Page 109 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

She then got a grip of herself.Stop thinking like that. He’s tough. He’ll pull through. Of course he will. Won’t he?

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Signorina Anderson?’

Lucy jolted awake, heart racing.

‘My name is Doctor Bertolini.’

Lucy summoned a weak smile. ‘Piacere.’

‘I’ve examined your X-rays and I’m happy to say there’s no serious damage. The burns on your legs and arms should heal in about a week, and there shouldn’t be any permanent scarring. This means—’

‘What about Dario… Signor Bianchi? Is he going to be okay?’

A wave of panic swept through her as the doctor’s brow furrowed and he was silent for a moment.

‘Due to patient confidentiality, I’m afraid I cannot discuss this with you, but rest assured, he’s in safe hands.’

‘May I visit him?’

‘Next of kin only at this stage, I’m afraid.’ The doctor smiled and gave her wrist a comforting squeeze. ‘But the good news is, I’m happy foryouto be discharged. Is there someone we can call to take you home?’

Lucy had thirty minutes to spare before Elena arrived to collect her. She had to find him, to see for herself. She followed the signsfor the Intensive Care Unit. The nurse on reception was on the phone, deep in serious conversation. Head down, Lucy hurried past, praying she wouldn’t be challenged. Her eyes darted left and right, a sinking feeling flooding her stomach as row upon row of sick patients, hooked up to monitors, tubes and drips flashed before her eyes.

She was struck by the silence, the calm – unlike all those TV medical dramas, where doctors run alongside trolleys, yelling, ‘We’re losing her!’

All at once her phone pulsated in her back pocket, making her jump. It fell to the floor, skidding to a halt outside the door of a private room. She shook her head and tutted, cringing inwardly.

As she bent down to retrieve it, her gaze landed on the patient’s name: DARIO BIANCHI.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She peered at the bed through the narrow pane of glass; his head, hands and torso were completely swathed in white bandages, like The Invisible Man.

She was momentarily paralysed. Silent tears streaked down her face. Her trembling hand brushed the door handle, but then something caught her eye: the vaguely familiar figure of a tall, elegant woman, crossing the room.

She poured a glass of water from the bedside table and held it to Dario’s lips, her glossy mane falling over her face.

Lucy quickly sidestepped out of view, then turned around and bolted for the exit, fighting to prevent the mishmash of emotions swirling around inside her from spilling out.

As she emerged through the sliding doors, her attention was immediately drawn to the flashing headlights of Elena’s red Cinquecento.

Switching on a thin smile, she raised her arm to wave and winced, walking as briskly as her swollen, stinging legs would allow.

Elena jumped out of the car and rushed towards her with open arms.

‘Ouch,’ murmured Lucy, pulling away from her tight embrace.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Elena, loosening her grip and gently kissing the top of her head.

‘Eh! No waiting,’ snarled an immaculate traffic warden, theatrically brandishing his pad of penalty notices. Yes, even the traffic wardens in Italy are stylish.

‘Mi scusi,’said Elena, holding up a mollifying hand.

Placing her arm gently around Lucy’s shoulder, she guided her to the passenger door and carefully fastened her seat belt for her.

As they sped along theautostrada,Lucy fixed her gaze on Vesuvius, Elena’s overly cheerful chatter drifting in and out of her consciousness.

The catastrophic events of barely twenty-four hours ago were bubbling inside Lucy’s head, like a pressure cooker about to explode.