Copyright © 2023 Olivia Beirne

The right of Olivia Beirne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Headline Review

An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

This Ebook edition published in 2023 by Headline Review

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978 1 4722 8450 1

Cover credit © Shutterstock

Cover design by Sophie Ellis

Author Photograph © Nicholas Dawkes Photography

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

About the Author

Also by Olivia Beirne

About the Book

Praise for Three Nights in Italy

Dedication

Prologue: Zoe

Chapter One: Angie

Chapter Two: Zoe

Chapter Three: Harriet

Chapter Four: Zoe

Chapter Five: Zoe

Chapter Six: Harriet

Chapter Seven: Angie

Chapter Eight: Zoe

Chapter Nine: Harriet

Chapter Ten: Zoe

Chapter Eleven: Zoe

Chapter Twelve: Fanny

Chapter Thirteen: Angie

Chapter Fourteen: Zoe

Chapter Fifteen: Fanny

Chapter Sixteen: Harriet

Chapter Seventeen: Zoe

Chapter Eighteen: Fanny

Chapter Nineteen: Zoe

Chapter Twenty: Harriet

Chapter Twenty-One: Zoe

Chapter Twenty-Two: Angie

Chapter Twenty-Three: Zoe

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fanny

Chapter Twenty-Five: Zoe

Chapter Twenty-Six: Harriet

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Zoe

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Angie

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fanny

Chapter Thirty: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-One: Harriet

Chapter Thirty-Two: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-Three: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-Four: Angie

Chapter Thirty-Five: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-Six: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Fanny

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Zoe

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Zoe

Chapter Forty: Harriet

Chapter Forty-One: Zoe

Chapter Forty-Two: Angie

Chapter Forty-Three: Zoe

Chapter Forty-Four: Harriet

Chapter Forty-Five: Zoe

Chapter Forty-Six: Zoe

Chapter Forty-Seven: Fanny

Chapter Forty-Eight: Zoe

Chapter Forty-Nine: Zoe

Chapter Fifty: Harriet

Chapter Fifty-One: Zoe

Chapter Fifty-Two: Zoe

Chapter Fifty-Three: Harriet

Chapter Fifty-Four: Zoe

Chapter Fifty-Five: Fanny

Chapter Fifty-Six: Zoe

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Harriet

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Zoe

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Ange

Chapter Sixty: Zoe

Chapter Sixty-One: Zoe

Chapter Sixty-Two: Harriet

Chapter Sixty-Three: Zoe

Chapter Sixty-Four: Fanny

Chapter Sixty-Five: Angie

Chapter Sixty-Six: Zoe

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Zoe

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Fanny

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Zoe

Chapter Seventy: Fanny

Chapter Seventy-One: Zoe

Chapter Seventy-Two: Fanny

Epilogue: Angie

Acknowledgements

Discover more from Olivia Beirne . . .

About the Author

Olivia Beirne is the bestselling author of The List That Changed My Life, The Accidental Love Letter and House Swap and lives in Buckinghamshire. She has worked as a waitress, a pottery painter and a casting assistant, but being a writer is definitely her favourite job yet.

Also by Olivia Beirne:

The List That Changed My Life

The Accidental Love Letter

House Swap

About the book

THREE WOMEN. ONE SECRET. AN UNFORGETTABLE JOURNEY.

Zoe always knew this day would come. After all, no one can live for ever. She may not be ready, but Zoe knows the importance of goodbye – and how much it hurts when left unsaid – so it’s time to return to her grandmother’s home in Italy one last time. Even if that means deceiving her mum, Ange.

Harriet doesn’t know where she fits anymore. It’s not in Cornwall with the new family her mum is building, and it’s certainly not in the job she hates. The trip to Italy may not be the adventure Zoe and Harriet promised themselves, but Harriet is simply not being left behind.

Ange was doing fine. Well, she was coping. Like she has been for the past fourteen years because her daughter needed her. But since her mother’s death, nothing has felt fine. Even her relationship with Zoe is cracking at the seams.

Then, the last person any of them expects to see suddenly turns up, and soon it seems the only way to move forward is to revisit the past . . .

Praise for Three Nights in Italy:

‘A gorgeous, life-affirming story of getting a bit lost and helping the people we love become found. Warm, wistful, and wise, Three Nights In Italy is a book my heart will treasure’

Laura Jane Williams

‘Olivia Beirne writes with such warmth and humour. She just GETS women, and covers both light and serious topics in such relatable, tender ways’

Lucy Vine

‘You can feel the warmth of the sun on every single page . . . brilliantly funny and filled with love’

Daisy Buchanan

‘A beautiful story about changing your life and taking chances. It had me wanting to hop on a plane to Italy immediately!’

