I wash and change into my new linen trousers and a crisp white shirt with short sleeves. I tuck the shirt into my waistband and turn to look at myself in the mirror, my eyes widening at the unfamiliar sight. I lift one leg and then the other, and I tuck my hands into the pockets. (Pockets! What a delight.) The trousers are light and soft against my legs and the way they let me move around is genuinely thrilling.

I have to admit that Filomena’s taste has proved to be spot on. The white shirt lies open at my throat and my slightly sunburned skin loses some of its pinkness, turning more of a tawny gold against the cotton. Instead of looking as though I have been squeezed inside my clothes like an overstuffed sausage, this outfit fits my curves; the masculine cut even emphasizes them in a way that surprises me and leaves me a little bashful. I pull my dark curls into a long braid and reach for the wide-brimmed straw hat to complete my ensemble. I stare at a reflection that is both myself, and, at the same time, someone else – a girl who’s off to have an adventure.

At ten to three I am sitting out on the terrace, nursing a cup of tea. I take a sip and wince, realizing that I’ve let it go cold. I think it’s the first time since I arrived here that I’ve had to be anywhere at a specific time. Still, I have put the time to good use, eating at least four of the crumbly almond-scented biscuits that Rosa left out for us.

“Oh, there you are.” It’s Ben, and the impatience in his voice implies that he has been searching for me for hours rather than finding me waiting at the exact time and place he told me to. I notice his eyes widen as he takes in my new outfit.

“Here I am.” I smile encouragingly.

For a moment neither of us says anything. Ben is looking at me with a slight frown.

“Shall we go?” I ask finally.

“Fine,” Ben says. “I’ve set up in the gardens; follow me.”

“It would be my pleasure.” I might be laying it on a bit thick now, and certainly the look Ben gives me as we walk along is not friendly.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Is that something that would make you anxious?” I ask, interested. I wish I had brought a notepad and pen with me to record this sort of information.

Ben comes to a stop and gives me a stern look. “What game are you playing now, Beatrice?”

“No game,” I say. “I’m just being pleasant.”

“That’s what worries me.”