“I had hoped to, one day,” I replied, glad that I had understood him and could find the words.

I looked up as the dishes were put on the table. The waiter spooned a little of each on to my plate. The tastes were amazing—the octopus tentacle looked alarming, but was tender as butter, with a smoky, spicy taste. The prawns were salty, fresh, like eating sea foam. The scallops crisp, then melt-in-the-mouth. Then Leo spread some pâté on a square of Melba toast and held it up to my mouth. The gesture of feeding me was somehow so intimate that I shuddered.

“You don’t like foie gras?”

“Oh, but I do,” I insisted.

“You didn’t write to me,” he said, reverting to English now. “I was disappointed.”

“I thought about it, but I didn’t dare to,” I replied. “I couldn’t really believe you’d want to write back.” I didn’t add that my aunt had planted seeds of uncertainty in my head. I wasn’t quite sure he was who he claimed to be. “Besides, you didn’t give me your address.”

“Palazzo Rossi would have found me,” he replied with an almost arrogant grin. “I was expecting to see you one more time. Then we could have arranged such things.”

“I didn’t get a chance to write to you. The next morning, my aunt found out I had been with you and took me straight to Florence. She was very angry. She said that no respectable girl goes out without a chaperone in Italy, and therefore you were up to no good.”

This made him laugh. “I have never been one to abide by the rules,” he said. “And I behaved like a gentleman, did I not?”

“Almost,” I said. “You did kiss me.”

“Well, you deserved one little kiss.” His eyes were flirting with me.

I didn’t like to say that it was more than one little kiss.

A bottle of Dom Pé rignon champagne was opened and poured.

Leo raised his glass to me. “A toast,” he said, “to welcome you back to La Serenissima. May your days here always bring you joy.”

I raised my own glass to him. The glasses clinked together. Leo was smiling at me. It was almost like a beautiful dream. I was certainly not going to pinch myself in case I woke up.

A seafood risotto followed, rich and creamy and studded with prawns, mussels, pieces of fish, mushrooms, peppers. We didn’t talk much while we ate, but my head was buzzing. He was glad to see me again. He was clearly a successful man, judging by the cut of his suit and the way that the staff here treated him. For the first time in many years, a small bubble of happiness grew inside me.

The main course was a whole scorpion fish, and the waiter deboned it skilfully at our table.

“It looks terrifying,” I said. “Are you sure you are not about to poison me?”

He laughed. Then he said, “So you finally came to the Biennale. What did you think?”