Lorraine Brown

‘I wish I could read it for the first time all over again. The relationships between all the characters were so wonderful . . . everyone needs an Aunt Fanny in their lives!’

Holly McCulloch

‘A beautiful, feel-good read with a charming cast of characters, idyllic locations and plenty of humour counterbalanced brilliantly with some thoughtful themes. I absolutely loved it’

Donna Ashcroft

‘Funny, poignant and full of heart, Three Nights In Italy simply swept me away’

Emily Stone

‘It was such a fun, pacy read full of colourful characters that will stay with me beyond the page. A story of second chances and taking risks filled with warmth and humour – I loved it’

Caroline Khoury

‘A charming, feel-good book that you won’t be able to put down. Olivia once again wins you over with her beautifully real and raw characters whose lives you can’t help but get invested in! Loved it’

Emily Houghton

‘Beirne consistently writes women and their complex, often messy, but tender relationships beautifully’

Pernille Hughes

To my Grandma Nain and my Grandma.

Grief is the price you pay for love.

PROLOGUE

ZOE

‘Zoe, wake up.’

A familiar voice fills my ears, jolting me from my deep sleep. It’s barely a whisper, quiet and scratchy like she hasn’t spoken in hours. Which would make sense considering it’s the middle of the night. I peel open an eye, adjusting to the darkness around me, except for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the slats of the blinds. Sleeping at Grandma’s is like crawling into a cave and closing yourself off from the world. There are no street lights and barely a sound in the Italian mountains where her house nestles. The only thing that can shock you awake is the occasional electrical thunderstorm that snaps and crackles across the midnight sky like a firework display. Well, that and my grandma and her disregard for the time.

I turn my head towards the figure crouching next to me. Grandma beams back at me, thrilled that her plan has worked. I can smell coffee on her breath, and I scrunch up my face.

‘Grandma,’ I moan half-heartedly, ‘why are you awake? It’s the middle of the night.’

I try to close my eyes again, but she gives me a shake.

‘I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up for hours. Come on, get up. I’ve got something I need to show you.’

I hear the smack of her walking stick as she crosses the wooden floorboards, and I jump as she thwacks it against the door frame, shaking me immediately awake again.

‘Okay,’ I manage, ‘I’m up, I’m up.’

There is very little point me trying to get back to sleep now. Once Grandma has an idea in her head, there is no deterring her. If I don’t follow her downstairs in the next five seconds, she’ll return with a vengeance. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t put it past her to tip a bucket of water over my head.

I drag my legs out from underneath the thin sheet and follow the sound of her shuffling down the corridor. She’s like a wind-up toy. She can’t walk that easily (to be fair, the woman is in her nineties), but she shuffles with such speed that if you looked away for a second she’d be gone.

Only the moonlight peering through the shutters breaks up the darkness that has swept over the landing. I hold my hands out to try to steady myself as I make my way down the stairs. She clunks down each step and I wince every time she lands. We have spent this entire summer terrified that she’s about to fall over and break something, but Grandma goes out of her way to prove that she’s made of rubber. Last weekend she tried to get me to compete in a cartwheel race. Considering she can barely walk nowadays without her stick, I’m almost certain she was joking. But she’s so furiously against being old that I wouldn’t want to challenge her. She’d probably try and forward-roll down the mountain.

‘What’s going on?’

I turn to look back up the stairs as a beam of light spills over Grandma and me. Mum is standing in her bedroom doorway, arms crossed, frowning down at us. She yawns loudly.

‘Oh good, you’re up.’ Grandma waves her walking stick above her head, not an ounce of remorse on her face at having woken up the whole house. She has at least now reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Come on, Angie. There’s something I want to show both of you.’

‘Mum!’ Exasperation carries Mum’s voice. ‘What are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘Time?’ Grandma scoffs. ‘What is time? Inspiration knows no time. Magic knows no time, Angie. Time is just a state of mind.’ She continue to shuffle into the living room.

Mum rolls her eyes at me, and I shrug. We both know that this is just Grandma – weird yet wonderful, mad but incredible. She’s like a child hiding inside the body of an old woman. It’s like she doesn’t understand rules, or maybe she does and simply refuses to follow the beat of anybody else’s drum. But she gets away with it because she’s an artist, and that’s why everybody loves her.

‘Have you been drinking coffee?’ Mum asks, pushing her thin hair out of her eyes as she follows her into the living room. ‘You shouldn’t, it’s not good for you.’

‘Would you rather I drank brandy?’ Grandma challenges.

‘Remind me to replace it with decaf tomorrow,’ Mum mutters to me as Grandma turns to face us and waves her stick in the air, commanding attention.

‘Well?’ she cries. ‘What do you think?’

‘Of what?’ I say. ‘I can’t see.’

