She turns slowly in the opposite direction, so that the green-black trees are behind her. The shutters are tightly sealed in Joe and Luca’s apartment, but in the wing of the house where Bethany, Chloe, Dad and Nick are sleeping, the downstairs windows are ajar, the curtains slightly open. Her stepdaughter is still in bed, the covers pushed down to her waist, one bare leg on top of the sheet, her hair spread across the pillow. Through the gap in Bethany’s curtains, Amy can see her moving around, pulling on a top, stepping out of the shorts she was sleeping in. Amy drops her gaze, feeling embarrassed, as if she’s been caught spying on her sister, and hurries back inside. She must remind them to keep their windows closed; but then she thinks, I’m being alarmist: there is no one around.

They’re completely hidden, here in the midst of this olive grove.

She makes a coffee and starts putting out the children’s cereal.

‘I’m going to take the kids into town. Do some shopping,’ she tells Matt later, over breakfast. The anniversary is tomorrow and we’ll need party food.

Through the archway she sees Joe and Bethany. They’re at the front of the house, just back from their training session. Even though it’s early and the air is still cool, they’re both drenched in sweat. Bethany is bent over, sucking in air. She’s wearing a sports bra and Lycra leggings with a tropical print. Amy has seen the same pair in the window of Sweaty Betty’s on her way to work. She feels a sharp stab of jealousy. Of course Bethany has the latest design, even though a pair costs more than Amy earns in a day.

When her sister’s got her breath back, she takes a picture of herself, with Joe behind her, as if he’s her own private gladiator: every muscle on his torso is defined, the veins running down his forearms stand out, a sea-breeze stirs his dark, curly hair. How much younger than her is he? A decade?

‘I can look after Lotte and Theo,’ her dad says. He looks eager, even hopeful.

‘No,’ she says, before she can help herself. ‘I’m going to take them with me and buy them an ice cream as a treat.’

He can’t be trusted with the children, she thinks, not when he’s so forgetful. And she still hasn’t forgiven him. It’ll take time, she reminds herself.

‘Oh. Well, they’ll like that.’

‘Is there anything you would like me to get you?’ she asks more gently. She doesn’t want to invite him to come with them, but she feels guilty for leaving him here.

‘If you see an English newspaper. Or a magazine like The New Statesman or The Economist,’ he says, but he looks crestfallen.