His arm is tight around my waist and my hand rests on his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft against my fingertips.

The music changes and Ben twirls me suddenly, setting the world spinning around me, a kaleidoscope of light and sound. The melody is shrill and exciting, a heady cacophony of sound, full of life. Some of the songs that follow have words, and the Italians burst into a loud, enthusiastic singalong that I ask Ben to translate for me. I’m not sure if he is teasing me or if the lyrics really are as scandalous as he claims, but either way it’s a very interesting lesson in social behaviour.

“I should go and talk to people about my work,” Ben murmurs reluctantly in my ear. “Will you save me another dance later?”

“Perhaps,” I say.

With a rueful smile, Ben drops his hand from my waist and takes a step back. The air that rushes between us is cool and I feel curiously bereft, as if my body is registering the absence of his touch.

But then, after Ben, I have another dance partner and another and another. “My dance,” they say. “My dance, my dance.” I’ve never been so much in demand, and I try to concentrate on enjoying myself. After a while I forget to try, caught up in the easy excitement of the crowd.

I notice that Klaus chats easily with the musicians in between songs, paying particular attention to the handsome violinist. The two of them smile at one another in a way that is warm and intimate. How interesting.

I feel like a spinning top, as the music rings out and the lights blur around me. After a while I find myself in Klaus’s arms and he greets me as though we’ve been apart for months, pressing warm kisses to my cheeks. Finally, after yet another dance, I’ve had enough, and I leave him with a new partner, as I head off in search of food and water.

I come across Hero sitting at the dining table, her chin in her hand, her eyes on the decadent scenes unfolding in front of her. She looks as though she’s at the pictures, watching quietly from the darkness as the light spills towards her.

“Are you having fun?” I ask, sitting down in the seat beside her and reaching for a hunk of bread topped with oily tomatoes and sweet-smelling basil leaves.

“So much fun,” Hero breathes. “Isn’t it wonderful, Bea? You’d never see anything like this in boring old England.”

“Certainly not the England that we inhabit anyway,” I agree, licking my fingers.

“I hope we never have to leave here,” Hero says. Something sad comes into her eyes. “I think … I think maybe Pa is getting homesick.”