‘Hang on.’ Mum steps back and turns on a lamp. As a warm glow pools around her, she tightens her cotton dressing gown over her floral nightie, her eyes scrunched up like prunes, trying to see without her glasses.

Grandma is wearing soft sunshine-yellow dungarees. Her white hair is wild, falling down her back, with tufts sticking up where she’s scratched her head. She has splats of paint across her face and she’s clasping a paintbrush. As she waves her hand around, her engagement ring catches the light. That ring has sat proudly on her hand for the past sixty years, and she’s always claimed that it’s magic. It’s how my grandpa speaks to her; she says each glint of the ring is him saying ‘hello’, or ‘go for it!’ or – more often than not – ‘I love you!’ Whenever I catch it glimmering, she gives me a knowing look as though we are sharing a secret.

Now her blue eyes are filled with excitement as they flash between me and her latest creation, and I finally look at what she’s woken us up for.

Standing on her easel is a canvas covered in paint. It’s messy, with a flurry of colours splattered across it – azure blue and rusted orange, with careful strokes of gold and buttermilk yellow. In the centre is a woman. She is at one with the colours, as though she’s created the mess. Her eyes are closed as she embraces the paint speckled across her face.

‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘Grandma, it’s beautiful. I love it.’

‘You see, her life is full of colour and madness. It’s random and sometimes the colours don’t go together, but she’s happy. She doesn’t care what time it is.’

‘Who is she?’

A wise smile pulls at her crinkled lips. She pauses for a moment before exclaiming, ‘Who do you think? She’s me!’

She holds out her hands, and me and Mum walk towards her. She takes our hands and turns her own so that the ring is facing us.

‘She is all of us,’ she says. ‘She’s magic.’

I laugh. ‘I’m not magic.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘You don’t believe you’re magic?’

I grin. I’m twenty-five, but I don’t think Grandma will ever not speak to me like I’m the wide-eyed eight-year-old she used to play dragons and knights with.

She squeezes my hand. ‘When you’re wearing this ring, my love, you believe in everything.’

CHAPTER ONE

ANGIE

Six weeks later

They’re everywhere, piles of them stacked up around the village hall. Chicken sandwiches, ham sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, tuna sandwiches. White bread and granary. Neat triangles with their crusts cut off. Little sausage rolls, and bowls of crisps that people continually dip their hands into. They’re scooping dollops of hummus or sour cream and chive onto their paper plates, murmuring politely over cups of half-drunk tea and tepid, bitter coffee. It’s a sea of drooped shoulders, shrouded in black clothing. And then there are the four of us. Me, Reg, Zoe and Harriet.

It always shocks you, death. Even if you know it’s coming, if it’s inevitable. You’re never ready. Ever since her hand went cold in mine, I’ve felt as though someone has ripped me from my anchor and now I’m just floating around aimlessly. I’m starved of oxygen; I can barely breathe. But I need to keep moving. It’s the only thing I know how to do, and I have no idea what will happen if I stop.

Mum wanted to be buried in Cornwall with my dad. So here we are. A service in the rain, a few polite readings, and now a village-hall wake, full of people I want to shake and scream at in the hope they’ll tell me it’s not real. That none of this is real.

But it is. I know that better than anyone.

Zoe has been in a corner since the moment she arrived, chatting with her best friend Harriet. Every now and again she glances at me, and I can tell she is about to march over with wide eyes and ask me how I’m doing and whether I’d like to talk. The only thing that could possibly make being at your mother’s funeral worse is having your only daughter look at you with eyes full of worry. You’re supposed to be worried about them, not the other way around.

Harriet is keeping her busy, chatting and filling her plate high with cake. She’s a lifeline, Harriet. She’s been a ball of energy ever since she turned up at my door for tea after school, aged eleven, with long, gangly legs and streams of straggly red hair. She’s kept her place at our kitchen table ever since.

And then there is my brother, Reggie, the polar opposite of me in every situation. Today is no exception. His is the only laugh to be heard, ricocheting off the walls as he greets family members and old friends with slaps on the back, big, bracing hugs and jostles of shoulders. He seems to be doing a pretty good job of keeping it together.

I’m the fourth piece of the puzzle, and I’m starting to wonder if I could slip out of the door without anybody noticing. I can feel their eyes on me, trying to find the right moment to lay a gentle hand on my arm and tell me how sorry they are for my loss. But I can’t have that happen. If a single one of these well-wishing friends even cocks their head in my direction, I’ll fall apart.

So instead I focus on the sandwiches, and I’m doing a pretty good job of coping. That is, until the instantly recognisable glissando of ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ slides through the speakers and I rush off to hide in the toilet, where I sob into my sleeve, feeling like I might vomit.

Three minutes of allowing myself to drown. Then a deep breath, a splash of water to the face, and back to the sandwiches. I think it’s about time I restocked the coronation chicken.