There, he threw off his office clothes and pulled on a pair of shorts and work boots. Taking a bottle of cold water, he quit the house in favour of the workshop at the side of it, glancing over at the hazy mountains as he rolled open the green doors as if sliding the uncomfortable day from his shoulders. The smell of cedar wood welcomed him in from the drifts of sawdust that gathered despite the extractor system and his sweeping the floor often. Well, sometimes. He opened the doors at the other end of the workshop too so the breeze could wander through. Trees and a slice of spiky mountain were visible through one door and the drive through the other. Inside, his woodworking machinery stood foursquare and businesslike and his hand tools were racked on the walls.

On his bench stood a square lantern roof destined to provide the crowning glory to an orangery, half-glazed with greenish antique glass. He was good at these small, specialised, creative commissions. The contractor was a joiner called Antonio who’d send someone to pick the lantern up once glazed. The hill that began as Via Virgilio in Montelibertà climbed right past Il Rifugio and the rocky opening to his drive was large enough for trucks.

Contentedly, he set to work, fitting the remaining glass with generous squeezes of mastic and delicately pinned wooden beading. Once finished, he sent a photo of the gracefully peaked structure to Antonio, who confirmed collection for Wednesday.

Phone still in hand, he noticed Lucia had texted: they were hosting drinks on the terrace for their guests. Would he like to join them? After a rubbish day he didn’t feel like chatting with tourists but his fingers paused before he could tap out a suitably polite refusal. Maybe Zia would be there? He’d found it hard to scrub from his mind the image of her on that sofa. Her ludicrous expression of dismay as the door swung open to reveal her in a hiked-up business dress had been far sexier than Ursula’s mini-shorts and tight top. He’d gaped like a teenage boy, lust exploding through him. Add in Zia’s full mouth and swept-up hair …

He checked his workshop clock. Still time. Great, thanks, he texted back. A quick shower and change later he set off through the trees, crossing the Bella Vista drive to the terrace to locate the gathering.

‘Piero! Vino o birra?’ Durante called as he saw him, rising from the table.

‘Birra, per favore,’ Piero answered and, ‘Buona sera,’ to the guests. He smiled at Zia and Ursula and took the vacant seat beside Zia, who’d abandoned business wear in favour of white shorts and a lacy top, her hair swinging in a ponytail. Lucia introduced him to the guests he hadn’t met: two women and two men in their sixties wearing cloth sun hats, Dutch but speaking good English.