Carlo reverts back to Italian and speaks to Luca, who translates. He tells them that the house has been converted from farm buildings – his family live over the brow of the hill. Maregiglio is built from faded strawberry-pink stone and honey-coloured cement. There’s no garden, only a water trough planted with bright-red geraniums next to a mounting block at the front; they’re surrounded by the olive trees.

Carlo gestures for them to follow him. The house runs along two sides of a square bisected by a stone archway. They troop through it to a patio and a swimming pool; on the opposite side of the pool is what had once been another, smaller barn and is now a studio apartment. When Amy had looked at the details of the property online, she’d thought Joe could have it.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ says Bethany, flinging out her arms and inhaling deeply. ‘You’re amazing, Amy!’ She doesn’t give her a hug, though, like she once would have done. She sticks her hand in the pool to test the temperature.

‘It’s stunning. Thanks so much for having me along,’ says Joe. ‘Where’s the beach?’

Luca says, ‘Il cavalluccio marino. The name of the beach mean the seahorse. It is down there,’ he adds, pointing through the olives, and Amy notices a thin, sandy path snaking between the wizened trunks. ‘But it is steep. Carlo say it is not safe; we must not take any of the paths down the cliff. We only follow the road.’

Carlo and his friend start unloading their luggage, and Luca, Joe and Matt join in.

‘Which room is mine?’ asks Chloe.

Amy scrutinizes her, not sure if she’s being difficult or simply direct. Chloe was four when Amy got together with Matt, and as Amy was only twenty-five herself, she’s never felt like the girl’s stepmother. Sara, her real mother, is too much of a force of nature for her even to attempt to compete with. Amy loops her arm through Chloe’s.

‘Let’s go and choose our rooms together,’ she says.

Chloe had been the same age then as Ruby-May would have been now, she thinks. She finds it hard to avoid these thoughts; they constantly snag at her, a running commentary about Ruby-May and what stage she’d be at in her life. Amy wonders if she’ll carry on doing this every day until Ruby-May would have turned eighteen, twenty-three, thirty-six, fifty-five.

‘You and Dad should have this one – it’s the biggest,’ says Chloe, as they look in one of the bedrooms.

‘Too late, I’ve bagsied it,’ says Bethany, pushing past them and dropping her case on the floor.

‘Auntie Bee!’ says Chloe.