it. I had to clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from pointing out the wondrous views to Joe.
Eventually, hot and breathless, my skin burning and a blister forming beneath the ankle strap of one of my sandals, we found ourselves in the central piazza. In front of us the steps that led to the doors of the Duomo San Giorgio towered over the square. I would have loved to sit for a while outside the café and drink it all in, but Joe was focused on his phone. He shielded his eyes with his hand as he studied the names of the streets that led from the piazza.
‘This way,’ he said gruffly.
I followed him into a shady, cobbled alley lined with tiny, expensive shops. At the end of the street was a sign: Studio Legale Recupero.
‘There,’ said Joe. ‘That’s it.’
‘It’s very…’ grand, I was thinking. It was nothing like the office of the solicitor who’d dealt with my side of the divorce. She’d been an acquaintance of Fitz’s and every inch of available floor and table space in her scruffy little backstreet room had been piled with cardboard files. This was modern and elegant and impressive.
Our two shabby reflections looked back at us through the darkened glass. Above us, cameras fixed to the lintel blinked.
Joe reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’
He raised his finger and pressed the buzzer. The door opened and in we went.
6
We found ourselves in an air-conditioned reception area, full of swathes of glossy wood and butter-soft leather furniture. Birds of paradise blooms stood proud above an enormous glass vase beside the desk. We introduced ourselves and the receptionist invited us to take a seat, which we did; sitting awkwardly side by side. I leaned down and tried to adjust the position of the sandal strap so it stopped rubbing on my blister, while Joe fidgeted with a loose button on the cuff of his jacket.
A few minutes later, the lawyer’s assistant arrived and invited us to follow her into a tiny, darkly mirrored lift. I held my breath and pressed my hands against the wall behind me to prevent any part of my body touching any part of Joe’s. The lift was slow and cranky and I was scared we’d be trapped. I had to stop myself reaching for Joe’s hand. Ten years it had been. Ten years, and still my instinct was to lean to him for reassurance. Did the body never forget?
The lawyer, Avvocato Recupero, was waiting for us in a room on the first floor. He spoke no English, but he was courteous and his tone was kindly; he put me at ease. I could see how he would have appealed to Anna; she always liked nice things; attractive people. I imagined her imagining us meeting him for the first time. Go away, I said, leave me alone, but she was with us, almost as present in that office as if she had been there in person.
Joe and I were shown where to sit, side by side. There was a jug of water on the table and several upturned glasses. I filled one and drank the water so greedily I spilled some onto the faux silk blouse. The spots glared black. I filled the glass and drank again. This time I spotted the desktop with water. What was the matter with me? Why was I being so clumsy?
I wiped the desktop with the sleeve of my jacket. It left a smear on the wood. The assistant leaned over and passed me a paper towel and my cheeks burned hot with embarrassment.
Joe was fluent in Italian and talked for some time with the lawyer. I couldn’t follow what they were saying although I heard Anna’s name mentioned several times. I sipped my water and tried not to fidget. Eventually the tone changed and the formalities began and at this stage Joe took the time to explain what was happening. Every so often, a document was placed in front of me and I was shown where to sign.
‘That’s to confirm your inheritance of half of the villa,’ Joe told me, ‘that’s the transfer of the deeds. That’s to say you’ll take fifty per cent responsibility for insurance.’
Every document I signed, he signed too, his name beneath mine, an uncomfortably intimate procedure that reminded me of signing the marriage register, and then, later, the papers that would finalise our divorce.
The business was completed quickly, more smoothly than I’d expected. When it was finished, the lawyer handed a leather folder to Joe, indicating with a small bow that the bundle belonged to me too. It contained papers, the deeds to the villa and a wallet of keys. Attached to each key with a short length of string was a brown paper label describing the door that it opened. The writing on the labels was sparse and neat; Anna’s.
We all shook hands and the assistant disappeared and returned a few moments later with a tray. On the tray were four small glasses filled with a pale coloured liqueur. We each took a glass.
‘A saluti!’ said the avvocato. He raised his glass to me and then to Joe. ‘Congratulations and good luck to you both!’
I wondered if he’d ever had a couple drink a less enthusiastic toast to their future.
7
Back in the car, Joe passed the document wallet to me and I held it on my lap.
‘I told the lawyer we wanted to sell the villa,’ he said. ‘He’s going to put us in touch with an agent, but he’s already had an enquiry from someone interested in buying it.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Some friend of the family.’
Joe reached for his seat belt and pulled it across his body.
‘So, it shouldn’t take too long?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘And you’ll get the money you need.’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ I asked. He’d been evasive last time the subject was raised and I wondered if he was intending to spend the money impressing a new partner or something similar. His answer surprised me.
‘I want to help young addicts.’
‘Oh?’
‘To give them the skills they need to set themselves up for work. Practical skills, I mean: garden design, landscaping, that kind of thing.’
‘Sounds great,’ I said, and it did, and it was great that Joe was going to use his inheritance for the good, but of all the disadvantaged young people he could have helped, why had he chosen addicts? Well, I knew why obviously, but it irked me nonetheless. I couldn’t help feeling badly about it.
‘So, is that it?’ I asked, to change the subject. ‘Are we done now? Can I go home?’ I’d bought an open ticket, not knowing how long I’d be in Sicily, but the prospect of returning so quickly was enticing.
‘There’s still stuff that needs doing.’
‘What stuff?’
‘The contents of the villa…’ He glanced to me. ‘We need to decide what to keep and what to sell.’
‘You can do that,’ I said. ‘They’re your
