The kittens were examined in the veterinary surgery and pronounced to be three or four weeks old and in reasonable condition. We bought worming powder, flea treatment, nursing formula, bottles and a supply of plastic nipples. The nurse showed us how to make up the formula because the kittens had already gone too long without a feed and were borderline dehydrated. We sat together, in a line, Joe, the nurse and I, each of us holding a kitten, encouraging it to take the milk. The one I held, the little black and white one, opened her tiny mouth and lapped at the yellow liquid, bubbles of milk on her chin. I held her close to my face, whispering encouragement. Her whiskers tickled my cheeks.

When I looked up, I saw that Joe was watching me, but when he saw that I had seen him, he looked away at once.

Back in the car, Joe turned towards the harbour road.

‘I thought I could call in the pizzeria,’ he said, ‘seeing as we’re here.’

‘Okay,’ I said. I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

At the harbourside, two men in shorts and tattered T-shirts, brown as nuts, were stacking lobster pots on the harbour wall. Cats waited for titbits in the shadows of the roadside weeds. A dun-coloured dog sniffed at the feet of a bench. The boats moved gently in the water. Vito’s battered old truck was nowhere to be seen.

Joe pulled up at the side of the road, a little way down from the pizzeria. A woman was sweeping the street outside one of the bars. Another was washing the windows with a long-handled squeegee. Sunlight glistened from the wet panes. The tables and chairs were laid out on the terrace outside the pizzeria, under the shade of the striped awning, and the door was open, although no lights were on inside and the place had an air of abandonment about it.

Joe switched off the engine.

‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

He climbed out of the car and I watched him walk towards the pizzeria and step through the open door. It was too dark inside for me to see anything after that.

I put the box on the seat beside me and I checked that each of the kittens was still breathing.

My phone pinged. Matilde Romano had sent another text.

I don’t think you’re receiving my messages.

And another:

If you get this call me back.

And a third:

Edith? Is this the right number for you?

I deleted the messages. I’d have to do something about Matilde Romano, tell her something, but not yet. She would have to wait for an answer because I simply wasn’t in a position to be definitive with her yet.

I looked towards the pizzeria. No sign of Joe.