I was sitting on the balcony, devouring the contents of a gossip magazine. Six more months of Italian lessons had made me proficient enough to understand it, and even if some of it was not absolutely clear, pictures need no words.

A scandal had erupted in New York. Roughly translated, the story read: “Mrs David Penn, also known as Miss Catherine Melrose, who has been living in New York since she left her husband in 1918 …”

I gasped. 1918 was only two years after their wedding.

“… wishes to divorce Mr Penn, the well-known British film director and producer. However, it has come to the notice of this columnist that Mrs Penn’s attempts to catch her husband in flagrante have backfired, and he is now bringing a counter-suit against her divorce suit.”

So it was exactly as Aidan had said. David and his wife, desperate to divorce so that they could marry other people, had agreed to set up David’s “adultery”. Thanks to the double standard, photographs of him in bed with a “lover” would not be irrevocably damaging to his reputation. They would also be able to come to a mutually acceptable arrangement about the division of his wealth, with no hard feelings.

Or at least, so she had thought.

I put down the magazine and turned my face to the sun. So David and his wife were still unhappily married, and stuck in the middle of a court case. He and Marjorie were still at Le Grenier, no doubt bed-hopping and cocaine-sniffing exactly as before, though their next port of call, I was sure, would be Southampton. I did not care what they did when they arrived in America. All I knew was that they were far away, and I was here on our tiny balcony, watching the sea changing from pale to darker blue, then to green as the day wore on. Aidan had insisted I rest, with my feet up on a stool, assuring me that he would bring a lobster home for dinner and cook it himself.

Aidan’s work as a photographer had come to the notice of the cinematographer on Giovanni’s film – the very cinematographer whose outrage at the invasion of his darkroom had hastened Aidan’s departure. His name was Alfredo, and he had influence in the world of Italian filmmaking. Within two months, Aidan had sold almost all his pictures and had taken commissions for portraits from several of the millionaires. Alfredo, meanwhile, with his wife, Giulia, had become such good friends that Aidan and I had asked them to be witnesses at our wedding.

I stretched my limbs and turned back to the magazine. The picture of Catherine Melrose and her Swiss lover was the same one I had seen on the ferry. How long ago that seemed! In those days I had not known a word of Italian. Now I barely spoke anything else, and had easily understood the kindly doctor when he had explained why I had not been bleeding for two months and no longer fitted my waistbands. Our landlady, who like all Italians adored the very idea of babies, insisted we stay in the apartment until we could afford something else, even though her rules stated firmly, “no children or pets”.

Maybe someday I will find work. Once the dreaded public appearances associated with Innocence were over, I had no wish to be Clara Hope. My short film career lay in a hundred-and-one pieces around me. Now with my new confidence in Italian, perhaps Signora Carro will take me on as a teacher of English. The thought of the citizenry of Castiglioncello speaking English with a Welsh accent makes me smile.

And I’m still smiling as I sit in the sun, my head against a cushion and my hand on my belly. Yesterday I felt the baby move for the first time. A hundred and two pieces of me?