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G iulio and I spend the next day doing everything we can think of – listing belongings online, applying for loans (a complete waste of time when you’re under eighteen), and even a quick recce mission to the Trevi Fountain to see if dredging coins is a possibility (plenty of money, even more CCTV).

With no better ideas, we decide to double down on our spying efforts to uncover whatever Ma and Signora Pedretti are discussing.

Which is why my heart jumps when my friends and I arrive at the bar for our first language swap, and I find Ma and Signora Pedretti locked in an animated conversation – with Giulio loitering nearby.

We hold a quick exchange in eyebrow Morse code.

Eyebrow flick – Hear anything useful?

Slow lift of both brows – Nothing yet.

Quick double lift – Keep trying!

Single raised brow from Giulio – I am!

‘Hey!’ Ren tugs me down into the empty chair beside him and reaches for the Tupperware container he’s been lugging around all afternoon. He does a little drum roll on the lid before opening it up with a flourish. ‘ Voilà!’

We peer inside, then at each other, unsure of what we’re looking at.

Ren clucks his tongue. ‘It’s sushi caprese! Can’t you tell?’

I look more closely. It does look like sushi. But instead of rice, there’s a thin round of mozzarella at the bottom, a cherry tomato on top, and a thinly sliced strip of cucumber where the seaweed would be. I think there’s even a drizzle of balsamic glaze acting like it’s soy sauce.

I react the way I should have the moment Ren did his big reveal. ‘Wow! They look amazing.’

Sofia opens the camera on her phone and takes a close-up before popping one in her mouth. Then she pushes her chair back and stands. ‘I will get Giulio to model one – to make the picture even tastier!’ Suddenly, I struggle to swallow my own mouthful.

She carries the container to the counter, holding it high like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. ‘Chef Ren invites you to try his famoso sushi caprese. é bom!’

Giulio holds one up to the light. ‘I don’t know who’s going to be more offended – the Japanese or the Italians.’

Ren grins. ‘You sound like my parents.’ He adopts a high-pitched French accent and pretends to flip his hair. ‘Why change something that is already perfect?’ Then he folds his arms across his chest and dips his chin, his voice deepening. ‘This is not the Japanese way.’

Kenzi, Sofia and I share a moment of understanding at Ren’s imitation of his parents – we know exactly what it’s like to be caught in a cultural crossfire.

It’s almost strange speaking English again, after only using it with Isla, but Kenzi and I chat easily now that we’re free from the stilted role-playing of class.

She tells me about her brother Mehdi’s citizenship application, how he’s struggling to find a long-term job to boost his chances.

And when it’s my turn to speak Italian, I keep it light – about life in Edinburgh, mostly.

How bidets are NOT the norm, and umbrellas are pointless because the wind makes the rain horizontal.

I’d love to fill Kenzi in on what I know about the bar, but not when Ma’s within earshot.

Sofia drifts in and out, occasionally giving Signora Pedretti tips on how to use her new mobile – even though Signora Pedretti’s elected Giulio as her tech guru.

I don’t even notice the time passing until Ma starts dropping some not-too-subtle hints that it’s time to close – it starts with her noisily cleaning the coffee machine and ends with her shooing everyone out so she can lock up and mop the floor without our footprints ruining it all.

I float up to the apartment, giddy from the success of the swap. The bar felt less like a backdrop and more like a part of my life – even if I was on the wrong side of the counter.

Kenzi and I were the ones doing it properly, actually making an effort with the whole language thing.

Ren was fine until Enrico showed up to test his snacks, but redeemed himself when Signora Pedretti accidentally switched her phone settings to Japanese.

And Sofia? Well, she has too much faith in Signora Pedretti being able to follow her ‘handy shortcuts’.

I’m grinning when I slump on to the sofa.

It looks old, but the cushions are firm and the textured fabric doesn’t have any worn patches.

I get the impression this room rarely gets used and that, like our house in Edinburgh, the kitchen is the real hub.

There’s a long, low coffee table between the sofa and a dusty TV screen, the corner of an envelope poking out of a single drawer just under the tabletop.

My mind races – could it be something from the bank?

A final notice, maybe? Or something worse?

I wince as the drawer creaks open, expecting to see formal paperwork or an official letterhead.

Instead, the envelope is part of a bundle, neatly tied together with a length of string.

They’re not bills or statements, though.

They’re personal...I recognize the handwriting instantly.

Those neat, rounded letters, the fancy Gs and slanted As I’ve seen on shopping lists and notes attached to the fridge door at home.

My breath catches. These are letters from Ma to Nina.