Fuck it, I thought. I was too old to be self-conscious about my body, too dirty to make a fuss, and even if Joe had been looking, which he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have cared what I looked like or what I was wearing.

I pulled my dress over my head and dropped it onto the decking. I went to the ladder, turned around and climbed down the steps, one by one, the water rising up my legs, deliciously cold, then my hips, and it had reached my waist before I ran out of steps and let myself fall back.

At first, the sea was shockingly cold, but in a few moments I was used to it and joy ran through me. I ducked my head beneath the surface, and when I came up again, gasping and refreshed, I swam, not towards Joe but parallel with him, enjoying the feeling, the water, the freedom, the sun on my face.

Almost six year old Daniel would have loved it here! He’d have been doggy paddling between us, his armbands keeping him afloat, his head held artificially high above the water, that wide grin on his face, those missing teeth; he’d have called to Joe and then me, asking us to play with him, to chase him, to pretend he was a shark, clinging onto our shoulders, wrapping his skinny legs around our waists. Teenage Daniel probably would be heading off alone, swimming out to the floating dock anchored off the beach – that must be the same dock that Valentina once jumped off, pretending to drown. And Joe and I, we’d watch him go and we wouldn’t know whether to be happy that our son was so independent and confident, or sad that he was already growing away from us.

I thought of those two versions of Daniel, and all the other Daniels in between. Every one of those lost boys would have loved this place and I grieved the loss of every single one of them and every loss was because of Anna DeLuca. My endless grief was because of her.

After the swim, reunited on the decking, awkwardness returned to Joe and me. We dressed with our backs to one another, pulling dry clothes over wet underwear, not talking. We returned to the villa with embarrassing damp patches forming on our clothes and went into the cool of the villa’s cavernous kitchen, where we’d left the food. I unwrapped the bread and was slicing it when we heard voices outside. Joe went to investigate and returned with two Italian men, one stocky and muscular, the other taller and thin with spectacles and receding hair, the three of them conversing in a friendly way, bumping into one another and patting one another on the shoulders.

‘Ciao!’ the men called when they saw me.