I’m surprised by her response, by them all – how curious they are and the attentive way that they listen. In England my scientific interest is treated as something unsuitable, unfeminine, to be squashed down and kept private, not shared or debated. Here it feels, suddenly, as though my knowledge is valued. It leaves me feeling a little giddy.

The conversation moves on, but I glance up and catch Ben still staring at me as though I’m a crossword puzzle he can’t quite crack.

The following morning, Filomena awakens me with a surprise. She arrives at my bedroom door, a wide straw hat on her head, dragging a large trunk behind her.

“What’s this?” I ask, stepping back to let her in. She dumps the trunk on the bed without ceremony.

“Leo was in town yesterday and he picked up these things for you. I gave him a list and told him where to go and who to speak to – he seems to have done quite well.”

I move forward and open the trunk. Inside is a jumble of clothes, a riot of bright colours and textures.

“These are all for me?” I reach out to run a piece of material between my fingers. It is red and silky, as cool as water against my skin.

“Of course.” Filomena rummages around. “Ah, here. I think you will like these.”

“Trousers!” I exclaim in delight.

I’ve never been allowed to wear trousers before; despite my protests to the contrary, Mother has always regarded them as something worn by fast women. In fact, I have come to realize, all my clothing is quite old-fashioned and more suited to a girl of twelve than one of seventeen. This has become increasingly apparent as I have seen Filomena and Ursula – and even Hero – dressed in outfits that make mine look frumpy and out of place.

I never gave what I wore much thought before. I dressed as all the women I knew dressed – with a sort of shabby respectability. The other women here at the villa dress for pleasure. Their clothes are practical: they keep them cool in the heat, but they’re also daring, modern, pretty.

I take the trousers from Filomena. They are made of light linen, wide legged and high waisted. Filomena pulls out another pair, made of a soft, dark-green material.

“These are much more practical for you, Bea,” she says. “It is quite wonderful, the way you run around.” I feel my heart squeeze at that. The way I run around has always been a problem in the past, not something to be encouraged. Not something to buy appropriate clothing for. It’s a small thing but it feels important, as though my clothes must fit me rather than the other way around.