I sighed, rearranged the shirt around the kittens, took some pictures of them to send to Fitz, then scrolled through some photographs of the dogs that she had sent me, smiling at their dear faces, their comical expressions.

Still no sign of Joe. Back to the phone. I read some more about Guido Reni, about how he’d been apprenticed to a Flemish painter when he was only ten years old. I imagined the small boy climbing up onto the seat of a carriage to be sent away, to live and work with a stranger in a different country. I imagined his mother kissing him goodbye. I wondered how she bore the pain.

More than half an hour passed before Joe returned to the car. I had made myself comfortable on the back seat and was half asleep. The sound of the door opening jolted me awake again.

Joe sat down and started the engine without looking at me. He pulled back out onto the road and was hooted by the driver of a dusty old van, who leaned out of the window, made an obscene gesture and yelled abuse at Joe. Joe ignored it. The van disappeared, dust rolling behind it. We followed at a distance.

‘Did you see Francesco?’ I asked Joe.

‘He was out with Vito.’

He gripped the steering wheel tightly. His shoulders were hunched.

‘Was Valentina okay?’

He grunted and then was silent for a minute. Eventually he said: ‘Why does she stay with him?’ Before I could say anything, he continued: ‘How does someone like her end up with an asshole like him? What is there about him that would seem attractive to a woman like Valentina?’

‘Well—’

‘He’s a bully, he’s crass, he’s thoughtless, he doesn’t have a proper career, he makes her and Francesco work like slaves… It’s not like he’s even good-looking.’

I picked my words carefully and took care with the tone of my voice, to make sure it didn’t sound jealous when I replied: ‘It must have been hard for Valentina, coming back from America on her own with Francesco. Perhaps she met Vito on the rebound.’

‘She didn’t have to marry him. She didn’t have to have his baby.’

‘It’s always easier to get into these kinds of situations than it is to get out of them,’ I said.

Joe sighed wearily.

We joined the spine road and drove out of the town, marshland to either side. We’d reached the Intimissimi billboard junction before he spoke again.

‘It’s Francesco I’m worried about, Edie. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know.’

I knew it was true. Joe was concerned about the young boy. But I knew he was concerned about Francesco’s mother too.

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