In the distance, over the red-tiled rooftops, she could see the beautiful rolling hills of the Tuscan countryside. It would be easy to be silent here. For the first time in a long time, Friday felt at peace. She turned back to her own bed and lay down. It was firm but comfortable. She closed her eyes. She was in Italy. Everything was going to be okay. She took slow calming breaths and felt her chest rise and fall. She could feel the tension melting from her. Then suddenly KLANG!

  There was a terrible mechanical scraping sound.

  Then someone muttering in Italian, ‘Stupida macchina. Maledetto te e il tuo motore a combustione interna.’

  Friday spoke pretty good Italian. But some of this vocabulary was unfamiliar to her. From the tone in which it was uttered, she suspected they may be swear words. She got up and leaned out the window again. At the far end of the garden, near the apple trees, she saw a very young nun viciously kicking the tyre of a small tractor. Friday was intrigued. She’d never be able to sleep now, so she went to investigate.

  Friday easily found the staircase out into the garden. Then wound her way through the stone footpaths to the orchard. The young nun had opened up the bonnet of the tractor and was leaning over it, looking for the cause of her trouble.

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Friday, then she remembered she should be speaking in Italian and corrected herself. ‘Posso aiutarla?’

  The young nun was horrified. She held a finger to her mouth. And then pointed to the clock tower.

  ‘Oh,’ said Friday, remembering the hour of silence and realising she shouldn’t have said ‘oh’ either.

  The young nun’s head was whipping around one way, then the other, checking to see if there was anyone else about. Apparently she didn’t want to get caught talking to Friday.

  Friday tried signing ‘It’s okay. I just want to help’ in sign language. But the nun showed no indication of comprehending her hand gestures, which was understandable. Even if the nun knew some sign language, every nation had its own version and she would know the Italian variation.

  So Friday tried speaking the international language of action. She came forward and had a look under the bonnet. Friday liked working on engines. It was not dissimilar to crime solving. There was a problem and you had to methodically go through all the possibilities to figure out who, or in the case of an engine ‘what’, the culprit was.

  This case was quite a puzzle. As she carefully inspected the engine, it soon became clear that while it was old, the tractor was expertly maintained. Every part was clean, except the parts that were meant to be greased, and they were perfectly lubricated. The spark plugs were fine. The distributor cap was good. The air filter was brand new. Having checked everything else, Friday opened the air filter up. Perhaps there was a manufacturing fault that was preventing air from getting into the engine. When Friday took off the lid she was surprised to discover – it was full of dirt.

  The nun next to her gasped. Then clapped her hand over her mouth, when she remembered she should be silent. This left oily fingermarks across her face. But she didn’t seem to care. She was clearly shocked.

  Friday picked up some of the dirt and rubbed it between her fingers. It wasn’t the type of dust you would expect to see in an air filter, light particles which had been sucked up into the engine. It was literally dirt from the ground. Like someone had picked up a big fistful of dirt from a field and dumped it in there. ‘It looks like the air filter has been deliberately sabotaged,’ murmured Friday. ‘But who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Esio Bolgia,’ said the nun.

  Friday was shocked. These were the first words her new friend had spoken in an hour.

  ‘It’s okay, now,’ said the nun. She pointed at the clock tower. The hour of silence had passed.

  ‘Who is Esio Bolgia?’ asked Friday.

  ‘A rival gelato shop man,’ explained the nun.

  ‘You have gelato rivals?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Of course, this is Italy,’ said Maria. ‘We take the gelato very seriously. This man is jealous. He is the greediest man in all of Italia.’

  Friday nodded. It made sense she supposed. Gelato would be a good field for a greedy person.

  ‘But how does sabotaging a tractor help his gelato business?’ asked Friday.

  ‘This garden is our secret weapon,’ explained Maria. ‘We grow all the fruit and berries we use here. Well, most of the fruit and berries. The raspberries do not like our soil. But we have the beautiful blueberries and strawberries, and arancia, the oranges. He is jealous. He has the best spot in Florence on the Ponte Vecchio. All the tourists go there because they don’t know any better, but it tastes disgusting, and now with the internet apps they learn from locals where the best gelato is found.’

