‘Let me look at you.’

I reached up my hand to cover my face; it was instinct – I had become used to hiding my face from anyone’s gaze.

He said: ‘No, let me see.’ He looked at me for a moment, then he whispered, ‘You’re still as lovely as ever.’

‘I was never lovely.’

‘Oh, you were,’ he replied, ‘you always were.’

When he said those words, warmth spread through me. I remembered how I had loved this man when he was young. I remembered how good a man he was. I remembered how lucky I used to feel to lie in his arms at night. I remembered all the good things I’d spent so long trying not to remember.

I’d been so committed to anger and grief. How much time I’d wasted! What a fool I’d been!

‘Are you okay?’ Joe whispered, looking down on me with such tenderness.

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes!’

‘You’re happy?’

‘I’m happy. Are you?’

‘If you’re happy, then so am I.’

We settled again and lay together, quietly. The windows were open and a breeze drifted over us. I did not want to spoil the moment, and I didn’t say anything to Joe, but I had the strongest sensation that we weren’t alone in the villa. Its ghosts moved about us still, but they did not disturb us. That night, they let us be.

40

It was morning and Joe was gone from my bed. I went onto the landing, padded to the central arched window, pushed it open and stepped onto the balcony. A raptor soared in the sky above. The sky was white, the sea was choppy. It wasn’t cold by Northern European standards, but it was the first time I’d felt cool in Sicily during the day.

I went back into the bedroom; the sheets on Joe’s side of the bed were rumpled and piled together. Above me, on the other side of the ceiling, something scampered. I tried not to think about whatever it was, pulled on a cardigan and went downstairs.

I felt the breeze rushing through the ground floor before I reached the kitchen and found the back door open. I looked outside, but there was no sign of Joe – although he had cleared the mess we’d left on the table the night before.