Ursula disappears again, leaving me to clean up. The water that comes up from the earth is freezing cold, and as I wash my hands, removing the smears of paint that reach up almost to my elbows, I am left breathless by its icy touch. There’s a bar of Italian soap next to the pump and it leaves a lingering scent of mint and verbena on my skin, a clean, sweet smell that lifts my spirits. I wash my face as well and notice that while there is paint on my shirt my trousers seem to have escaped unscathed. I scrape my hair back from my face and tie it into a knot, feeling as presentable as I think I’m going to without a change of clothes.

When I make my way back round the veranda, I find Ursula mixing drinks at a small trolley, her sunglasses pushed back on to the top of her head, an unlit cigarette clamped between her lips. “Ah,” she says, from the side of her mouth. “Here. Take this.”

She holds out a glass with a healthy splash of some dark, coffee-coloured liquid in it and I take it from her. She reaches into her pocket with her free hand and pulls out a lighter, lighting her cigarette and inhaling deeply, before gesturing towards one of the low wicker seats.

“Please, sit,” she says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from between her lips. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“No, thank you.” I shake my head, somewhat thrown by all this hospitality. The chair is wide enough that I can pull my feet up, so I kick my shoes off and curl in properly. I take a thirsty swallow of my drink, and gasp as the rough flame of it slips down my throat and settles in my chest. Ursula smirks and I try to look unmoved as she drops into the seat across from me, mirroring my pose.

“What is it?” I ask, nodding at my drink.

“Nocino,” Ursula says. “It’s made from walnuts. I get mine from a woman in the village. She swears her family has the best recipe.”

We sit quietly for a while; the only sounds are from the orchestra of birds and crickets whose music carries through on the tiniest whisper of a breeze. After the initial burn of the drink I do not find the taste unpleasant, and I sip more cautiously this time, feeling my limbs relax. The cool of the shade here is a welcome relief from the heavy heat.

“So, you have had your art lesson with Ben,” Ursula says, finally breaking the silence.

“Yes,” I say as she watches me keenly over the top of her glass.

“And did you find the experience instructive?” she asks.

“Not really,” I say, ignoring her suggestive tone. “I’m afraid all it did was confirm my belief that there’s not an artistic bone in my body.”