  Friday replaced the cleaned-out air filter and tried the starter. The engine stuttered for a few seconds then roared to life as she pushed forward the hand throttle. ‘It sounds fine now,’ said Friday, as she revved the tractor. The engine was running as smoothly as you could expect, given its age.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said the nun. ‘My name is Maria.’

  ‘Friday,’ said Friday.

  The nun looked confused.

  ‘It’s my name,’ explained Friday. ‘I was named after the day of the week.’

  ‘Are the days of the week names in your country?’ asked Maria.

  ‘No,’ admitted Friday. ‘I just have odd parents.’

  Maria nodded with understanding, ‘Me too. Mine thought it would be a good idea for me to be a nun.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Actually, it’s not too bad,’ said Maria. ‘They let me work on all the cars and tractors. No-one else here knows how to fix them.’ She nodded towards the convent to indicate she was referring to the other nuns. ‘And they’re letting me fix up a vespa.’

  ‘A motor scooter?’ said Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maria. ‘But I’m converting it so that it’s amphibious. It will go on the roads. And the water too.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Friday.

  ‘I’ll show you some time,’ said Maria. ‘Right now, I have to collect the muck from the chickens to manure the potatoes.’ She climbed up into the seat of the tractor and put it into gear. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Friday. And it had been. She was in a city full of museums and art galleries, but she had really enjoyed standing in a garden, getting dirty while she fixed an engine. She wondered if this was how Leonardo da Vinci felt five hundred years ago as he worked on his inventions, right here in the same city.

  By the time they were supposed to go to Uncle Bernie’s house for dinner, Friday was exhausted. The jet lag had hit. Her body was telling her that she should be in bed, in the deepest state of REM sleep. But it was only 6 o’clock in the evening. In Italy people ate late, this was the time that babies ate, really. But Friday could barely keep her eyes open.

  Melanie, conversely, was perky and upbeat. Having slept through 90 per cent of the flight, and a solid hour in the afternoon, she was well-rested and ready to socialise. In fact, she was more upbeat than usual because she was excited to see the baby and Ian, and, more importantly, the reunion between Friday and Ian.

  It was lucky Melanie had been to Florence before and knew where they were going, because Friday was three-quarters asleep as Melanie led her through the narrow winding streets. It was a beautiful city. Ridiculously so. But Friday couldn’t take it all in. Everything looked like a postcard. The river, the bridges, the narrow cobblestone streets and stone buildings were all enchanting. Plus there were so many tourists bustling around, with vespa motorbikes weaving in and out and horse-drawn carriages lumbering through. The whole effect was confusing.

  Friday did register at one point they were walking over the Ponte Vecchio. She’d seen pictures of the old bridge crowded with tiny jewellery shops all the way across the span. Friday paused outside the one exception. A gelato shop with big mounds of gelato in different flavours on display. ‘Esio Bolgia,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’ said Melanie.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Friday, yawning. ‘Sister Maria told me about the man who runs this shop.’ Friday leaned in to read the thermometer in the display cabinet. She was lost in her own thoughts, ‘Minus eighteen . . . the properties of ice crystals are fascinating.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Friday,’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps we should skip dinner and go back to the convent. I think you need some sleep.’

  Friday wasn’t paying attention. She was looking about in confusion. ‘I thought only goldsmiths could have shops on the Ponte Vecchio? I know I read that somewhere. The Medicis made it law when they ran the city because they didn’t like the smell of the fishmongers.’

  ‘In Florence, gelato is held in the same regard as jewellery,’ said Melanie. ‘They take their food very seriously here.’ She looped her arm through Friday’s and started to lead her away. ‘Come on, if we’re not going back. Let’s hurry up. I’m hungry.’

  Uncle Bernie lived not far from the Uffizi in the Santa Croce district on a curved street called Via Torta.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Melanie, excitedly.

