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‘Fine,’ she said, then added in a breezy tone that she hoped sounded wifely, ‘Should I pack you some food?’

‘No, I’ll get something on the ferry.’

‘Of course. Let me make you a coffee.’

She left, ever glad to be out of reach of his fists and hearing range of his voice. Her hatred of him had become a companion, an invisible entity that followed her around. She could feel its broody darkness… and its danger. There were times when she wondered if she might kill him while he slept. Did he even realise, though, the malevolence that slept alongside him?

It was hard to see herself as evil. When these thoughts crept up and tapped her on the shoulder, she had to fight their allure. This evil thing was not her. But she would be released from him if she stabbed him in the night, or slit his throat, like the Caravaggio painting. He would bleed out over the bed, and unlike the awe she felt looking at the artwork, she would simply feel relief that Lawrenz breathed no more.

But, the sensible voice inside told her, she would go to prison and Danjel would be motherless and the Falzon family would have him for keeps. No, she could not raise her hand to Lawrenz. But what was the alternative?

She had thought about Robertu’s offer. It was tempting to contemplate escape, but she couldn’t imagine the mess that would be left behind for the Falzons to cope with, nor did she want to tarnish her parents’ memory in the community by becoming the woman who abandoned her husband and ran off with another man – his brother no less. And Sicily? It might feel like a safe haven, but it would take her so far away from the anchors that helped her life make sense – Valletta, its history, the cathedral and Caravaggio. It would take Danjel from his soccer team, his studies and interests. He spoke some Italian but he wasn’t fluent yet – moving there would be a great way to learn but he’d struggle at school for some time.

Fleeing was an act of desperation. It suited Robertu, because it would mean he got everything he wanted, but it took so much from them. They would have to start again, all their dreams left behind.

Besides, did she want to be Robertu’s woman? That’s all she could be until she could be legally separated from his brother, and she didn’t think for a moment that Lawrenz would grant such freedom – certainly not if his brother were involved. She cared about Robertu and they’d always been close, but it was never more than that, not for her.

Maybe Lawrenz would keep up these longer visits to Marseille. That would make life here more bearable, at least. A friend of his who now lived in the port city had come up with a business proposition that involved setting up two bars, not just to cater to the locals but to the huge influx of Maltese migrants who had left their country to find a better life after the war. Suddenly France was full of homesick Maltese who loved the idea of a bar that reminded them of home, with Maltese food and delicacies brought in. Every time Lawrenz went to Marseille, he’d take a box of perishables, including baked goods she’d made.

The ferry took him up to three days each way, and these days he stayed for at least two weeks – and now up to a month, it seemed. She’d begun to believe he might even have a woman in Marseille. She welcomed this lover, if she existed, though she hoped he didn’t hurt this woman the way he hurt her. Perhaps outside of his normal life he was able to find some semblance of normal behaviour with this woman. Valentina had even begun to hope that if she did indeed exist, that she might begin to make demands on Lawrenz, perhaps encourage him to move on a semi-permanent basis to Marseille. How different her life would be if he spent two or three months away at a time. She would encourage it, but he mustn’t feel that urging, a sense of invisible hands shoving his back. No, she must tiptoe gently towards this end if it was hers to have.

With both his parents still alive, Lawrenz would likely not leave Malta altogether, though Robertu could run their bar alongside his own – he was practically doing this already. She knew the family had high hopes that Danjel would take over the reins one day, though not if she had anything to do with it. She would do her best to see Danjel as far away from this place – certainly from his father – as possible.

‘Where’s my coffee?’ Lawrenz demanded, arriving in their kitchen.

‘Here,’ she said, pouring from the boiler that she had just switched off on the stove.

‘It better not be bitter.’

Yesterday you said mine was the best in the city, she thought. ‘No, just as you like it,’ was what she said aloud, keeping her tone temperate. He’d be gone shortly, she reminded herself. The ferry left in a couple of hours.

‘Are you cleaning at the cathedral today?’

‘Tomorrow. I adjusted it so I could be here to see you off, in case you needed any help.’

He gave a sound of disdain. ‘The good wife, eh?’

‘I’d like to be,’ she said, unsure these days whether this was the truth or a lie. She’d certainly set out to be a good wife at the start of their marriage, despite all her misgivings, but his attitude and illness, if that’s what it was, wouldn’t permit it.

Did Danjel carry that same streak? There was no evidence of it so far, and she prayed every day of her life that Danjel had inherited none of the elements that made Lawrenz behave as he did.

She sighed. ‘Coffee all right?’

‘It’s good.’

‘Hungry? Can I feed you before you⁠—’

‘Stop fussing, woman!’

She put her hands up in a surrender. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Not coming to see me off at the ferry?’

‘Of course. If you want us there.’

‘I don’t need him,’ he said.

She knew who this meant. ‘But I do need him in my life, Lawrenz, and he needs me,’ she said yet again, echoing countless previous debates. ‘And I’m taking him out of school briefly to come and see you off.’