We had joined the coast road and had driven past the Arnones’ cottage before Valentina managed to say: ‘Honey, my battery’s about to go. The phone will cut off any second,’ and then abruptly the angry voice at the other end disappeared. ‘Quick,’ Valentina said to Francesco, ‘turn your phone off too.’

We were all silent after that until Joe took the turning for Porta Sarina beside the Intimissimi billboard. The poster was beginning to weather. It was torn in places, frayed at the bottom.

Valentina bit a knuckle, pretending to watch the countryside, but her eyes were wide and panicked.

‘What if he comes to the station to meet the bus?’ she asked.

‘You didn’t say you were on the bus,’ I reminded her.

‘No, but if we don’t get off it, he’ll know we weren’t on it. He’ll know that I lied.’

‘You didn’t lie. You never said you were on the bus.’

‘But he thought I was. It’s the same thing.’

‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘Valentina, it’s crazy.’

Francesco sat hunched, his bitten-down fingernails worrying at a spot just in front of his ear. The skin around the spot flushed red.

As we neared Porta Sarina, we caught up with the bus that Valentina and Francesco should have been on. It was only a few yards ahead of us at the roundabout.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Joe asked Valentina. ‘Shall I take you to the harbour or to the bus station?’

‘We’d better go to the bus station,’ Valentina said. ‘If Vito’s there, waiting, we’ll say we were on a different bus. We’ll say the schedule was different today. We’ll think of something. If we go straight to the restaurant and he’s waiting for us at the bus station, he’ll be really mad.’

Joe tensed his arms against the steering wheel.

Francesco had picked off the skin from the top of the spot; there was a tiny flare of blood.

We followed the bus into the station.

‘Is he there?’ Joe asked.

Valentina was slumped in her seat, her head held very low. ‘I’m not sure.’

I craned my head to look at the spot where the bus was pulling in. It was busy. ‘Can you let us out here,’ Valentina said, ‘out of sight.’

‘You can’t carry on like this,’ Joe said.

‘I know. I know. But I can’t face another fight, not now. Not with the baby and everything.’

Joe pulled over by the bus-wash, right next to an unmissable: Parcheggio vietato sign with a graphic of a car with a large red cross covering it for the benefit of those who did not speak Italian. The moment Joe pulled over, a man in dayglow-green overalls headed our way, waving his arms.