I was very aware of his arm resting against mine. I wanted to kiss him again, but I thought the moment had probably passed.
‘Would you like to come back to my room?’ he asked, his words piercing the air.
Although I wanted to say yes, yes definitely, I forced myself to think about Tim (of all people!). And Ruthie. And Holiday Shop.
‘Better not,’ I said, not convincing myself. ‘Big day tomorrow.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t feel bad about it.’
I stood up and as I did, he held on to my hand, tugging it gently, as though he was going to pull me back down on top of him, which in some ways I wanted him to. Instead I eased my fingers away.
‘See you around, then,’ I said.
‘Actually, I was going to ask if I could join you guys on your lake cruise tomorrow? Would you mind? It could be good for my story.’
‘Does a day trip around the loch count as a sport, then?’ I teased.
He smiled. ‘I don’t see why not.’
He looked dazzling in the moonlight, his hair slightly dishevelled now.
I waved and walked back towards the lodge. I couldn’t look around because I knew that if I did, I’d be going back to his room in an instant.
Chapter Twelve
We reached the main square in San Gimignano – Piazza della Cisterna – while it was still lovely and quiet. Gino had warned us that at around 9.30 a.m., coach-loads full of tourists would turn up and the place would be swarming. For now, though, it was like we had the village to ourselves. The little shops lining the promenade were just opening up, with the owners putting out baskets of trinkets, like lemon soaps and cork bottle-stoppers with bright ceramic tops. Little put-put trucks were trundling up the street, stopping to make deliveries, and a bus – which took up the entire, narrow main street – climbed the hill and swung precariously around the corner into the square. It was like going back in time.
‘Who’s up for trying some of this ice cream, then?’ I asked, looking up at the gelateria Gino had recommended.
It was an unassuming place, much like any ice cream shop you’d find in Italy, with tempting mounds of whipped gelato housed behind a glass cabinet. It did, however, have a banner above its door stating that the shop had won the Gelato World Championship in 2018. Praise indeed, and clearly we had to see what the hype was about.
As the others were umming and aahing about whether it was too early for ice cream and exactly how many calories might be in a tub of it, Aidan appeared in the doorway. He clearly hadn’t hung around (the story of his life) and was already holding a waffle cone with copious amounts of paleyellow ice cream piled on top. Our eyes met for a second before he checked himself, realised he was staring directly at public enemy number one and snapped his head in Sophia’s direction. He obviously couldn’t even stand looking at me. Which I still didn’t get, because I hadn’t done anything to him. I hadn’t left him.
I remembered reading something about narcissists – about them being easily ‘wounded’ if you dented their ego. But how had I done that? And he’d never shown any narcissistic traits before, although maybe they were too well-hidden for me to have picked up on them, caught up as I was in believing that I’d just met the love of my life and that we were about to run off into the sunset together. How pathetic I’d been. As if I was the sort of person who would ever get the fairy-tale ending.
‘Oooh. Which flavour did you go for, Aidan?’ asked Sophia, using the gelato as an excuse to sidle up to him.
I wondered for a second whether she was his type. I didn’t think so, but then how would I know? What I thought I’d known about him – the sort of person he’d seemed in the weeks we’d spent together – had turned out to be completely false. Because the Aidan I’d thought I’d known would never have dropped me like that without a word. We’d shared parts of ourselves with each other in the time we’d spent together, with the promise of more to come. And I supposed that what he’d kept hidden was the part of him that wasn’t as sure about me as he’d made out he was.
‘It’s called Santa Fina Cream,’ said Aidan, taking a mouthful. ‘Oh my God,’ he exclaimed, genuinely impressed. ‘Youallhave to get some.’
I hung back moodily, torn between wanting an ice cream and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was only getting one because he’d recommended it. Asthough I needed his permission! And also annoyed because it was beautiful here, in this terracotta-hued cobbled square, and he was ruining it for me.
‘Oh go on then, Peter, let’s get a cone to share,’ said Rosamund with excitement.
We were back at the van for 9.40 sharp, mainly because Gino had put the fear of God into us about being late. Except for Aidan, that was, who was nowhere to be seen. I’d spotted him two or three times after stopping at the gelateria: once as he wandered down a narrow street flanked by gothic stone buildings with arches and little shutters and pretty red herringbone paving stones and once when Sophia and I walked a little further up the hill than everyone else because we wanted to take some photos (or some video footage, in my case, just to appease Tim). While I was shooting a pan shot of the tumbling rooftops of San Gimignano with the olive trees and the green hills beyond, I could see him in the bottom left of the shot, a little lower down, like a silhouette against the blue sky.
‘Is he staying at our hotel, then?’ Sophia had asked conspiratorially, nodding her head towards him.
‘Not sure,’ I’d said, keeping it as vague as I could.
My only hope was that he’d be leaving in the morning. Work trips were usually short and sweet, weren’t they? He’d be on a tight schedule.
I put my seat belt on, hoping Gino wouldn’t notice we were missing one passenger. It was bad of me, I knew, but I was sure Aidan could find his own way back to Florence. He could expense it, couldn’t he?
‘Where’s that other man? The journalist?’ piped up Rosamund as Gino tried to close the van door without Aidan in it.