Page 69 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

‘Lucy!’ She turned around to see Dario loping towards her. ‘Buon Natale!’

‘Buon Natale,Dario.’ She went to shake his hand just as he went to kiss her cheek, she then gave him a nervous peck, but as she retreated, he offered her a second cheek, culminating in a clash of heads. She let out an awkward giggle.

Two elegant ladies appeared at Dario’s side, arm in arm. ‘Lucy, this is my mother…’

‘Piacere,’ said the stylish, silver-haired lady, greeting her with a double air-kiss, her scented silk scarf brushing Lucy’s neck.

‘Piacere.’

The younger woman smiled, her movie-star looks accentuated by her Cleopatra-style eyeliner. ‘I am Francesca, Dario’s…’ Her words were drowned out by the skirl of – bagpipes?

Lucy whirled around in disbelief, half expecting to see her brother Jamie standing before her.

With a toss of her silky locks, Francesca laughed and yelled in her ear. ‘Zampognari.Is Christmas tradition. The pipers were shepherds, who came down from the mountains to perform for thepeople of the town. The tune is called “Tu Scendi dalle Stelli”, which mean “You Come Down from the Stars”.’

Lucy gasped. ‘I didn’t know bagpipes were played in Italy.’

Francesca nodded. ‘The Romans played them many centuries ago – before the Scottish.’

‘Really? My brother plays the bagpipes—’

‘Francesca!Andiamo!’

‘Buon Natale.’Francesca planted a patchouli-scented kiss on each cheek. ‘Nice to meet you at last. Dario has told me a lot about you.’

‘Buon Natale,’ Lucy replied, still reeling from the shock that the Scots hadn’t been the first to blow the bagpipes after all. Whatever next? Italians in kilts?

Her eyes lifted to the low-hanging pewter moon, the haunting notes of the pipes swirling around the night sky. A brief wave of homesickness washed over her. Yet truth be told, in her adult years Christmas had become Groundhog Day with baubles: her parents’ Christmas morning drinks party and the usual grilling by well-meaning neighbours and friends about her permanently single status. To save time and embarrassment, she had toyed with the idea of handing a memo to each guest on arrival:

1.Great to see you.

2.No, Stewart has not bought me a ring yet.

3.Yes, I am aware that we’ve been together for a very long time.

4.Yes, I know my biological clock is ticking.

5.Yes, I have heard of Tinder.

6.Merry Christmas!

7.Must do this again next year.

Jamie had had the right idea; since returning from Afghanistan, he and a fellow survivor would take off hiking in the Cairngorms every Christmas. Having come so close to death, they were still working through the atrocities they had seen. They now had a heightened sense of the preciousness of life, and the beauty to be found in simple things, like sampling the whisky at one of the many distilleries along the way.

Whenever Lucy had suggested jumping off the commercialised festive merry-go-round and escaping to some romantic, Narnia-like wilderness, Stewart’s jaw had scraped the floor.

‘What? As in… away? As in… eating Christmas dinner cooked by someone else? You must be joking. That’s not normal.’

Lucy shook her head, thinking back to how unadventurous he had been. She’d been champing at the bit for years. Why hadn’t she had the courage to take off on her own long ago?

‘Are you okay?’ Lucy turned to see Elena, a sleepy Stefano in tow. ‘You look sad. Are you thinking of home?’

‘I was actually.’ Lucy paused for a split second. ‘But not in a sad way. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But there have been times when I’ve wanted to shout “I hate Christmas!” at the top of my voice.’

Elena drew a sharp intake of breath.

Lucy crossed herself. ‘Sorry, Jesus, but where I’m from, Christmas starts in October, and it’s more about giving presents you can’t afford, eating too much, then falling asleep in front of the telly.’