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Harry and I have been getting on well, and we have agreed to continue to talk in the open and honest way we did when he told me about the ring. I, of course, have things I need to tell him as well – and I know I should be concentrating on that, on us, our marriage, rather than allowing myself to think about Alex.

I know it, but I am not quite there yet – I will have to settle for being a work in progress. At least I can be of use to Em, I think, for which I am grateful.

She is drawing up a map of Santa Maria de Alto, along with details of who was sitting where when the tremor first struck.

The idea, she says, is to work with a graphics animation expert on it, who will bring it to life as a virtual representation of how it all played out.

‘At the moment,’ she says, pointing at the screen, ‘everyone is just a coloured blob, like something from the seventies. But once it’s done, it’ll look really cool – there’ll be avatars, and a timer that shows a countdown, and … well. It’ll be better than this.’

I am sitting with her at the dining table of the cottage she and Ollie are renting. The place is twee, and decorated with chintzy floral curtains and sofa coverings, dotted with ornaments made from seashells. Every wall features a framed watercolour print of a local beach or harbour. It is a typical holiday let – but it has been Emmed. And maybe Ollied.

There are several laptops, one of which has a screen almost as large as our TV, and wires everywhere. There are extension cables and charger plugs and USB sticks, stacks of papers and files, as well as one entire side of the large living room filled with camera and lighting gear.

There is also a battered and obviously well-loved acoustic guitar covered in rainbow stickers leaning against the sofa, several empty Jack Daniel’s bottles, and the fuzzy, faded smell of a burned-out incense stick. I feel like I’m trapped between some technological future-world and a backstage party at a Led Zeppelin concert.

She has the big screen up and running, and is showing me the map, pointing out various locations in a very rational and dispassionate way. At first I am surprised, wondering how she is managing to stay so calm while she points out where we were, and where the ‘Frazer party’ sat – as though they had nothing to do with her.

I soon realise, when I take a sideways glance at her face, cast in the glow of the screen, that she is barely holding it together. Her voice may sound devoid of emotion, but her fraught eyes tell a different story.

I reach out and place my hand over hers, squeezing her fingers lightly.

‘Don’t be nice to me,’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t be nice to me or I’ll crack. I need to stay professional. There is a time and a place for my inevitable meltdown, and this isn’t it. So please … don’t be nice to me.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, giving her hand one last squeeze. ‘You’re a complete bitch and I hate you. You cow.’

‘That’s better,’ she replies, forcing a smile. ‘Now, see how we’ve got you and Alex sitting there on this version? Well, we’ll also have other versions that show you at earlier stages during the night – you and Harry getting off the coach, going to the stalls, the church. Not just you, obviously, but as many people as we can. I’ve still got people to talk to. Including Alex.’

I nod, and stay silent. She knows that I am reluctant to discuss him, and I am – but I am also bursting with curiosity.

‘He was doing some charity work,’ she adds. ‘For a kind of Habitat for Humanity set-up. Designing and building homes.’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I knew he was considering something like that. But we’ve not spoken for years.’

She glances away from the screen and fixes her slightly intimidating look on me.

‘Why is that?’ she asks. ‘Why did you guys lose touch? I understand the fairy tale bit was all in my head, but … I don’t know. I always assumed you’d be friends.’

‘You sound weirdly sad about it, Em.’

‘I know I do! I actually feel a bit like a teenager whose parents have split up, I’d built such a rich fantasy life around you. With hindsight, it was a distraction for me. From losing my dad, from feeling guilty about it all, from the fact that even though I knew my mum and my brother were suffering too, I couldn’t help them because I was so messed up myself. Compared to all that, following you and Alex around was light relief.’

‘Well, in those circumstances, I can see that it would be. I’m glad we helped in some way, even if we didn’t know it.’

She laughs, and turns back to her map.

‘I think it’ll work,’ she says. ‘We’ll intercut it with footage of Santa Maria de Alto as it is now.’

‘And how is it now? You said there was a new church?’

‘Yeah, and some houses, the plaza. Not everyone wanted to go back – I think, you know … the ones who lost too much.’

I do know. She means the children. Three of the village youngsters were killed during the earthquake and it is an image I am unable to revisit easily: those kids, chasing alongside the coach when we arrived, running off to play football, helping their parents prepare the meal. The desperate yell of parents calling out names, the plaintive cries for mama. That crumpled pushchair. The boy I saw stumble and fall.

‘It took ages, apparently, because there just wasn’t much money to rebuild with. Plus it needed to be designed in a way that was more earthquake-proof, just in case. They’re still not finished. Guess who’s been helping them rebuild?’

‘How can I?’

‘Alex. I know you’re very carefully not asking, but he’s there, of all places. He helped design the church.’