Her constant companion was disappointment, heavy as a rock in her stomach. Her father was a disappointment. Getting to know her family had stalled. Apologising to Piero had gained her little but an apology in return.

Every couple of days she saw him, helping Durante with a heavy job or grabbing coffee and a chat. He invited all of them for a meal at Il Rifugio, an invitation Zia side-stepped. It would stir too many memories of them making love on the upper terrace, beneath the stars … or in his bed, his kitchen, or on his stairs. The gentle, unhurried seduction of his kisses. She’d replayed his comment that she could marry an Italian so many times it drove her crazy. Especially because, for one yes-I-will, we’ll-find-a-way-to-make-it-work moment she’d thought he was proposing. Her heart had leaped so hard it had nearly burst out of her chest.

Almost as fast, she’d caught his what-did-I-just-say expression. This man who’d been unable to marry a woman he’d had a two-year relationship with proposing to someone he’d known since June? The man who’d turned his entire energy to staying where he was proposing to a woman about to leave?

Erm, no.

Although she tried to avoid Gerardo, now she almost understood his relationship with alcohol because every day she had to fight the temptation of suggesting to Piero that they resume their affair, if only for the time she had left.

But she’d already given Piero up once. She could only imagine giving him up again would be harder.

August ended. September brought no noticeable let-up in the heat and Lucia said, ‘We need storms.’ She was still taking a good nap after lunch each day but otherwise was up and about. Her wound had healed but was sore and her appetite was variable. She was well enough to begin advertising next year’s ceramics courses and Zia had shared them on her social media feeds and got Ursula to do the same. Lucia even felt well enough to join Zia and Fiorella for a few minutes as they readied cottages for new guests, wiping the occasional surface but mainly just joining in the chat.

Tenuta Domenicali looked to have secured an acceptable leaseback deal. In a few months Piero would be free and Zia would have the comfort of knowing he, like Lucia and Durante, would be secure on the rocky plateau above the valley.

Life in Italy would go on without her. Brighton’s pastel buildings and pebbly beach would welcome her again, lovely in September with enough tourists to keep it lively but not mobbed. The succeeding British south-coast winter would be rainy enough to wash away heartache. She’d sign up with a recruitment agency and update her profile on LinkedIn.

On the 11th of September, Zia serviced the cottages for the last time.