Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. ‘Yes, fine,’ she lied.
Julie studied her dubiously. ‘I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don’t you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I’ll bring you a glass?’
I don’t want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.
She cleared her throat. ‘I know Sandro—the marchese
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