She spoke to Giulia, but her daughter rejected the idea outright, and furiously. She would never be Gino Battagliola’s wife, she would rather sleep out on the street! He was a pleasant enough man, she had nothing against him, but he was dull and bland. She often saw him at the workshop. With his lanky, awkward physique, and that stubborn tuft of hair that refused to lie flat, he resembled one of the mildly ridiculous characters in Dino Risi’s comedy I Mostri, one of Papà’s favourite films. He’s a good boy, said her mother. Gino is kind, and he has money. Giulia would want for nothing, she was sure of that. Nothing except what really matters, Giulia reminded her. She refused to go along with the scheme, to lock herself in a gilded cage. She didn’t want a life of convention and appearances. It was good enough for plenty, said her mother, and Giulia knew she was right.

Her mother’s marriage had been a happy one, though in truth, she hadn’t chosen the man of her dreams. Unmarried at thirty, she had finally agreed to the hand of Pietro Lanfredi, who had courted her assiduously. Love had come in time. Giulia’s father had a fiery temper, but he was a good man who had earned his wife’s affection. Perhaps it would be the same for her, too.

Giulia went upstairs and shut herself in her room. She could not accept her mother’s choice. Kamal’s burning-hot skin was all she wanted. She refused to slip between icy sheets, in a cold bed, like the heroine of Mal di Pietre, the Sardinian novel that had made such an impression upon her: despairing of ever loving the man she had married, the heroine wandered the streets in search of her lost lover. Giulia did not want a life devoid of passion. She remembered La Nonna’s words: Do whatever you want, mia cara, but on no account get married.

But what other solution was there? Could she face turning her mother and sisters out onto the street? Life was cruel, she thought, to lay the burden of her entire family upon her shoulders alone.

She couldn’t face seeing Kamal, though she knew he would be waiting. Without really knowing why, she found herself walking to the little church her father had loved – and shivered as she realized she had begun to think of him in the past tense. She corrected herself. He was still alive.