‘You’re right. My gut was telling me to run… All these years, I’ve had a problem trusting other people but maybe what I needed to do was trust myself.’
Eraldo cut into his fish. ‘I know how hard that is. For years, I blamed my ex-wife for our break-up but if I look back with a clear head, I can see there were signs from the start that we would not be happy together, things I chose to ignore… and also things that I should have said or done differently.’
‘Regrets are so hard to deal with. I wish I hadn’t said anything to Cate. She was the best friend I ever had. We had the chance to start over and maybe I’ve wrecked our friendship over nothing.’
‘It certainly was not nothing. You can explain to her, give her time… Come, eat your fish; it is so fresh.’ He picked up the wine bottle, distributing what was left between the two of them.
She ate a forkful of fish, simply grilled, the flesh cooked just so. Her appetite had returned. Neither spoke as they ate but each time she glanced up, his eyes met hers.
‘I am glad to see you eat like this. You were looking so pale. Would you like dessert or just coffee?’
‘Coffee, then could we walk for a while, if you are not in a rush? It is such a beautiful evening.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded to the waitress.
The espresso was dark and rich as melted chocolate, giving her brain a little kick that woke it from the pleasant fuzz induced by the wine.
Eraldo paid the bill. They stepped outside. Thecallewas quiet, their only companions a couple emerging from the restaurant next door. Eraldo took her hand in his. They crossed a smallcampoboarded by a narrow canal. He stopped by the bottom of a flight of stone steps at the base of a small, brick bridge. He stood and looked at her. Her pulse was racing; she felt as though she was holding her breath.
‘Shall we cross over?’ he said.
Did he just mean the bridge or was he thinking of some other line?
She forced herself to be brave. ‘That depends on whether I follow my gut instinct.’
He slipped his arms around her. ‘What is your gut telling you?’
‘Not to talk any more.’
He lifted a hand to her face, his fingers traced her cheek, his thumb finding the line of her jaw. ‘Is that all?’
‘And to trust what I’m feeling.’ She tilted her head towards his.
His lips brushed hers. ‘And what are you feeling?’ he whispered.
‘Good.’
He kissed her properly this time. She wrapped her arms around him, eyes closed, lost in the moment.
Eventually, they pulled apart.
His eyes glowed in the semi darkness. ‘Still feeling good?’
‘Better.’ She laughed.
‘Good. Because my gut is telling me to do that again.’
* * *
Cate and Phil sat at either end of the magnificent antique table as though they were paranoid dictators meeting to discuss an arms trade, not a long-married couple reunited after several days apart. Cate would have rearranged the seating if Nunzia hadn’t gone to so much effort: white plates rested on golden chargers, wine was poured in finely etched glasses, urns trailed foliage onto a lavishly embroidered linen runner. It felt as though she and Phil had stepped into an oil painting at the Accademia. Phil seemed relaxed and happy but it was hard to read his face; the Murano glass chandelier cast peculiar patterns across his features.
‘Tiramisù.’ Nunzia put down dessert in pretty glass bowls.
‘Grazie! Would it be possible to take our coffee in the library?’ Phil said.
‘That would be nice,’ Cate agreed.
‘Of course.’
