I accompanied Signora Romano back to the Mercedes and watched her turn the old taxi round and drive away, trailing petrol fumes. As the car rattled up the hill, a movement to one side caught my eye. It was Irma Arnone, standing in the shade of the olive trees, blatantly staring at me.

‘You made me jump,’ I told her rudely, hoping she’d get the gist, if not the exact meaning of my words.

I gave her a hard stare. She stared back and then spat to one side.

‘Disgusting,’ I muttered.

I went back into the villa’s grounds, pulling the gates shut behind me. I didn’t look to see if Irma was still watching. I’d had enough of older women for one day, enough of them turning up and spying on me, taking up my time.

In the kitchen, I picked the kittens out of the box. I held two on my lap and one to my cheek. The kitten’s heartbeat was like a finger tapping a rhythm on the palm of my hand. All three were so fragile; so helpless. It seemed such a responsibility to hold so small and vulnerable a life.

35

That evening, Joe left me in my usual spot in the courtyard at the table beneath the vine, candles twinkling in their little pots, while he went down to the cellar and returned with a couple of dusty bottles.

It was cooler that night, the sky clear and black and it glittered with a million stars. The moon was late rising. Occasionally, a plane disturbed us, whining high above like a mosquito, scratching a scar across the night sky.

I’d changed into jeans and a sweater and was wrapped in a blanket, curled up on a chair. I was imagining Daniel on my lap, his body relaxed against mine, one leg bent at the knee, the other dangling. His head, hot and sweaty, pressed against my ribcage, eyelids fluttering against the curves of his cheeks, his lips plump and soft, slightly open. My boy. My dream child. Don’t go, I begged the ghost-child. Don’t leave me. I held him closer.

I looked up as Joe returned to the table.

‘My grandfather’s wine,’ he said.

He put one bottle on the table, tucked the other under his arm and picked at the wax that sealed the cork. He drew out the cork with a corkscrew. He sniffed the cork, then the mouth of the bottle, and poured a little wine into a glass. He held the glass close to the candle. The wine was a deep, ruby red colour and viscous, like blood.

‘It looks okay,’ he said.

He took a sip, then another, then passed the glass to me.

The wine was smooth, its flavour deep. It tasted of the past, of old sunshine and the hands that picked the grapes, the press that crushed them, the people who made the wine; their expertise.