‘Let’s just go,’ Cathy said, always keen to avoid conflict. ‘I’m boiling.’ She glanced sideways at her sister. ‘Where’s Joe?’

‘Over there somewhere,’ Frannie said, gesturing to a stand selling espressos. Frannie led Cathy away from the market and stood in the heat of the sun. Around them were the smells of Verona: garlic, dry heat, hot rubbish bins. There was no breeze at all. Cathy would almost be glad to go home, back to the mild British summer. Frannie stood next to Cathy, still looking for the smoking man, but they were too far away now. Frannie’s back was red and sunburnt. Cathy instinctively wanted to reach a palm out to see how hot it was, to soothe her little sister. Something about her shoulders, the visible spine, made her wince.

Joe emerged, carrying a tiny paper cup filled with coffee. He was holding hands with Lydia.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

‘Since when do you drink espresso?’ Frannie said with a laugh that sounded somehow forced. ‘Who are you – a mob boss?’

‘I’m on holiday,’ Joe had said.

‘We’re done,’ Cathy said.

‘We left because some bloke blew cigarette smoke all over Paul,’ Frannie said, tugging Paul’s white sunhat down more tightly. He reached up unconsciously to adjust it.

‘What?’ Joe said sharply, still sipping the coffee, his shoulders tensed. Cathy glanced at him and a feeling of unease settled over her.

‘Look – let’s just –’ Cathy said, reaching for Frannie’s arm.

‘You can’t just smoke these days, all over food,’ Frannie said. ‘Even here.’

‘Frannie,’ Cathy said. She darted another look at Joe, who had puffed up, somehow bigger, his feet planted far apart, his shoulders rounded.

‘It’s not fucking on,’ Joe said, his voice raised above the hum of the market.

‘Joe,’ Frannie shouted. ‘Honestly – don’t.’

‘What?’

‘Go off on one.’

‘It’s not going off on one to punch someone for smoking on my nephew,’ Joe said. ‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t,’ Frannie said, reaching for him and tugging at his arm. He threw her off, spun around, looking for the man, then shouted, ‘Come on, then!’

A passing policeman stopped, looking at them. ‘Everything okay here?’ he said.

He stood in the shadow of a doorway to a bank, wearing an all-black uniform. Red stripes down the sides of his trousers. She’d seen them around. His brown eyes caught the sunlight, turning them a strange bronze. His bottom half was still in shadow, almost invisible in the gloom.

‘Yeah,’ Cathy said hesitantly. ‘No – it’s fine. Thank you.’ Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny. ‘Sorry. My brother’s just – you know. Just …’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to finish that sentence. How could she? My brother is just occasionally violent?

‘Well – apart from people smoking. He’s gone now,’ Joe said.

The policeman inclined his head slightly, looking at Joe. ‘Who?’

‘This total twat who blew smoke over my sister.’

‘He was a twat,’ Frannie said with a laugh.