‘I wish your mother wouldn’t provoke me. Can’t you see how humiliating it is that my womb is everyone’s business?’ Ginie cried.

He sighed deeply and rubbed the side of his mouth. ‘I know she’s a bit much, but she means well.’

Suddenly, Ginie was contrite. ‘Oh, Paulo, I know! It’s just that she expects me to behave in a certain way and it’s not me, don’t you see?’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘If only you and I could be properly alone together. I feel watched all the time – I can’t breathe.’

He didn’t reply. Below them, the lights of Rapallo shimmered. The moon was rising, casting its reflection on the gentle ripples of the sea. Ginie wondered why she and Paulo were always going against the grain of each other. He had fallen in love with her because she was unconventional and fearless, but if she was too unconventional, he didn’t like it. The window of what was palatable was so narrow.

They began to stay in Genoa for weeks at a time, living in an apartment that belonged to the Spinolas in the Piazza della Meridiana. It was Paulo’s idea and it restored Ginie’s faith in him. He had finally asserted himself with his father and insisted on a degree of autonomy. Ugo seemed to accept it. Even he recognised that there was strain in the marriage and they needed space.

At first, Ginie was content in Genoa. Paulo tried hard to please her and there was much to see and do. They went to the cinema and the theatre; they shopped for clothes and luxury goods and they discovered a new hobby – gambling. They’d had a taste of it in Egypt, but in Genoa it became a regular activity. More often than not, they lost, gradually amassing debts they couldn’t pay off. They tried to win back the losses, believing that if they could ride it out their luck would turn, but they only succeeded in piling up bigger debts. Then, Italy joined the Great War and Paulo signed up as a voluntary driver in the Automobile Company of the Torino Artillery. He began his training and they were separated for weeks at a time.

One morning, towards the end of his first leave, Ginie woke late. Her mouth was sour with stale alcohol. Her tongue felt thick and furred. The light coming in at the edges of the blinds hurt her eyes. Paulo was sitting up in bed, watching her. The expression on his face was hard to read.

‘I guess that wasn’t our finest night,’ he said.

The memory of it swam back through a wave of nausea. She swallowed.

‘I guess not.’

‘How much did we lose?’

She was silent working it out. ‘A thousand lire. Maybe one thousand five hundred.’

Paulo let out a breath.