Lucia’s smile broke across her face like sunshine, betraying the soft spot she had for her nephew. ‘Lots of girls liked him. Charming.’

‘He love fun times,’ Durante contributed.

‘Did he give Tori the idea they’d have a future together?’ Outside, a car crunched over the gravel and halted but nobody looked out of the window to check it out.

‘Possibly,’ Lucia admitted, fidgeting with the golden rings that had worn grooves into the soft flesh of her fingers. ‘It would explain why Tori was so shocked when he didn’t face his responsibility.’

Responsibility – Zia, in other words. Although she recognised Lucia’s loyalty to Gerardo, Zia felt unfairly frustrated that they wouldn’t condemn the boy who’d been old enough to have sex but not to face the consequences. He’d let – no encouraged – a teenage girl to return alone to her home country and decide whether to abort, keep or give away her baby. She shut the album with a snap.

Then she heard the front door open and, at the same time, the car outside drive away.

‘Ciao!’ came a creaking, high pitched voice. An elderly lady in a flowered wraparound overall came into the room and halted when she saw Lucia and Durante weren’t alone. Her apologetic smile showed a missing tooth. ‘Buongiorno. Scusate.’

In Italian she told Lucia and Durante that her car had broken and she’d had to rely upon her husband to bring her to clean the floors. He couldn’t do it the next day, Wednesday, the arranged day, so she’d come today instead. Zia understood, though the accent was broad and the delivery rapid, but most of her brain was coping with the shock of recognition. The woman was in the pages of the photo album in her hands.

Fiorella.

She took in the seamed, lively features, the dark grey hair in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, the flip flops worn thin. Faintly, she answered, ‘Buongiorno,’ and heard herself and Ursula introduced as guests at Villino Il Pino. She listened to Lucia explain that lunch was planned on the terrace and Fiorella suggest she begin upstairs to leave them in peace, followed by an apology for being in the way.

‘Non ci dai fastidio,’ Zia heard herself reassuring her. You’re not in our way.

Fiorella beamed before hurrying off. Lucia turned apprehensive eyes on Zia. ‘That was not planned.’ Then, quickly, ‘If she would take the money without doing the work, we would give it.’

Zia nodded absently. ‘Perhaps she’d rather earn it than take it. I would. She seems a nice woman.’ Her head throbbed. How bizarre to speak to her grandmother without identifying herself. But how could she?