  Friday looked up at the four-storey apartment building. It looked very nice. Back at home Uncle Bernie had lived in a one-bedroom apartment, which, even when he cleaned it, didn’t look convincingly clean. This was a lovely building in a historic neighbourhood. Although really, all the neighbourhoods in Florence were historic. Melanie pressed the doorbell and they were buzzed into the building.

  ‘Fourth floor,’ said Melanie, reading the listing inside the door.

  Friday slumped. ‘Can’t we just sit here and let them bring food down to us?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Melanie, taking Friday by the arm. ‘The exercise will do you good. It will help you overcome your jet lag.’

  Friday trudged up the stairs that seemed to go forever. She found herself shutting her eyes and drifting off even as she walked. Eventually she was standing on a worn carpet as Melanie knocked on an old heavy wooden door. It felt cold in the passageway, but as soon as the door flung open, she was flooded with warmth.

  The bright lights from inside the apartment woke her up and Uncle Bernie wrapped her in an awkward hug. Then Uncle Bernie’s wife, who Friday still thought of as Mrs Wainscott, wrapped her in a frenetic messy-haired hug and the next thing she knew she was sitting on a deep soft couch with a dribbling baby on her lap.

  Melanie was ecstatic. She sat and stared at the baby in awe. Friday did not know what to make of it. Bella was pudgy and happy and covered in all sorts of food stains, and for some reason she instantly found Friday fascinating. She dribbled at Friday while staring with huge adoring eyes and clutching her big cousin’s pigtail in her chubby, grubby fist.

  ‘She likes you,’ said Uncle Bernie, proudly. ‘I hope she grows up to be as smart as her big cousin.’

  Friday looked up at Uncle Bernie. She realised he really was proud of her. She was touched, after all the trouble she’d gotten herself into in the last year, that her uncle still felt this way. ‘I think she’d be better off if she wasn’t quite this smart,’ said Friday. ‘She might sleep better at night if her brain didn’t whirr like a super-computer.’

  ‘Speaking of your super-computer brain . . .’ said Uncle Bernie. He sat down on the couch next to her. It was such a soft deep-cushioned couch, that having Uncle Bernie’s massive frame drop down next to her seemed to make Friday sink in deeper. ‘. . . I want to talk to you about the problem at work.’

  ‘Sausage Sandwich!’ cried Helena.

  Uncle Bernie paused at his wife’s cry. ‘That’ll be Ian.’

  ‘I know,’ said Friday.

  ‘Sausage’ was his mother’s pet name for him. Friday used to enjoy teasing Ian about that. He’d been living with his mother and Bernie for two years now. He was probably used to it by now.

  Helena clattered out of the kitchen, arms flung wide to greet her son at the front door. ‘You’re late, you’re late,’ she chided. ‘But not to worry. I forgot to put dinner on, so it won’t be ready for another five minutes yet.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ said Ian. His mother was always forgetful.

  ‘I’ve made your favourite,’ said Helena.

  ‘And what is that today?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Aubergine stroganoff,’ announced Helena.

  ‘I hope you made plenty,’ said Ian. ‘I brought Pietro and Tatiana home for dinner.’

  Friday looked up, which was hard because Bella had grasped a lock of her hair in her chubby little fist. Down the corridor, in the bright light from the kitchen, Friday saw a beautiful girl step forward. She was slender and willowy, with long dark hair and glasses.

  ‘Hello, I hope I’m not too much trouble,’ said the girl with a slight Italian accent. She leaned in and kissed Helena on each cheek.

  Helena hugged Tatiana. ‘Of course not, my dear girl. Any friend of my Sausage Sandwich is always welcome in our home.’

  The girl smiled half shyly. She was stunning. She didn’t touch Ian or kiss him, or even hold his hand, but from the way she stepped back towards him, like her centre of gravity was drawn to his, Friday could tell without a shadow of a doubt that they were a couple. This was the girl.

  Friday had thought she was over Ian. But she immediately realised she was wrong. Her stomach felt like it was in a lift plummeting a thousand storeys at terminal velocity into the centre of the earth. She knew Ian was impossibly good-looking, so rationally she had deduced that any new girlfriend would also be good-looking. But she had not been prepared for her to be this good-looking. It was unfair. Teenagers were meant to be awkward and pimply. Perhaps Tatiana was an alien clone?

