Page 74 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

Cocking his head to one side, he raised his eyebrow and fixed her with his wistful eye. ‘Don’t give me that look, Harry.’

Trying her hardest to ignore the pitiful howling, yapping and scratching echoing down the hall, she fetched him a supply of biscuits and water – and his ball. ‘Stay!’

Frantically delving into her bag for her phone, she scrolled for Elena’s number. Her shaky finger hovered over the screen.

They’d be at the football match by now. She probably wouldn’t hear it ring anyway. Besides, Lucy couldn’t bring herself to ruin Stefano’s special day, break-in or no break-in.

The customers! They were due in less than two hours, and she had no way of contacting them.

She tried Matteo’s number, vainly hoping that he hadn’t decided to join his band mates for their traditional festive jamming session after all. Voicemail.

Valentina? Voicemail.

Alfonso? He should be the first to know, but… She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm the part of her that desperately wanted to get the hell out of there.

Her first priority had to be the customers. After all, it had been her idea to open the day after Christmas, and her inner warrior was screaming at her not to let anything stand in her way.

Donning her apron, she wound her hair in a loose bun, drew a deep breath and dived in the store cupboard.

She was about to start sweeping up the broken glass and crockery, when a warning light flashed in her brain; she’d seen enough detective series to know that this was a crime scene and she mustn’t tamper with the evidence.

It took all her inner strength not to salvage the framed photograph of Giancarlo, the glass smashed to smithereens. Her heart wedged itself in her throat at the sight of his mother’s beautifully hand-embroidered table linen, now torn to shreds and scattered all over the tiled floor. Who could have done such a terrible thing, and why?

Palming away a couple of errant tears, she quietly closed the door.

She rolled up the sleeves of her crisp white shirt and began dragging as many tables and chairs as she could find, from the staffroom and the store cupboard, into the warm reception area.

Back and forth she scurried, laying the tables as best she could, with mismatched mugs, cups and plates from the staffroom.

Diving inside her shopping trolley, she took out the plastic boxes containing the mince pies, brandy butter and Granny Oona’s Christmas cake, giving silent thanks that she’d forgotten to bring them on Christmas Eve.

She wound fairy lights around the rough-hewn wooden pillars, lit as many candles as she could find, put on some Christmas music and dimmed the overhead lighting to help set the mood – and disguise the fact that today’s afternoon tea would be more Blitz than Ritz.

Lucy was just placing the untorn leaflets advertising the mozzarella TV documentary on the reception desk, when the tour buspulled into the car park – and when Harry decided to make his presence felt again by whining mournfully.

She opened the yard door a fraction, gave him a reassuring pat on the head and threw him his ball.

The front door swung open with a sharpping!

Lucy wheeled around, closing the back door with a swift and firm push of her behind. ‘Willkommen, welcome,’ she declared brightly, quickly applying some hand sanitiser then opening her arms wide, trying to mask her nervousness, confusion and unease with a fixed smile. She swallowed hard. ‘May I take your coats?’

The next three hours were a mad blur of steaming tea, mince pies, Christmas cake and festive songs, accompanied by a crazy dog leaping up and down in the yard, his scruffy face appearing at random through a circular porthole in the door.

So much for her great idea of bringing a taste of cosy British Christmas to the shores of Southern Italy.

‘More tea, sir?’

The tourist cupped his ear. ‘Bitte? Excuse me?’

‘More tea?’ Lucy yelled over the din of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’, accompanied by Harry’s piercing howls.

‘Look, Walter! At the window!’ cried an elderly gentleman through a mouthful of mince pie.

This set off a chorus of soft aahs, mainly from the ladies in the group.

‘It’s too cold for him out there.’

‘Ach, so lieb. So cute.’