Clotilde dipped a foot in the water. Under a sunshade, under his hat, under a book sitting open across his nose, Natale was asleep. She checked a sudden desire to go over and splash him. To ask Félix and Inès to help her to lift the deckchair all of a sudden and throw it into the water, or to suggest that they bomb into the pool beside him so violently that they would shower him with water.

Clotilde had separated from Franck a few months after Valentine had turned eighteen. They had signed the divorce papers in January 2020, by mutual consent, saving on lawyers’ fees. And then, for the rest of that winter, all through spring and all through July, Clotilde had had only one obsession: to go back to Corsica and see Natale. She was free. The Aryon, the sanctuary, the dolphins, it could all become a reality now, with Lisabetta’s money, Palma’s plans and the marketing done by Valentine, who was taking a preparatory class at business school.

The news had gone round, and Clotilde had received a long letter from Aurélia, telling her that if she came back to Corsica and Natale wanted to join her, if it was his choice, she wouldn’t stand in their way. (There were a lot of ‘ifs’ in Aurélia’s letter.) Even if Aurélia went on loving Natale, even if she sincerely thought she was the woman he needed, even if she had been able to protect him from his ghosts for all those years, even if she’d had to tiptoe around him since he came back to life. Even if Natale had never loved her, he wouldn’t have been happier with anyone else.

And it was true, Clotilde knew. It was Aurélia who had coordinated the Turiops project that Natale had always dreamed of. She had built the dolphin sanctuary almost despite him; Natale had had the will, but not the energy. Natale was indecisive. An extraordinary lover, Clotilde remembered, but a man she probably wouldn’t have been able to bear in the end. She had cursed his impassioned letters followed by months of silence; his magnificent promises, so quickly forgotten. The love had passed. Natale would remain an accomplice, a boy for whom she would always have an infinite tenderness, but Aurélia loved him more than she did. After her divorce, Clotilde had taken several lovers, travelling companions, handsome, intelligent, brilliant. Sometimes married, sometimes foreign. When she had one that she’d kept until 23 August, she took him to the Casa di Stella to make love all night. Under the stars.

‘Watch out, Mamy!’

Clotilde gave a start and looked up at the big diving board outlined against the perfect blue sky. Slightly apprehensively. These days she couldn’t see anyone jump into the void without thinking of Cassanu.

Around the pool, the tourists in flip-flops were mesmerised.