I’m mother to a perfect child, teacher to remarkable students, daughter to wonderful parents. Life could have gone on like this for ages. A long tunnel with no surprises and no mystery to it.

The more days go by, the more wine he puts in my spritzers, the more days go by, the more food he gives me in passing, as if he knows I’m just eating taralli and, on special evenings – rarely – gnocchi with spinach. In the early days he brought me a few olives, and then one evening he put a saucer down in front of me with a little slice of bread

There’s the little pale-blue bench, the smell of the sea. And after all, there is the child waiting for me back there. But love is betrayal. Love is betrayal, and I just can’t do that. I’m unfailingly loyal. I don’t know how to betray you, my love. I can’t love again, do you know that? I hope I’ll always remember the second just before I knew you

She brings the fruit to her mouth and doesn’t offer me any, not once.

She barely smiles when I clown around to amuse her. She gets up to go to the toilet, without a word, without a backward glance at me.

She reigns over Chambord, she dominates my heart, she governs my life. She’s a queen.

The man’s voice says hello, it says hello, Miss, are you in a relationship at the moment, do you think that what you actually have is an aching heart, or maybe, you know, a heavy heart?

She doesn’t understand that I’m exhausted by this life she’s offering me, this life that goes far too quickly but to which she won’t completely commit, exhausted by her instability, her uncertainty, her abandoning me and her tantrums, exhausted by her princessy whims.

I step into a chic-looking café, the Caffè San Marco, which – to my absolute delight – is also a bookshop. It turns out they serve food until midnight. Perfect, it’s all perfect.