Joe walked over to the gates and rested one hand on the metal, running his fingers over an ironwork vine.

‘Every summer,’ he said, ‘when we came to Sicily, our grandfather used to meet us at the airport and drive us back here in his Alfa Romeo. I used to wear his sunglasses and leather jacket and sit in the front next to him; I felt like Steve McQueen.’

I’d heard that story many times. Joe loved telling it and Daniel loved hearing tales about his great-grandfather’s car. He’d had a toy Alfa Romeo that he used to drive around the furniture in the London flat. Joe promised Daniel that one day they’d drive around Sicily together and visit all the football stadiums. He was probably thinking about that right now.

I wrapped my arms around myself and walked away from my ex-husband to the edge of the parking area. I looked down; glassy seawater lapped against the edges of a vertical wall of volcanic rock. I could see into the water, late sunlight glinting on the fish that darted amongst the weed. Beside me was a post, with a weather-worn wooden sign nailed to the top. Painted in slanted blue letters over a white background were the words: Villa della Madonna del Mare. The artist had decorated the letters with little blue waves, starfish and seashells.

I heard a clanking as the chain that held the gates together clattered to the ground. Joe took hold of one of the gates and heaved. It groaned monstrously and moved slowly. When the gap was wide enough, Joe squeezed through and disappeared into the gardens.

It felt strange to be alone.

It was so quiet; the only sounds were the insects and the gentle splashing of water against rock. After a moment or two, I too went through the gates, walking slowly, feeling as if I was trespassing. The heat contained inside the wall was stifling, and the smell of jasmine, sweet and musky, reminiscent of Anna’s perfume.

I was standing on a driveway, gravel beneath the soles of my uncomfortable sandals; weeds and thistles and self-seeded grass and wildflowers growing through the small stones. On either side, shrubs and climbers tangled together. Flowers climbed through the trees, set free from their beds and their borders. Cicadas sang; birds fluttered between the branches. It was chaotic and creepy and magical, riotous; spots and splashes of colour and movement flickering on the periphery of my vision.

I took a few steps forward, turned a corner and saw Joe ahead of me, looking around with awe. Fading sunlight gilded the garden. Joe reached up into the leaves of a tree and picked a fruit. He raised it to his lips and bit into it, then he threw the fruit into the flowers.