The impressive fountain churned up in the wake of the twin-hulled Carducci quickly washed away the view of the landing stage, the palm trees and the boxes of mauve geraniums that adorned the wall along the lakefront promenade. Out of breath, Glain gripped the handrail to steady herself against the ferryboat’s roll but as the surge of acceleration unbalanced her she slipped her arm through Cai’s. Her silver streaked hair blew in all directions and the three points of the Hermes silk scarf tied around her neck flapped with manic indignity.

‘We made it,’ she said after catching her breath, her voice rasping from too many cigarettes. ‘I really thought that we’d miss it and have to wait for the six-o-clock.’

Cai smiled. It was the first time in many months that Glain had seen him smile and it made her more optimistic.

Once the boat had reached its cruising speed it was stable in the water and the passengers could walk about the deck with less caution. Glain began to relax and she spoke with a man in a white linen jacket who’d begun to show an interest in her. Cai moved to the side rail, leaned against its metallic smooth coolness, and gazed at the forested mountains that rose steeply from the water’s edge. Seeing the ridges and gorges emerge from the afternoon shadows as the boat made its swift progress along the lake, he was eager to hike the trails he’d studied on maps the reception manager at the Villa Cannero had agreed to send when Glain had made their booking. In profile Cai was handsome: clear skin, a small, slightly pointed nose, the eye more grey than blue, which from a certain angle was shot through with turquoise, and jet-black hair worn almost cropped. He drew the wondering glances of men and women in equal measure.

Half smiling at the man along the rail to his right who’d begun to cruise him, Cai unconsciously drew his hand across the stubble of his left cheek before resting his chin in its wide palm. Even when closely shaven, his beard was dark and this pronounced the clean, white line, more surgical than accidental, that ran through his top lip, just up from the left corner of his mouth, and forged across his cheek to within a centimetre of his eye. It was impossible not to notice. It was what most people – strangers, even those initially attracted to his right profile – saw before turning away. The few not put off by such disfigurements, like Tudor, could see that the scar added interest, and even some mystery to a face that the bitchier queens on the scene would have said was pretty.