Daisy grunted a reply and followed me up the narrow Via Porta Rossa, which was lovely and shady and smelled of fresh pizza. The odd vehicle forced us onto the pavement, but otherwise we meandered right down the middle of the cobbled street. Every now and again, I pointed out a particularly pretty window display – clothes, perfumes, expensive-looking jewellery – which Daisy seemed to appreciate even if it didn’t exactly spark a conversation between us.
‘How come your mum’s here?’ I asked casually as we passed a cute bakery with rows of exquisite, cream-filled cakes placed tantalisingly in the window.
Was a gelatoanda cake too much?
She shrugged. ‘Granny wanted her to come. They still hang out, sometimes.’
Ofcoursethey’d hit it off. I bet Sophia was exactly the sort of person Rosamund would have chosen to be her daughter-in-law. She’d probably have picked her out of a line-up, if that had been an option. Privately educated? Check. Head-to-toe designer labels? Check. Razor-sharp cheekbones? Check.
And part of me got it, but the other part – the part I kept mostly hidden – was angry. Because they had knownthat I was coming, and must have realised that it would be awkward for me. And the fact that they’d not cared wasn’t exactly conducive to me feeling like I could be part of the family. It was like they’d already made up their minds that Nick’s second wife was going to be second-rate without even having met me, and now I supposed I was going to have to embark on a one-woman mission to win them over, although I wasn’t sure where to begin. Perhaps I could impress them with my job: working in TV sounded all right if I didn’t go into too much detail about Holiday Shop and if they didn’t realise it was essentially a cable channel that sold discounted holidays to resorts in Tenerife and the Costa del Sol (a place I imagined was their worst nightmare). Or I could find a hobby we had in common – there had to be something. I’d try books; I read a lot, and all genres, so whatever they were in to, I was sure I could cobble together something intelligent to say. Food, maybe. I mean, I liked eating it, so that was a start.
I supposed I should be asking Nick about all of this, really, but since Daisy was here and would likely be less cagey about it, I thought she was probably my best bet if I wanted the full, unadulterated truth.
‘They do seem to get on well,’ I said casually.
She looked at me, brandishing her gelato with a glint in her eye. I sensed she was loving the idea that there might be tension between her mum and I – teenagers were all about the drama, weren’t they?
‘Does it bother you?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ I replied, because what else could I say? ‘It was a surprise to see her here, that was all.’
‘I bet,’ said Daisy. ‘Dad should have told you.’
‘Maybe.’ I was surprised and strangely heartened that even a fourteen-year-old could see that. I wasn’t going mad, then.
We turned a corner and The Palazzo Continentale appeared before us, standing majestically on what appeared to be Florence’s most exclusive shopping street, the Via Tornabuoni. The building itself was gorgeous, like one of those villas I’d seen in films set in the Tuscan countryside, with shuttered windows and Juliet balconies and that lovely ochre stone, but right in the heart of the city, surrounded by other equally beautiful buildings and former palazzos and sandwiched between Saint Laurent and Fendi, with Gucci diagonally opposite. Out front were two tubs housing plants so perfectly manicured, I had no idea whether they were real or not.
‘Do you always stay in places like this?’ I asked Daisy, who had finally finished the swirly gelato bit and had reached the cone. She nibbled at it delicately.
‘Usually,’ she said. ‘Why, don’t you?’
I gave her a look. Seriously, was she that far removed from society as to think that everyone could afford to stay in five-star hotels? If that’s what posh schools and big houses and tennis lessons did for you, I was glad I hadn’t had any of that stuff growing up (yeah, right – who was I trying to kid?). ‘No, Daisy,’ I said, feeling the need to open her mind a little. ‘I couldn’t afford somewhere like this usually.’
She frowned at me. ‘But I thought you were some big shot in TV like Dad?’
I shook my head. ‘Your dad’s on a whole different level. He’s Director of Marketing at Sky. I’m only an assistant producer at Holiday Shop. Hardly big time.’
‘Still,’ said Daisy. ‘You get to travel a lot, Dad told me.’
I nodded. ‘Sure, and I love that part of it. But we definitely don’t get put up in places like this.’
In the absence of the doorman, which I was quite relieved about because it felt much too indulgent to have someoneopening doors for me, we entered the hotel, flying through the revolving doors into what I’d secretly dubbed ‘the lobby of dreams’. It was quieter now; the pianist must be on a break. A small queue had formed at the reception desk – perhaps a flight (full of sensible, plane-loving people) had just got in and everyone had arrived at once.
At the front of the line, leaning on the counter, was a man wearing a black polo shirt, one of those ones that looked silky and expensive, and black jeans. For some reason, I was drawn to him. I tried to turn my head away, to focus on making my way back to the restaurant to see if Nick was still there, hoping that he wasn’t so that I could go straight up to the room, but my eyes kept flickering back to this man. There was something about his arms, which were tanned and muscular and somehow familiar. As he bent down to get something from his bag, his back muscles rippled under the fabric of his top. I wondered whether he was Italian. He had that lovely golden brown complexion and the dark hair, and was tall, 6’2” at least, I’d say. When he turned slightly to the side to hand over his passport, I caught a glimpse of his profile.
My god, it couldn’t be. I stopped dead, my heart slamming against my chest, my breath catching in my throat. I watched, hoping for a proper look at his face so that I could reassure myself that I’d been mistaken. Because it couldn’t be him. There was no way it could be, not here in Florence; not all of these years later.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Daisy, appearing next to me and looking at me strangely. ‘You’ve gone a funny pink colour.’
Why would Aidan be here, in this luxurious but slightly stuffy hotel in Florence? This definitely wouldn’t be his scene: he was all about the quirky boutique hotels, the ones with graffiti on the walls or secret basement Saki bars.
‘Um, nothing,’ I replied, willing myself to act normal. ‘Bit hot after our walk, that’s all. After you,’ I said, ushering Daisy towards the restaurant.
I dared to look back over my shoulder as I fell into step beside her. The man at the desk was upright again now; the receptionist was handing him a key card. I strained to hear what he was saying, to see if I recognised his voice, but the pianist had started up again and the only thing I could hear were the opening bars of Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata. Of all things! I’d heard that played live once before, on an evening I’d tried hard to forget all about.
Nick and Sophia were exactly where we’d left them. A little merrier, perhaps; a little louder. Clearly the most expensive champagne had gone down well. I pulled myself together. There was nothing to be concerned about. This man’s hair was definitely a tiny bit lighter than Aidan’s had been. I racked the recesses of my brain, trying to picture him, which was the exact opposite of what I’d tried to do for the last two years. It had been easier to pretend that we’d never met, that I didn’t know how good he smelled, or what he sounded like when he laughed, or what his favourite food was (pizza, always a plain margherita). The man at the desk was a similar height, I thought, but leaner. And I didn’t remember Aidan owning a single designer top, not when I’d known him. No, I was imagining things, and what I really needed to be doing was concentrating on impressing Nick’s family, on getting to know them, not on dredging up stuff from the past.
I put the Aidan lookalike to the back of my mind and followed Daisy into the restaurant.