The boat lurched and she slipped in her chair. She’d forgotten this bit too: the sudden direction change as the ferry cleared the outcrop and angled itself to approach the resort. At last, Il Mandarino dazzled into view. A dozen or so white buildings climbing one side of a lush mountain, fanning upward from a private bay. Castle-like villas rose on stilts out of the greenery of the slope, and the sun flashing off their pools gave the impression that the whole place was glittering. It was hard to squint at it for any length of time, yet looking away wasn’t easy either; Il Mandarino demanded your gaze. Leah’s eyes traveled upward. At the very top of the resort the trees gave way to a craggy ridge, naked and almost brutal in contrast. A single cloud hovered like something that should’ve been airbrushed out.

As the ferry pulled up to a twin of the dock they’d just left, the wind carried down the scent of the place. The thick sweetness of the olive groves was undercut by hints of rich coffee and cologne. Leah stalled as she disembarked. Olivia gave her a curious look and offered her a hand off the boat, as if she were a doddery relative come to stay rather than a fell runner, a climber, activities she never spoke about with her family because she didn’t think they’d understand why she needed them. Leah shook herself, leaping to shore. Why did this place always chip away at her pride?

A chauffeured golf buggy whizzed them up the path that snaked through the middle of the resort. Even as they rose, and the lake dropped away behind them, the villas were always taller, their white turrets shimmering in a haze of heat. Lemon and olive trees were planted strategically in between, for perfect aesthetics and shade, while sprinklers rotated in a constant dance. Leah glimpsed some guests sitting out on their balconies, sipping drinks beneath gold-trimmed umbrellas, their faces shrouded by sunglasses. Beside her, Olivia smiled and waved and scrutinized everything.

“That hedge needs trimming,” she murmured, whipping an iPad from her handbag and tapping frantically. “And, God, that laundry really needs collecting from outside Casa del Fico.” She put a hand up to her mouth as if a canvas bag of dirty laundry was a shocking eyesore and immediately made a call.

All Leah could see was Amy, incongruous among the perfection. Resisting it. She pictured her climbing a tree to see the world beyond her boundaries. Running up the mountain in her frayed shorts and Bikini Kill T-shirt, shaking her head at each golf buggy that offered to pick her up.