About Jared himself, Connie wasn’t sure what to think. Was he flirting with me? she asked herself, as she climbed into bed. Or was he just being friendly and charming? Since she would never see him again, it didn’t matter either way: the tour managers, on pain of death, were required to delete passengers’ contact details when they returned from a tour, so she didn’t even have his phone number … not that she would have used it, if she had. But, still, there was this tingling in her belly when she thought about him. And it wouldn’t go away.

Verona was only a twenty-minute journey from Desenzano, and the tour set off early on the last day. It had been cloudy when Connie had woken, rain forecast on her weather app at 33 per cent during the afternoon. It would be a shame, she thought, after the brilliant weather they’d had, not to be able to take full advantage of the beautiful city.

She decided to join Serena – the Verona tour guide – on the walking tour today. She felt she hadn’t been present enough or paying proper attention to her flock, her mood initially too distracted by the problems at home, then by Jared’s sudden appearance two days ago. Though what she would really have liked to do today was wander round the super-chic boutiques hidden in Verona’s side-streets, where she could find things that would never make the crowded Via Mazzini and its designer stores.

But she would do Juliet’s balcony – always a bit of a disappointment – and the first-century Roman arena instead. She would listen to the glamorous Serena – an actress by night – making jokes about Romeo, and watch tears fill her brown eyes as she told dramatic tales of Christians waiting in the dank, gloomy tunnels before walking into the sunlit arena to be slaughtered. She would bond with the group. Do her job.

It did rain. Not hard, but drizzly and chilly enough to dampen the group’s enthusiasm for standing outside for long periods in their summer clothes. Serena, chic in a short cream trench coat, matching cloche hat over her shiny hair, soldiered on, but everyone – Connie included – was pleased when the traditional osteria and a comforting bowl of dark, rich Amarone risotto hove into sight.

She had found herself glancing around as they stood in the echoing Roman amphitheatre, checking the tiers of stone seats raking sharply to the sky and the wide arena, as if she were expecting – ridiculously – to see Jared emerge from one of the tunnels. She was mortified by her imaginings, but couldn’t help feeling his presence, couldn’t help remembering with pleasure the morning they had spent together in Venice.