Zia hastened to reassure her. ‘I’m not trying to create difficulties with your husband. If we both just watch what we say in front of him the problem will go away.’

But Ursula’s tone turned to dismay. ‘It’s tricky, honey. Y’know, couples have conversations. If he asks me something and I don’t answer it seems like I’ve got something to hide.’

‘He asks you about my life?’ Zia clarified, dismayed in her turn.

‘Kind of,’ Ursula muttered, sounding cornered. ‘You’re his friend too, aren’t you? He’s concerned for you.’

‘Is he? Right. Um, I understand.’ Zia didn’t really. Neither did she believe Stephan was her friend. He was Brendon’s friend and seemed to have no compunction in feeding Brendon’s proprietorial illusions. What she did understand was that there was a danger in asking Ursula to take sides: Ursula couldn’t take hers. Shaken by this unpalatable truth she strode faster, dodging dogs off leads and adults pushing buggies, half-wishing she hadn’t confided her decision about Gerardo.

‘Will you let me know how you get on tomorrow?’ demanded Ursula with the air of someone wanting to move the conversation on.

Zia knew she took a beat too long to answer. ‘Of course.’

Another beat before Ursula said stiffly, ‘Not so I can pass the information along.’

‘I didn’t think that,’ Zia protested guiltily, knowing that for an instant she had thought that. An uncomfortable, alien thought, it was one she wished she hadn’t admitted to her brain. Ursula was her rock, her constant, her best friend.

Except Ursula had been destroyed by losing Stephan and lit up with joy at getting him back. Zia wouldn’t, for anything, return the shadows of anxiety to Ursula’s eyes. Yet Stephan was in the habit of asking direct questions … and Ursula had said not answering them was tricky.

Monday morning. Crowded train from Brighton to London Victoria. Yuck.

Trying to read over the clatter of the train and people talking too loudly, Zia, trussed in her blue-grey suit, could only think of summer dresses and sun-drenched days, especially when she received a text from Piero.

Thinking about you. x

It was the kind of message that didn’t demand an answer but after watching English fields and hedges flash by, she replied. Lucia still seems quite poorly. x Caution prevented her from saying, I’m thinking of you too and want to be in Montelibertà instead of imprisoned on a frigging commuter train with a mob of coffee-breath commuters.

She is, he confirmed. Want to speak later? x