Terence was driving up the hill to Cortona. He was going to propose to her. The road wound and wound in Tuscan style, but Terence wasn’t the sort of person to see that as a metaphor. Or would he have called it a simile? Terence wanted children, but did he want English or Italian children? What would she want? Would she insist on Italian, or would she like half-and-half? Would he want them to be bi-lingual? His own Italian wasn’t very good, so would they have Italian secrets from him? And, of course, there were the stepchildren he’d inherit – three of them from her first marriage.
Suddenly a huge black dog dived out of the bush beside the road, making him swerve and career down the hill. He wasn’t a particularly good driver, and driving in Tuscany was a lot harder than driving in Epsom.
When the Carabiniero came and told her what had happened - where he’d been killed and where the car had gone off the road - she screamed.
‘That’s where my dead husband’s dog was killed when I ran it over two years ago!’