After the weekend, Piero was chained to his desk at Tenuta Domenicali and Zia spent time on the garden, fretting about Lucia even though the news indicated she was holding on, punctured by drains and drips. Her temperature was still high and, of course, she had pain from the surgery. Her favourite condition was asleep but, unfortunately, her discomfort tended to triumph over her exhaustion. Visitors other than Durante were not yet recommended.

The British couple in Villino Il Pino were constantly seeking Zia out to grumble about something. ‘Just thought you’d like to know that the shower mat has a rip,’ the man pronounced weightily.

‘And there are bird droppings on the loungers,’ the woman added, wrinkling a freckled nose.

Zia didn’t mind sloshing water over the loungers to vanquish evidence of avian incontinence and buying a jolly blue shower mat so the man didn’t have to look at the one-inch tear in the old one but when Wednesday brought a cloudy sky and the woman sighed, ‘You can’t even see the tops of the mountains,’ Zia was stumped. What did they expect? That she’d get a long broom and sweep the clouds away? She didn’t mind the housekeeping work that came with the cottages but how did Lucia and Durante put up with nit-picking guests?

Then she noticed that Elise had sent a chasing email to ask whether Zia had had time to consider her job offer. Hurriedly, she returned an apology, explaining how ill her great-aunt had been on Zia’s return from the UK eight days ago. She paused to ponder. It was an excellent job offer, but Brendon had made it sound as if Elise felt comfortable discussing Zia with him, so she finished with, It’s such an uncertain time that I feel it would be unfair to expect you to hold the position open. I hope you find exactly the right person for such a great role. Her days were busy enough without entering into the palaver of contracts.

The nights … the nights Zia spent with Piero.

His bed. Her bed. Wherever they ended up the air crackled when they touched, whether it was slow and tender or like colliding thunderclouds, they were on each other until, finally sated, they curled up and slept.

On Thursday Fiorella came to help with the servicing of Villino La Quercia and Villino Il Tasso. ‘Also, my son is here to do the garden,’ Fiorella announced. ‘Durante agreed it.’

Zia, who’d been standing on the terrace waving goodbye as the blue car of the enthusiastic French family drove slowly up the drive, swung around. And there stood Gerardo Costa, staring back at her, looking less down-at-heel than when Zia had seen him the first time. His hair was washed and drawn smoothly into its short, grey-streaked ponytail. He’d shaved recently and his T-shirt and shorts were clean. He smiled. ‘Buongiorno.’