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with her, to proposition her. She hoped to find sanctuary within Il Castello.

    Having made up her mind to enter, Emma returned the stares of the men. In the eyes of each there flickered that irrepressible male optimism that shakes off reasonable doubts on the strength of a half caught glance, an accidental touch, a request for directions. As Emma approached she saw their backs straighten. A hand was passed over the hair. A smile rose out of its bed of wrinkles. A mouth opened to speak just as she altered her trajectory and entered the sanctuary of the bar, leaving the men to their afternoon sun – and their delusions.
    And for a few weeks, Il Castello was a sanctuary, the first she had found since leaving Paul in Rome. Seated at the back of the bar with a coffee, then later a glass of wine, she was able to write in peace. She still had no idea what she was writing. It was a collection of scenes, some interlinked, others rising from nowhere, blossoming and dying within a thousand words. But it felt good to write. Nothing else could stop her mind from gnawing on the edges of itself.
    And she was left alone. No one molested her. The owner of the bar had tried to strike up a conversation on the first two occasions but Emma had been able to convince him to leave her inpeace. She had been warned not to travel alone in southern Italy but always by those who lived in the north. Contrary to expectation she had found the further south she had travelled the more respectful the men had become. This was one of the reasons she had stayed so long in Otranto. Here she was treated disrespectfully only a few times a day, which for Italy was pretty good.
    Another reason she stayed was that she’d found a job. She was paid to talk in English to a woman in her fifties. The woman, Silvia, had never married but had lived in the United States for a few years two decades before. Though reserved about her time away from Otranto, Emma had been able to piece together Sylvia’s story from details she let slip. She had fallen in love with an American tourist. He had begged her to come to the States and, after much pleading, she had. But Silvia had not liked America and pined for home. When she left him, she’d half expected him to follow. He never did. Recently he had accepted her friend request on Facebook. Silvia took this as a sign that he still loved her and so, to prepare for his return she had placed an advertisement on the Internet for someone to converse with her in English, which Emma had answered. For threehours a day Emma sat in Silvia’s dress shop and in between the comings and goings of customers they talked in English about this and that; Emma correcting Sylvia’s mistakes as they went. Sometimes Emma was asked to lend a hand in the shop, which she was happy to do, though her Italian was terrible. She was even asked to model some of the dresses. It was easy work, and Silvia, though dull, was a nice woman who paid in cash and asked no questions.
    The rest of the day was her own. Her mornings were spent reading, her afternoons were spent writing. And at night she would lie for hours on her bed in her small room waiting for sleep.

    After leaving David at the foot of the stairs that day, Emma had walked across Mosman to Sally’s place.
    ‘I need to borrow some money and some clothes,’ she had said when Sally answered her impatient knock.
    ‘What’s going on?’
    ‘You’re fucking my husband. I think a few dollars, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt isn’t too much to ask.’

    ‘Emma!’
    ‘I don’t want you to speak. I want you to help me out. I’ve left him. I’m going away and I have nothing except this.’ She held up the passport she was clutching.
    ‘Stop, Emma. Please. Think about what you’re doing.’
    ‘I’m done thinking. I’m going to live my way. Can I have the stuff or do I have to start stealing clothes from your neighbour’s clothesline?’
    Then Emma had caught a few buses across Sydney to Paul’s flat in