Francesca joined the discussion: she agreed with their mother, it would never work. Italians wouldn’t want imported hair. Giulia was unsurprised. Her sister was one of the great sceptics of this world, the people for whom everything was black and grey, who always answered ‘no’ before even considering ‘yes’. Who always spotted the ugly detail in a landscape, the tiny stain on a fresh tablecloth; the people who pored over the surface of life in search of something to pick at, made it their reason for living, delighting in disaster. She was the opposite of Giulia, a true negative image: Giulia’s light was her darkness.

If Italians don’t want Indian hair, we’ll open up to other markets, said Giulia. The Americans, the Canadians. It’s a big world out there, people need hair! Implants, extensions and wigs were a fast-growing sector. They must catch the wave and ride it, not go under.

Francesca made her doubts – her resistance to the whole project, in fact – abundantly clear. She was the older sister, and she didn’t mince her words. How was Giulia planning to go about it? She had never left Italy, never even been on a plane! Her world barely extended beyond the Bay of Palermo – how did she think she could pull off this extraordinary feat, this miracle?

But Giulia wanted to believe. The internet had made the world a much smaller place, distance meant nothing, the world fitted in the palm of their hands today, like the globe lamp they had been given when they were children. India was so close – a whole sub-continent on their doorstep. She had studied the prices at length, she knew what to pay and what to charge, her scheme was workable. All it took was courage, and faith. She had both.

Adela said nothing. She sat in a corner and watched her sisters argue – she remained neutral in any situation, indifferent to the world and everyone in it. A typical teenager.

We must close the workshop and sell the building, Francesca insisted. That would pay off part of the loan secured on the house. And what will we live on? demanded Giulia. Did she think it would be easy, finding another job? And their workers? Had she thought about them? What future for the women who had worked for them all for so many years?

The discussion was turning into a confrontation. Mamma knew she would have to intervene and separate her daughters, whose raised voices were echoing through the house. They had never understood one another, she thought bitterly. Their relationship had been a series of clashes, of which this was the biggest. She must speak, and make a decision, to settle the matter.

It is true, we must think of the workers, she said, that is a question of honour, and respect. But Francesca is right on one point: Italian people want Italian hair.

Mamma’s words sounded the death knell for Giulia’s plan.