She watches him go out and then picks up her cup again. Her coffee is almost cold but she sips it anyway, willing down the symptoms of a full-on panic attack. During these last few months, since Philip died, she has become subject to these episodes. He was her refuge, her rock, her co-conspirator; for nearly forty years he held the mirror that reflected her life. ‘We need to be seen by others to be convinced of our existence.’ She can’t remember where she has read the words but she believes them to be true. Who will hold the mirror for her now?

Cara finishes her coffee. She remembers Giovanni, the way he used to call her ‘Cara, Cara’ – ‘darling, darling’ – and she always called him ‘Joe’. She met him at a party in a friend’s house in Kensington. She was nearly twenty and he was four or five years older. His friends, like his own family, were wine exporters and they were sophisticated, well travelled and great fun. He spoke English fluently and when she tried out her small stock of Italian words, he laughed at her and said the most important one was her name. How attractive he was: how easy to fall in love with him.

Cara pushes her cup aside. These thoughts, so long denied, are unnerving her. They’ve caught her with her guard down. She’s still not used to being alone, to having nobody else to consult or consider, and it seems so strange: so lonely. The café is busy now and Cara reaches for her bag and stands up. She’ll buy some bread and then go home to Max.

Max is standing just outside the doorway that leads out from the kitchen on to the small balcony, arguing with his wife.

‘It’s just for a few weeks, Judith, whilst she finds somewhere to live. Good grief, surely it’s the least we can do.’

‘Such an irresponsible offer,’ his wife answers sharply. ‘What would she do if you weren’t there?’

‘But I am here.’

‘Nevertheless, I dislike these open-ended arrangements. So typical of Cara. And it will probably be a great deal longer than a few weeks, mark my words.’

Her voice is assured, irritated, and he sighs silently, watching Cara climbing up the steps beside the Fortescue Inn just below him.

‘I agree that in an ideal world she should have had something lined up,’ he agrees pacifically, withdrawing further into the kitchen so that Cara can’t hear him, ‘but the house sold so quickly. Philip hasn’t been dead a year and she’s not firing on all cylinders yet. Cut her some slack, for God’s sake. How’s everything your end?’