‘I didn’t hate my mother,’ Clotilde continued. ‘I was jealous, that’s all. It was so ridiculous, when you think about it. So ridiculous when you know what happened next.’

For a moment Natale’s eyes lit up, and Clotilde felt as if she was fifteen again. Natale answered, looking away from her.

‘You were stupid, most of all! I liked you, with those black clothes of yours, your rebellious teenager look, your notebook and the novels that you wedged under your arm. You were a dissident, like me. But another kind, another colour.’

Other words collided in Clotilde’s head, words uttered by Natale in another life, on Oscelluccia beach, words she had never forgotten.

We’re the same, you and me, Clotilde. Fishers of dreams against the rest of the world.

Natale filled another thimble, then sat down on an awful aubergine velvet armchair.

‘I’ve seen Beetlejuice since then. I’ve also watched Edward Scissorhands again. And each time I thought of you. That crazy girl Lydia Deetz who talked to ghosts. Are you still as wild about Winona Ryder?’

You’d better believe it, sweetheart!

‘Definitely. I saw her again in Black Swan with my daughter Valentine. Five years ago. She didn’t like the film or the actresses. But I loved it.’

Another thimble. He’d already had quite a lot, even if the level of the bottle from the Damiani Cellars hadn’t dropped that much. Clotilde went on: scraps of complicity coming back.

‘You know that Winona Ryder wasn’t even eighteen when she fell in love with Johnny Depp, who was nearly thirty. They were together for four years. They got engaged. Johnny Depp was so madly in love that he had Winona Forever tattooed on his arm, can you believe it?’

Natale didn’t say anything. That in itself was a kind of answer, particularly when you knew what happened next, the break-up of Winona and Johnny. Johnny altering his tattoo when he couldn’t get rid of it, changing it to Wino Forever …

The myths of adolescence.

Believing, being disappointed, fading away.

Myths drowned in myrtle liqueur.

Natale had nothing more to say.

But Clotilde did. She wasn’t going to give up quite so easily. She looked at Natale sitting in the armchair that was too low for him; there was no guarantee he’d be able to get up to go and sell whelks and codfish from his frozen-fish section.

‘I saw Maria-Chjara last night. She was singing on Oscelluccia beach.’

‘I know. Hard to miss the posters.’

‘She didn’t sing too badly, either. I saw the Aryon too.’

‘I’m sure, she’s still moored there. Still clinging on.’

Natale was clutching his empty glass, as if he no longer had the strength to fill it again.