A massive bomb had been lobbed into my life, just as I felt like I was getting myself together after Miles. I bit my lip as pictures of him flitted in front of my eyes. I blinked them away.

“Hello darling!” beamed Mum, planting a kiss on my cheek. Her dark-chocolate Italian eyes mirrored mine. “How was your day? Anything hot off the press?”

I nestled Harley closer to me and plastered on a fake smile.

She took a step backwards to look at me. “What’s wrong? You look pale and tired.” She frowned. “Are you eating properly and getting enough sleep? I bet you’re living off next to nothing.”

She called over her shoulder. “Ross. Come and see your daughter. You tell me if you think she’s eating.” She shook her dark layered hair. “Why don’t you come in and let me make you dinner. You need feeding up a bit.”

Despite my mood, I couldn’t stifle a brief snort of laughter. “Are you joking, Mum? Have you seen my arse in my jeans lately?”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with your arse, young lady. It’s a real woman’s arse. You have the Carlucci bottom and there is nothing wrong with that. Remember what Sophia Loren said? ‘Everything you see I owe to pasta.’”

I rolled my eyes and buried my face deeper into Harley’s coat. Why was I standing here on my parents’ doorstep, talking about family bottoms and Sophia Loren, when I should be delivering the sobering news that their only daughter was about to join the dole queue?

“Mum,” I began, but Dad had now appeared.

“Look at her,” pressed on Mum. “You look at Leonie and tell me she’s looking thinner. I don’t think she’s eating properly. Well, Ross, what do you think?”

Dad looked agonised. Either way, he knew he couldn’t win.

“Chi mangia sulo s'affoga,” said Mum, pulling in her lips and not giving Dad enough time to respond.

“He who eats alone suffocates?” guessed Dad, used to Mum quoting her extensive repertoire of Italian proverbs.

“Well done,” I sighed. “Got it in one.”

Mum raked me from the top of my head to my toes, scrunching her nose as she scrutinized me for signs of self-neglect. “You could be doing with a good plate of my ricotta and cherry tomato gnocchi.”

Dad looked me over, with an intense expression. He broke into a smile. “I think our little girl is gorgeous as she is.”

No, it was no use. Those lovely words from my dad tipped my emotions over the edge, like the penny-falls at a fairground.

His smile collapsed. “Leonie? Leonie? What is it? What’s wrong sweetheart?”

I answered my dad’s question by erupting into a series of louder, rasping sobs.

Chapter Three

The next week evaporated in a haze of me trawling through various media job sites.