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‘Of course. Every now and then I’ll recall something we laughed at together or I’ll remember your love of art and history. I really shouldn’t be surprised to discover you here. This is a place both of us loved to be and where we said farewell.’

Valentina nodded. ‘Right here, yes. In front of this painting.’

She still hadn’t moved, and contained in such a small space, isolated from the city’s heat and sounds of life, made him think of an Edward Hopper painting.

‘Who is Edward Hopper?’ she asked.

Embarrassed, he realised he must have aired the thought aloud. ‘Er, he’s an American artist. He captures women in the most tender, brilliant way. Everyday women. In hotels, in public places, like a coffee shop. They’re always a little lonely, just a step away from other people and yet they look self-contained in their sadness. My favourite is an usherette in a film theatre. You get the impression she’s seen the film many times and yet there she stands, contemplative, slightly around the corner from everyone else, in her uniform. She looks as though she’s listening to the soundtrack and yet is somewhere else in her mind.’

Valentina was listening carefully. ‘And she looks like me?’

‘Not in appearance, but in the feeling I get when I look at her.’

‘And what is that feeling?’

‘That I would like to know about her sadness and what might be done about it.’

She nodded, but he sensed a hint of coldness. ‘That you might just suddenly arrive into her life and solve her problems,’ she said.

‘Er…’ He felt pinioned somehow. ‘No, it’s just how I feel when I’m looking at the painting. Given that I tend to immerse myself in work such as this,’ he said, pointing to the Caravaggio above them, ‘I take pleasure in connecting so easily to a modern-day painter. His work is fresh and colourful, and yet it is always that overriding sadness that I respond to.’

Again she nodded, but said no more, waiting for him to continue.

‘Um, I saw Maria a couple of days ago and asked about you,’ he said, hoping to move on from the awkward moment.

Did she look pleased he’d enquired after her? He couldn’t tell.

‘I was sorry to hear about your parents, your brother.’

She merely nodded again but he understood; what was there to say about loss?

‘I didn’t know you worked here, though, but now I realise I might have seen you when I was here a couple of days ago. You were cleaning over there.’ He pointed. ‘There was a boy. I waved to him and he waved back when I left with Carmel. He said he was the cleaner’s son.’

She lifted her chin. ‘He is the cleaner’s son. His name is Danjel.’

A silence stretched between them; it was only a few steps that divided them and yet it felt like a chasm.

Peter turned his attention back to the altar. ‘I wonder why this painting draws us both to it?’ he mused softly.

The question he posed was one she had thought about many times, but today it bothered her in a way she couldn’t articulate.

Why did he have to come back?

For some reason, she realised that she wanted to hang on to her sorrow of never seeing him again. Peter had always been the impossible dream. She’d needed that dream to see her through the misery brought by Lawrenz, by the feeling of being trapped in a life she’d never wanted. But now here he stood, piercing through the fantasy, even more handsome than she’d imagined. And soon he’d leave again.

She didn’t need him here to dismantle how tightly she held herself together. He would weaken her. His very presence dared to give her hope again for a different life; a life she’d given up on. Peter Fox standing here, full of compliments, was damaging rather than delightful.

She wanted him gone or she wouldn’t be able to protect herself. If he left immediately, she might be able to pretend this accidental meeting never happened, that it was just a fanciful vision and she could return to how things were before, as unhappy as she was.

‘It began because of you,’ she said finally, a hard note in her voice. ‘You gave me Caravaggio and this painting. I’m sure you know that he was imprisoned in Valletta.’

Peter nodded.

‘Well, I too am a prisoner of Valletta. I look normal enough, some might even consider me fortunate, but I am trapped all the same. I feel like my throat’s been slit as St John’s has.’ She pointed to the depiction of the imminent decapitation in the artwork. ‘And that I’m bleeding out too – a little each day.’

‘What?’ He sounded shocked. ‘Valentina… what do you mean?’

She shrugged. ‘My life is as miserable as his had become,’ she said, nodding to the canvas.