The restaurant was close to our hotel and one we both recognised. We had walked past it several times and, in the evenings, the candlelit tables and quiet opulence of the red and black furnishings had been intimidating to two single sisters.
The maître d’ ushered us to a table set for three in the centre of the room. I’d noticed my sister’s blush of embarrassed pleasure at the immediate attention Carlo’s name prompted. As she walked ahead of me, I sensed that it could be easy for her to slip into the pseudo-royalty of Italy’s jet-set.
At the table, we sat in self-conscious silence as we waited for our host. While Madeleine pondered the menu with too much interest, I took in the other patrons, mostly couples. Some seemed to be in the animated and slightly awkward conversation of a new rel
