We took our places in the Fiat. I scratched at a bite itching on my wrist. Joe started the engine and we chuntered uphill. The old woman from the mafia cottage was still out in her garden, pointing a torch down the track, looking out for us.

At Porta Sarina, I stayed in the car while Joe went into the hotel; he returned to say there was a room for each of us, which was a great relief to me. I attempted to give him some money, but he said we would settle up later.

I followed him into the hotel, the suitcase twisting and yanking at my arm. Inside was very bright, with mirrors everywhere. I saw myself reflected behind the reception desk; saw how creased and crumpled I was, my hair a mess, dark circles beneath my eyes, the awful suit hanging from me, the ribbons of the blouse dangling, my pale, Northern European skin already reddened by the sun and shining from the earlier heat and exertion.

I scratched the lump on my wrist, found another a little further up my arm.

Joe caught my eye in the mirror. I looked away. He gave me the card key for my room. ‘You’re on the first floor,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

He hesitated, then asked: ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I just want to sleep.’

I was starving, but I’d be okay. Before I left Bristol, Fitz had come into my room and packed a bar of chocolate, some crackers and a couple of apples into my bag ‘in case of emergencies.’ Fitz was brilliant; she thought of everything.

The hotel room was small and clean: a bed, a television, a floor-to-ceiling window with a net curtain, an old air-conditioning unit leaning precariously over the top of the door.

I propped the picture of Daniel on the bedside table, took off the suit and blouse and folded them onto the seat of the chair. I bathed, wrapped myself in hotel towels and lay on the bed, sinking back against the pillows, holding the TV remote and flicking through Italian news channels, but most of the news seemed to be about football. I turned down the volume, called Fitz and was comforted by her dear, gruff voice. I didn’t know where to start to relate all that had happened since she dropped me off at the airport that morning, so she made it easy for me by asking questions that I did my best to answer.

When it came to Joe, I told her that he’d been ‘okay, considering’. I studied a bruise forming on the back of my calf where the bag had bumped into me. ‘We won’t be here for long,’ I said, ‘he wants to sell the villa, too.’

‘Really? That’s not what you were expecting.’