Zia and Piero drove to Montelibertà after keeping Ursula company for her first few months post-Stephan, and then waving her off for a spring holiday in Ireland. In a few weeks she’d be coming back to live in Zia’s apartment while the sale of the marital home went through. Stephan had made himself unpleasant when she’d filed for divorce but with Zia’s support and that of her counsellor she’d refused to let ‘such a douche’ drive her out of Brighton.

Zia drove her car ahead of Piero’s and the first thing she saw when the two vehicles turned into the driveway of Il Rifugio were the waving arms and beaming smiles of Lucia and Durante. With a whoop, she stopped her vehicle and leaped out to fling herself into their arms. ‘I’m back!’

The next few minutes were spent wiping happy tears, grinning their heads off and kissing cheeks. Finally, Lucia gave her a last hug. ‘I must go home and prepare dinner. You will be there?’ She bent a stern eye on Zia.

Zia clasped one hand over her heart. ‘I will. But it’s scary.’

‘No, no.’ Durante waved her worries away. ‘It is family.’

‘It can be the same thing,’ put in Piero, drily, preparing to unlock the door of Il Rifugio with an eagerness which told Zia that no matter how much he’d put her first, a large chunk of his heart belonged to this house up above the valley.

They took a couple of hours to unpack the car and settle in. Piero took a nap after their long journey but though Zia lay down and cuddled into his warm, familiar body her butterflies refused to let her sleep. Instead, she watched spring sun peeping in the windows and wondered whether the vines in the valley had begun to sprout their leaves.

When the sun went down it was time to shower, to put up her hair and pull on a dress. Piero hugged her close. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s just a dinner party.’

They both knew it wasn’t ‘just’ a dinner party and Zia was glad of his hand as they made their way through the dear, familiar cypress trees, the grass spring-green instead of the golden straw of summer. Several cars were parked further up the drive but they took their usual route up the steps and over the terrace.

In silence they walked up the hall and into the dining room, where the table had been set for a buffet and all the chairs brought in from the salon. Zia clutched Piero’s hand tighter. ‘Mamma mia,’ she breathed, the Italian exclamation for any situation.