They drifted on past shops selling leather goods and fountain pens. Eventually they reached the cobbles of Piazza Roma where cream-canopied market stalls were surrounded by buildings with arches beneath. Through the biggest lay another square, Piazza Santa Lucia, according to the map. ‘It’s nice to be away from the traffic,’ Zia observed as they started up the first row of stalls.

Ursula made a beeline for a stall selling more ceramics. There were jugs shaped like startled chickens’ heads with open-beak spouts standing beside butter dishes shaped like lemons. For seven euros she bought a candleholder with an open sunflower to catch the wax, then they wandered on past glowing olive wood jewellery, inexpensive clothes, bread, cakes and colourful pyramids of fruit.

Eventually they turned to the cafés and selected one with a table half in shade and half in sun. Zia loved to be baked in golden light but Ursula preferred the protection of a nice parasol.

Once they’d ordered sparkling water and let the first half of it cut through the dust in their throats they settled back to study the menu. ‘The platters look good,’ Zia said.

Ursula grimaced. ‘The pizzas look good. The platters look healthy.’

Zia solved this conundrum. ‘How about we order a pizza and a salad and go halves on each?’ She smiled at their waiter, neat in a green waistcoat and white summer shirt, and exercised her Italian-speaking muscles. The money she’d spent getting a native Italian speaker to chat to her for an hour a week paid off whenever she travelled to Italy. When you were used to the real rhythms of a language rather than the English version, it helped a lot.

Ursula, typical tourist, was content to let the whole dialogue flow over her head while she watched the market stall holders begin to pack up. But after the waiter had whisked off she proved she hadn’t lost sight of their reason for being in Montelibertà and switched her gaze to Zia. ‘So, what next with Lucia? She seems nice. Are you going to ask her if she’s a piece in your family jigsaw?’

Although Ursula smiled, Zia could read uncertainty in her eyes. Last night’s conversation with Stephan hadn’t gone well, apparently, and Ursula’s hopes that he’d calm down and accept there was no evidence she’d betrayed him were fading. It was a shame that their relationshp was in jeopardy at the same time as Zia was digging for her Italian roots. Ursula might feel there was a danger of losing both her husband and her best friend. She presented a brash front to the world with her body art and make-up but was actually petal-soft and insecure.