Page 93 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

Grabbing Harry, he placed him in Stefano’s arms then aimed his phone.

‘Allora…ready?’

‘Ready!’

‘Uno, due, tre!’

‘Now, let’s go!Andiamo!’ cried Alfonso, clapping his hands and ushering everyone out.

Everyone clattered down the main stairway to the front door. Excited chatter ceased, eyes widened and jaws dropped. Stefano squealed.

‘Che… cosa!’ stuttered Elena in disbelief.

‘Oh my!’ gushed Lucy, wide-eyed.

‘Papà?’ gasped Valentina.

Matteo gave a low whistle.‘Dio mio!’

‘Buonasera,’called the uniformed chauffeur, opening the door of the stretched limo with his white-gloved hand.

Stefano leapt down the steps two at a time.

The chauffeur shook his hand then beckoned him inside with a reassuring smile. ‘Per favore.’

Stefano looked up at Elena with sudden shyness.‘Mamma?’

‘Vai! Go!’ Turning to Alfonso, Elena said fondly, ‘You’re responsible for this, aren’t you?’

He shrugged, his watery kind eyes glistening.

‘We could have taken a taxi. This is an unnecessary expense.’

‘Elena, please,’ said Alfonso, shushing her. ‘Don’t spoil it. There are times in life when money doesn’t matter. For me, tonight is one of those times. After all the sadness, it’s important we find some joy. Tonight is for us all to celebrate the family and our dear Giancarlo’s legacy.’

Tears pooled in Elena’s eyes. ‘You’re going to make me cry.’

‘Come. Have a glass of prosecco,’ he said, proudly taking her arm and leading her down the steps, stopping to give a regal wave to the neighbours, who’d gathered at their windows and balconies, cheering and applauding.

‘Mamma!’ Stefano’s head bobbed round the door. ‘There is a giant TV! And music!’

As the absurdly long limo purred through the narrow streets, Lucy held her breath, half expecting it to get wedged between the town’s crumbling walls every time they turned a corner. And how it didn’t buckle in the middle was a miracle.

Her musings were interrupted by the sight of a woman beatinga rug over her balcony, while another was deftly reeling in her washing line from her apartment window.

Both stopped and pointed, calling out to one another and waving.

A group of grubby-faced boys on bikes pedalled furiously alongside the car, occasionally banging the windows with their fists.

The chauffeur gesticulated angrily, then put his foot down on the accelerator, muttering something under his breath.

Lucy felt herself being pushed back against the padded leather of the car’s upholstery as they sped along theautostrada,towards Via Sepolcri to pick up Franco.

The pale orange sun was sinking behind Vesuvius, flickering through her reflection.

Goosebumps pricked her arms. She was having one of those pinch-me moments; not so long ago she had been Miss Lucy Anderson, primary school teacher, sleepwalking through life, planning her wedding to a man who didn’t love her, pretending to herself that once they were married and started a family her dream life could begin.

Now here she was, a free, independent woman being chauffeur-driven along the Amalfi Coast, dressed in Versace, on her way to her very first red-carpet event.