But I did go to my office, and worked without stopping, not even to eat, until late afternoon. Then I told Maria Teresa I had something urgent to do, and escaped to a bookshop.

I stayed there, browsing, until the shop closed. I was the last to leave. The shutter was already half lowered, and the assistants were all lined up at the cash desk, looking at me in an unfriendly way.

I rang the bell of Margherita’s apartment and waited for her to come and open the door.

I had keys, but almost never used them. She didn’t use hers to my apartment, two floors below, either.

We’d each kept our own apartment, with our own books, posters, discs, and so on: a mess, in the case of my little apartment. Hers was a penthouse, big, beautiful and tidy. Not obsessively tidy. Tidy like the home of someone who is in perfect control of the situation. Of the two of us, she was the one in control, but that was fine by me.

The only change had been in her apartment. We’d bought a king-size bed, the largest we could find, and had put it in her bedroom. I’d taken over a corner of the wardrobe for myself and had put in a few of my things. One shelf in the bathroom was also mine. And that was it.

I often slept at her place. But not always. Sometimes I felt like watching TV until late – though less and less – and sometimes I wanted to read until late. Sometimes she was the one who wanted to sleep alone, without anyone around. Sometimes one of us went out with friends. Sometimes she left for work and I stayed at home. I never went into her apartment when she was out. I missed her even when she’d only been gone a few hours.