‘I’m afraid not. But it’s not far – it won’t be more than ten euros.’

‘Hmm.’ Sandra snorted angrily. ‘This really isn’t good enough. We were only in the dining room and you knew we were booked on the ferry.’

Connie gave Sandra her best smile. She had checked the dining room when they didn’t turn up and rung Sandra’s mobile twice. ‘Let’s get the taxi organized.’

After she’d seen the still-grumbling Sandra and her long-suffering husband off to the ferry, she stood for a moment beneath the arches of the hotel frontage, looking out across the lake. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sunlight catching the small ruffles on the water in hundreds of glinting flashes that hurt her eyes, the hills on the far side a soft grey-green, contrasting with the pink and cream walls and terracotta roofs of numerous lakeside villas. She watched a white ferry gliding past with an Italian flag flapping at the stern, bright orange lifebelts decorating the bow, and smiled to herself, taking in slow lungfuls of the clean, invigorating air. She loved the Italian lakes.

Half of the group had been taken into Como itself – an hour’s drive from the hotel – the other half to Bellagio. Neither would be back for lunch, so she had the day to herself. Sometimes she would go with them on the day trips – there was so much to see – but she’d visited Bellagio many times over her twelve years as a tour manager. Today she felt like having a bit of time for herself. She might risk a swim in the hotel pool, then indulge in a light lunch on the terrace overlooking the lake. It was frowned upon to swim with the tour guests, so Connie had to slip in her swims while her flock was off sightseeing or after they’d gone in to shower and change for dinner.

The pool was set in the mature gardens behind the hotel, currently alive with the purple and pink blooms of banks of azaleas. It was unheated and would be freezing at this time of year, the outside temperature a moderate sixteen degrees today. But Connie and her friend Neil had begun wild swimming the previous year and regularly took off for a morning in one of the nearby rivers. The shivering anticipation, the adrenalin punch of the cold water, the stinging, reddened skin, the exhilaration afterwards – they both found it addictive. So she was looking forward to a dip in the chilly pool.

Connie brought her book with her to lunch, but she didn’t read it. The view from the cool first-floor terrace was compelling as she ate her tricolore salad – the drizzled olive oil bright green, the tomatoes softly ripe, the buffalo mozzarella piquant and creamy – and sipped a small glass of chilled Chardonnay, gazing across the water towards the distant hills.