  Friday gave herself a mental shake. She did not want to be the clichéd ex-girlfriend. But watching the way this girl glided into the room, gracefully kissed Bernie on the cheek after he totally ungraciously lumbered out of the saggy couch, it was going to be very very hard.

  Next a boy stepped forward. At least Friday presumed he was a teenager. He was man sized, dark haired and thick set. ‘I brought you beautiful flowers, Signora Barnes,’ he said, as he handed Ian’s mum a bedraggled bunch of wildflowers that looked like they had been stolen from someone’s garden.

  ‘Oh, I do like it when Ian brings you home for dinner,’ said Helena, pinching Pietro’s cheek. ‘You always eat up all your vegetables.’

  ‘Friday,’ said Ian.

  Friday turned to the sound of her own name. Ian had been watching her. She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.

  Friday frowned. Was he taunting her? When she’d last seen Ian, they had promised to meet again in four years. This was only half that time. ‘That depends on your preconception of the length of time,’ she said cautiously. Ian liked to tease and say sarcastic things she didn’t understand. She braced for wordplay.

  Ian smiled. It was slightly lop-sided and his eyebrows barely moved. She judged this to be his wry smile. He had an extensive range of smiles for a vast variety of occasions. Friday had mentally catalogued them. She hadn’t meant to, but this was the type of thing her brain did.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Tatiana,’ said Ian.

  Friday looked across at the beautiful girl. She was smiling. Even mouthed, eyebrows subtly arched. This was a kind smile.

  ‘Hello,’ said Friday. She made to stand up, but she was so far sunk into the couch, and the baby was quite heavy. Her butt only made it an inch off the couch before she fell back. Bella laughed. She thought this was a wonderful game. She tugged Friday’s hair happily.

  ‘Charmed to meet you,’ said Tatiana.

  ‘And sleeping beauty over there is Melanie Pelly,’ said Ian.

  Melanie was fast asleep again. Friday hadn’t noticed her drift off. But Melanie was an expert at slumber, she could squeeze it in anywhere, anytime.

  ‘It’s actually appropriate that you meet her like this,’ said Ian. ‘Because this is how Mel likes to spend most of her time.’

  ‘You must be tired too after your long flight,’ said Tatiana as she sat down next to Friday. She managed to do it elegantly, perching on the edge of the couch, so she wasn’t sucked into the cushions. She reached out to tickle Bella’s forearm, but Bella was too interested in making a three-dimensional sculpture with her own spit and Friday’s hair.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Friday. She realised she was incredibly tired. And not just with jet lag. She had been emotionally exhausted for a long time. She hadn’t thought she could sink any lower, and here she was, in emotional quicksand, being held down by a big happy baby.

  Pietro came into the room, chewing something he’d evidently pilfered from the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said. His eyes skimmed right over Friday as if she was invisible. Her trademark brown cardigan had that effect on most people. He locked on to Melanie. ‘Hello,’ he said again.

  ‘Pietro, this is Melanie,’ introduced Ian. ‘She suffers from African sleeping sickness.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Pietro. ‘Is there no cure?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Melanie, with a yawn. She had awoken on hearing her own name. ‘I quite enjoy sleeping, so I’ve never worried too much about it.’

  ‘Dinner is served!’ announced Helena, happily. She was carrying a steaming pot towards the dining room. ‘Come and get it while it’s hot!’

  It turned out that aubergine stroganoff was nowhere near as disgusting as Friday had imagined. Helena was a devoted vegetable enthusiast. She wasn’t merely an expert at growing them, she knew how to cook them superbly too. And everything tastes better when baked in sour cream and served with a thick slice of sourdough bread. It was a lovely meal.

  Melanie had gone into charming guest mode. She excelled at absolutely no academic activities, but her family lived in the elite jetset world of the super-rich, and she had been raised on the principles of how to be a good guest and a good hostess. She took charge of polite small talk and made it seem effortless. It was impressive. Especially as Friday knew Melanie would much rather eat the food and go back to sleep.