Special enough that he could turn to them for somewhere to secretly meet his Brit girlfriend, Zia thought. ‘Oh? I grew up with few relatives.’ Her reply piqued Fiorella’s curiosity and she asked for more. Zia hesitated. Which version should she give? The version she’d known most of her life? Or the one with the additional mother she’d just discovered?

Driven by curiosity to see Gerardo’s reaction, she embarked on the second, though her palms sweated uncomfortably. ‘My mother was young when I was born and died when I was five weeks old. The man who got her pregnant didn’t want me. My grandmother brought me up and I used to think she was my mother. She died when I was ten and then her parents looked after me.’

Fiorella’s wrinkles arranged themselves in an expression of concern. ‘No brothers or sisters?’

Zia smiled. ‘Not on my mother’s side, anyway.’ She risked a glance at Gerardo. He was watching her with an unreadable expression, not noticeably worried by this conversation or appearing anxious he might be outed after all this time. She decided to push. ‘Fiorella how do you feel about the British visitors to Montelibertà?’

The elderly woman looked mystified. ‘Fine. Tourists are everywhere. They like the sun and bring money to the area. They create jobs.’ She gave her high-pitched laugh. ‘I haven’t learned English, though. I never liked it.’

Politely, Zia laughed, too. Then she turned to Gerardo. ‘And you? Have you had much contact with the British visitors?’

This time, something flickered in his eyes. But he shrugged. ‘Like my mother says, Montelibertà relies on the tourists. My generation all learned some English.’

Zia let it drop but she didn’t miss him easing his palms down the fabric of his shorts as he turned the subject to Lucia’s health. Zia cleared the table while they chattered about Durante sending Roberto bulletins, as he did to Piero, and Roberto disseminating the information within the family. She wondered whether the tell-tale signs she’d caught were the work of her imagination or whether her birth father, sitting right in front of her, was only pretending not to know who she was.

Maybe, like her, he’d decided to remain anonymous.

It was late afternoon when Zia’s phone sounded its FaceTime alert. She’d just showered and was lying naked on the bed and letting the air cool her still-damp body. When she saw it was Ursula calling, she pulled on her T-shirt then answered. ‘I meant to call you. Ooh, love the hair!’

Ursula grinned as she flicked her fingertips through the hair that had been cropped of its long lock at the front and was boasting red-gold highlights amongst blonde spikes. ‘It is ultra-cool, isn’t it? But three quick texts in eight days, Zia, that’s pants. How’s Lucia?’