I’d been particularly taken by the tiny, hidden church of Santa Margherita de’ Cerchi where Dante met Beatrice. I’d gone there with a fifteen year old with a range of disorders who couldn’t cope with the organised tours the rest of the party were enjoying. I couldn’t cope with them either, excursions were far more pleasant when it was just the two of us. We’d discovered a basket beside Beatrice’s shrine filled with fascinating notes from people pleading for help with their love lives. Some were written in English: Oh, Beatrice, help me! He is my world but he doesn’t even notice me! … I know she prefers this other guy but he’s a dick, what shall I do? … We’d made up our own responses, matching broken heart to broken heart. Afterwards, we bought ice creams and sat on the wall beside the river. The girl, Keira, her name was, told me about how she wanted to do well in life to prove her mother wrong. ‘Wrong about what?’ I’d asked and she’d replied: ‘Me being too stupid to make anything of myself.’

I considered telling the story to Joe but decided against it.

We left the airport and joined a dual carriageway. Cars and mopeds zipped past us.

‘How far is it to the lawyer’s office?’ I asked.

‘About two hours,’ Joe replied.

Oh God! What are we going to talk about for two hours?

‘We should use the time to discuss what we’re going to do with the villa,’ Joe said, so promptly that I wondered if I’d inadvertently voiced my thoughts out loud: how else could he have known to answer my question? It used to happen when we were married; one of us would pre-empt the other’s unspoken question with a response, but surely that telepathy born of intimacy must have withered while we were apart? ‘Do you have any thoughts,’ Joe asked, ‘about what you want to do with your share?’

‘Of the villa?’

‘Yes,’ Joe said, and I heard the word ‘obviously’ even though he hadn’t actually said it.

‘If it was down to me,’ I replied, ‘a quick sale would be best. Do you want to sell it too?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Okay. Good.’

Joe was still staring ahead and I couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses. I licked my lips; my mouth was dry as dust. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to sell,’ I said, my casual tone disguising how intensely relieved I was at his response. I’d been expecting a battle; I thought he’d be determined to hold onto the villa, no matter what. It was the last strong connection with his mother’s Sicilian family and family was important to the DeLucas.

‘Yeah,’ he shrugged. ‘Well.’

‘I know how much the villa meant to you, all those fabulous childhood holidays you had there…’

‘I need the money.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’