The lawyer, Avvocato Recupero, was waiting for us in a room on the first floor. He spoke no English, but he was courteous and his tone was kindly; he put me at ease. I could see how he would have appealed to Anna; she always liked nice things; attractive people. I imagined her imagining us meeting him for the first time. Go away, I said, leave me alone, but she was with us, almost as present in that office as if she had been there in person.

Joe and I were shown where to sit, side by side. There was a jug of water on the table and several upturned glasses. I filled one and drank the water so greedily I spilled some onto the faux silk blouse. The spots glared black. I filled the glass and drank again. This time I spotted the desktop with water. What was the matter with me? Why was I being so clumsy?

I wiped the desktop with the sleeve of my jacket. It left a smear on the wood. The assistant leaned over and passed me a paper towel and my cheeks burned hot with embarrassment.

Joe was fluent in Italian and talked for some time with the lawyer. I couldn’t follow what they were saying although I heard Anna’s name mentioned several times. I sipped my water and tried not to fidget. Eventually the tone changed and the formalities began and at this stage Joe took the time to explain what was happening. Every so often, a document was placed in front of me and I was shown where to sign.

‘That’s to confirm your inheritance of half of the villa,’ Joe told me, ‘that’s the transfer of the deeds. That’s to say you’ll take fifty per cent responsibility for insurance.’

Every document I signed, he signed too, his name beneath mine, an uncomfortably intimate procedure that reminded me of signing the marriage register, and then, later, the papers that would finalise our divorce.

The business was completed quickly, more smoothly than I’d expected. When it was finished, the lawyer handed a leather folder to Joe, indicating with a small bow that the bundle belonged to me too. It contained papers, the deeds to the villa and a wallet of keys. Attached to each key with a short length of string was a brown paper label describing the door that it opened. The writing on the labels was sparse and neat; Anna’s.

We all shook hands and the assistant disappeared and returned a few moments later with a tray. On the tray were four small glasses filled with a pale coloured liqueur. We each took a glass.

‘A saluti!’ said the avvocato. He raised his glass to me and then to Joe. ‘Congratulations and good luck to you both!’

I wondered if he’d ever had a couple drink a less enthusiastic toast to their future.

7