It’s early evening and, thankfully, slightly cooler. With my pastywhite skin, I’m not cut out for this weather and I’m beginning to get a prickly-heat rash. Since our morning at the rocky beach, Bethany and Matt have retreated into a stony silence – with me, at any rate – and Amy is practically monosyllabic. She passes me things to set on the table: beers dripping with condensation, a carafe of Primitivo, a jug of water, baguettes and a bottle of bright-green olive oil, fist-sized tomatoes and spiky cucumbers, all from Carlo’s farm. There’s cheese, bizarre white peaches and prosciutto. It’s an odd mixture, not quite a meal, but apparently Joe is doing his special roast chicken later. I’ll need to fill up on bread. Lotte and Theo are sitting by the edge of the pool, dangling their toes in, but not venturing any further, and Chloe is hunched over her iPad, watching something; in the dusk, the colours of the screen flicker across her face. A bat swoops over the terrace, dipping into the water, and the children shriek. Luca is reading The Divine Comedy, absent-mindedly dunking chunks of bread into a puddle of balsamic vinegar.

The rest of my family drift over to the table.

‘Chicken’s marinating and the veggies are roasting,’ Joe says, clinking his protein-shake against Bethany’s wine glass and smiling at Amy.

‘This is the life,’ Matt says, turning a Peroni in his hand, as if he’s trying out cheerfulness like it’s an old coat he’s rediscovered.

Dad isn’t here, and no one has thought to tell him it’s time to eat. Or maybe they’ve deliberately not said anything. I sigh and go inside to look for him. When I find him in his room, he’s reading some thesis about British politics. He carefully slides his bookmark in, to hold his place.

‘I still can’t find that photo of your mother,’ he says.

‘It’ll turn up,’ I tell him, taking his elbow and helping him up out of the armchair. I don’t bother reminding him that he’s left it at home.

‘Wait a moment, Son.’ He turns back at the door and retrieves his jacket from the arm of the chair. I suppose he feels the cold more than the rest of us, and even a balmy evening might seem a touch chilly to him.

Everyone falls silent as we walk out onto the terrace. The scrape of Dad’s chair against the tiles is loud.

‘A veritable feast,’ Dad says. ‘Thank you, Amy.’ He raises his glass of water.

‘Joe’s cooking tonight.’

‘Ah. No end to your young man’s skills,’ Dad says, and Bethany splutters.

‘That’s about the size of it,’ Joe says. ‘Cooking and running about like a nutter. Didn’t make it to university, Prof.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ Bethany says, nodding at Nick.