I am talking to Nina, about where I can possibly find the dresses I need for my brother's wedding.

Nina is petite and blonde and impeccable, with long straight hair.

She thinks I should go to Via Montenapoleone, to the Golden Triangle. Armani, she decides, would be best for me. I should be able to find three outfits there with no problem at all.

But Nina, I say, Armani is very expensive!

"Expensive? What is expensive?" She blinks at me, bemused. "If you look good, it is not expensive."

I think I detect a touch of scorn under her bewilderment, but am not sure.

I think about what she says, and it starts to make a kind of sense.

I think that maybe I've been in Milano too long.

It is Sunday afternoon, and we are in Carnate, a small village two train stops past Monza on the way to Lecco.

Carnate is full of trees and flowers and silence.

We arrive at George and Martha's house. George and Martha are plump and cheerful and wholesome. They like animated Disney movies, and have every one ever made. They fill a big bookcase.

Their house is attached, or a duplex. Their landlords live next door. The house is full of marble: marble floors, marble tables, marble statues. The landlords have a marble business. Suprisingly, the bathtub is not made of marble.

We sit in the backyard at a marble picnic table, while George fills the black Weber grill with charcoal and sets it alight. We nibble on veggies and dip made with sour cream and a packet of Hidden Valley Ranch, and dip tortilla chips into bottled salsa.

George grills barbequed chicken and sausages and steaks. Mine is very rare. I like it that way.

George does not have an apron that says "Kiss the Cook." I become fixated on that. George needs an apron like that. I resolve to buy one next week in the US, and bring it back for him.

I don't tell him about any of this. It will be a surprise.

We help ourselves to cutlery and napkins from a cross-stitched caddy made by Martha's mother. We sprinkle salt and pepper from tupperware shakers onto Martha's devilled eggs.

While we eat, we talk about pornography and the fact that the Esselunga in Carnate carries baby carrots, while the Esselungas in Milano do not.

For dessert, there are thick, rich brownies, made with the Crisco that Martha brings back from the States. Her suitcases must be very heavy. The chocolate frosting is also thick and rich, and made with Crisco. Martha cuts her brownies into large squares, and George adds a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Too much, I think, but I eat it all. I do not think of my arteries.

Elvis would love this, but he is not here. Martha wraps a thick slab of brownie in aluminium foil for me to take home and give to Elvis.

I miss him.

And when he calls from Portugal, to tell me he's arrived safely, it feels like Christmas.

It is Monday morning.

I open my eyes to the sun and a blue sky dotted with a few, white puffy clouds, and I am reminded of Windows 98.

The cat is on Elvis' half of the bed, sacked out on the striped wool blanket where she likes to spend her afternoons, napping. She has not slept in her usual spot, curled up against my stomach, her head on Elvis' hand. At the sound of the alarm, she does not stir. She is, quite possibly, snoring.

Elvis is not there. He is in another country, far away from me.

I drift back into sleep, and wake again some time later.

The sky is grey, cloudy, and the cat has not moved. The bedroom is cold, and I shiver.

I feel so alone.