He laughed. A pause, then he laughed again. ‘Not particular female friends but they’re wonderful women. I’m sure you’ll like them.’ Then he jumped up, tossed, ‘Ciao!’ over his shoulder and loped off in the direction of the main house, still grinning. Zia didn’t see what was so funny.

‘Do you realise I have to be back at work on the 1st of July, one week from today?’ Ursula pulled a tragic face as they locked Villino Il Pino that evening and crossed the paved area, rounding the gazebo to the car.

Zia tried to sound as if it wasn’t a million-dollar question. ‘We’ll have to decide whether we’re driving back together. If we are, that gives us three more days here and three for the journey.’

As it was her turn to drive, Ursula perched a pair of oversized Ted Baker sunglasses on her nose and started the car, the tyres crunching on the stony drive. ‘You stay on,’ she suggested quietly. ‘Give yourself time to decide what to do about your father. It’s too big a decision to rush.’

Zia waited while Ursula negotiated the junction of the drives before accelerating onto the main road to join traffic swarming down the hill like insects with headlights. She said slowly, ‘If I were to do that then we would need to arrange your flight and find me somewhere to stay. We’ve only got Villino Il Pino until the 30th of June. Then it’s booked to someone else.’ Under the purpling evening sky, they passed the country park they still hadn’t managed to visit and parked at the top of Via Virgilio ready to stroll into town.

Ursula swatted bugs trying to make her their evening meal the moment they left the safety of the car and gestured towards the pretty Casa Felice hotel. ‘You could book in there, maybe?’

‘I could check availability,’ Zia agreed. She imagined herself eating breakfast in Il Giardino, the café outside. It held appeal.

It was a lovely evening for a stroll into town. The breeze felt like velvet and the heat of the day had sunk into the pavements. They weaved between other pedestrians, watching the ceramics shops bringing in their wares ready to close up. A ten-minute meander saw them at Piazza Santa Lucia and they passed the church Lucia had attended as a child, beautifully rendered in creamy yellow with enormous wooden doors.

‘Lucia’s saint’s church.’ Ursula smirked. ‘If she’s named for the saint of virgins it’s no wonder she had no kids.’

‘A bad joke for a good Catholic girl,’ reproved Zia. Then she turned the corner and stopped as her gaze fell on Altarocca, the bar where Tori had worked. It was built of stone with amber-coloured rendering and a big window beside the door, a popular place judging by the number of people inside.