There is a space free on one of the benches looking on to the spouting fountain, and Anton sits and opens the bag of olives, savouring the salty tang of juices as the fruit’s flesh bursts in his mouth. Nothing like this on offer at the hotel. But he doesn’t want to think of that now. Instead, he retreats into the quiet reserve of his imagination, replaying the events of the night he rescued her.

He had been biding his time. That was the hard part. Keeping his distance until the time was right. Tricky enough, trying to judge it, but he knew, deep down, it was best to let her stew in her anxiety while she wondered if her young man would return. Best to let her hollow herself out with sleeplessness and doubt, the feverish going-over of past events in her mind, as if better to understand what the future might hold. Anton had experienced a single plunging moment of regret when he had heard the young man’s return in the middle of the night. Fearing a reunion, he had scuttled down the inner stairs to that private space that has become as familiar to him now as his own bed. He had listened anxiously, silently berating himself for not having made his move sooner, for having left it too late. He need not have worried. The fickleness of that foolish youth meant Anton was safe. And when the young man left with his bags that night, Anton had felt an unmistakable swell of triumph in his chest. Minutes later, the howling had started.

He had not anticipated the level of her distress. The way she just fell apart like that. It was like witnessing a collapsing building, the nauseating plunge, the inevitable dropping away. She had fallen into his arms in defeat.

‘Oh, my darling. Oh, my poor sweet darling,’ he had said, aware of the flimsy dressing-gown she was wearing – why, she was almost naked.

She had offered not the slightest resistance when he coaxed her upstairs, sinking weakly on to the sofa and staring blindly into the middle distance while he fixed her a brandy, and one for himself. A light had been turned off inside her, and he couldn’t be sure if she was actually hearing the words of comfort he spoke, if she was aware of him in the room at all. When he put out his hand to touch hers, she didn’t even blink.

Anton finds himself remembering that touch. The coolness of her skin beneath his fingertips, like alabaster. Her bare feet on the rug – long and slender and pale, one toe crooked, an imperfection he found strangely endearing.

‘I’m afraid for you, sweetheart,’ he’d said. ‘You’re in a terrible state. I don’t like to think of you being alone.’

She had put her hand to her forehead then, as if pained. Her brandy remained untouched.