Connie angled the magnifying mirror in the bathroom to put on her make-up, preparatory to the last dinner of the tour. As she gazed at her reflection, foundation stick in hand, she saw the anxiety etched in her eyes, and sensed the reluctance she always felt as home and Devan loomed. She’d only messaged him a few times over the past eight days. He had replied to each with a row of three kisses – the equivalent of a cop-out on WhatsApp. She had almost rung him one night as she lay in bed trying to sleep. But she didn’t want to start a conversation on the phone when he’d probably been drinking. It might only escalate the current tension between them. She knew, however, that once home, they would need a proper discussion.

Dinner was fun, the long table that Bianca had constructed in the small hotel dining room becoming more and more raucous in the face of the delicious home-cooked food – platters of local salami and frico friabile (crispy-fried Montasio cheese); tortellini with a shallot, scallop, basil and white wine sauce; panna cotta wobbling delicately in a sea of raspberry coulis – and quantities of local wine. Connie, as she always did on the last night, drank more than she should. But no one else was in a state to notice or care. She even made friends with Martin from Cheltenham, who had come out of his shell over the week and become quite talkative, even if his conversation about local Gloucester politics was not entirely riveting.

‘Be glad to get shot of us, will you, Connie?’ he said, as the party wound down, people beginning to make their way up to their beds, some still lingering in the lobby, reluctant for it all to end. ‘Must be like herding cats, your job.’

‘It has its moments,’ she said, laughing. ‘Although cats don’t have wallets to steal.’

Martin grinned. ‘Could have been worse, I suppose. My daughter says I’m so scatty I need a leading rein to stop me wandering off.’

‘I’ve never lost a passenger in all the twelve years I’ve been touring,’ Connie told him. ‘And I don’t plan to start now.’ She put her finger to her cheek in mock contemplation. ‘A leading rein? Hmm, not such a bad idea …’

They were both laughing as they said goodnight. She waved to the others waiting by the lift, but she wasn’t tired.

Sandro, Bianca’s younger son, stood behind the desk, punching away on his computer, a frown of concentration on his face. He was in his fifties and broad, well-fed, genial. She supposed he had a pleasant existence with his lovely mum, beautiful hometown and job for life.

‘It was a wonderful dinner, Sandro,’ she said, leaning on the counter. ‘Thank you, we’ve all had such a great time, as usual.’

He grinned. ‘Prego! You know how Mamma loves you, Connie.’