ingredient missing. But she knew it would be selfish and pointless to give life to something that was now over. It would expand in the telling, be given a new reality, and colour all her exchanges with her friend – change Neil’s relationship with Devan for ever. Telling Lynne was bad enough. But her sister was discreet to the point of pathology – and not part of Connie’s day-to-day life.

The affair is over. I love Devan. My marriage is the most important thing in my life. She ran these resolutions around her mind, like a playlist on a constant loop, as she stared out of the car window. But she was leaving for Tuscany on Friday and a familiar question had begun to nibble at the edges of her thoughts: If Jared knocks on my bedroom door, will I be strong enough to send him away? If she had her doubts, she was pretty certain Jared would too.

16

Connie thought at first it was the heat. Tuscany was roasting in August. It was day six when she started to notice she wasn’t feeling well. The coach had taken the winding road up to San Gimignano in the morning. It was a spectacular hill town with medieval towers, built by various warring noblemen with the sole purpose of showing off and outdoing their rivals. After a potter round the sights, they’d driven down into the surrounding countryside, arriving at a rambling villa with faded ochre walls, green shutters and a terracotta roof, situated at the end of a long avenue of cypresses.

Two Italian chefs in toques and pristine whites had taken the next two hours showing them how to make ravioli filled with pork and red wine; panzanella – Tuscan bread salad; and custard-filled bomboloni – baby Italian doughnuts.

Connie’s cooking triumphs were sporadic and unpredictable, but she loved cookery programmes and leafing through glossy recipe books, closely scrutinizing the mouth-watering photos for dishes she knew she would probably never make. So she’d been looking forward to the demonstration, which was held under shady trees in the corner of the villa’s extensive vegetable garden.

But by the time the deliciously warm, sugary bomboloni were being handed round, served with a little demitasse of strong espresso, she had a headache and was feeling slightly shivery. A bloody cold in the middle of August? she thought resentfully. But she hadn’t been sleeping.