‘I only need something very small,’ Venetia said, thinking that perhaps it would be easier to get the decision over and done with. ‘A starter would be fine for me.’ She ran her gaze over the menu. ‘I’ll have the lentil and sweet potato soup.’
Lucian ordered the lamb shank and a side order of chips and when the waitress had gone, he said, ‘I haven’t eaten all day, I’m starving.’
Venetia smiled. ‘That’s fine, no explanation needed.’
‘That wasn’t what you said back at the gallery after you’d fainted, you said I had a lot of explaining to do.’
‘And so you do. But first, raise your glass.
He did as she said.
‘Here’s to old friends.’
‘Old friends,’ he echoed.
They each took a sip of their brandy.
‘Come on then,’ he said, lowering his glass, ‘let’s start the full interrogation process, shall we?’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you ever try to contact me?’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the sixty-five million dollar question. I did contact you in the months after I left Hope Hall. A thousand times at the very least. But only in my head.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Shame. Fear. Guilt. Self-loathing. You name it. All I knew was that I needed to cut the tie with Hope Hall, and I’m sorry but that meant you as well.’
She nodded. ‘Self-preservation. I understand. But one small letter would have made all the difference, just so that I knew you were alive and that you were well. That was all I needed. Every day I lived in hope of hearing from you.’
‘I was alive, but as for being well, that might have been a stretch. For a long time, I was in a pretty dark place. Running away does that to you.’
She thought of the disturbingly opaque and austere painting of a moonlit forest she and Cassie had been looking at before she’d realised she was not only standing next to the artist, but that there was something strangely familiar about him. And then the axis of the world had tilted and uttering his name in shocked amazement – the name she had known for nearly all her life – she had slowly slipped to the floor.
‘Where did you go when you disappeared?’ she asked.
‘London. Obviously. It was where all runaway kids went; it was the easiest place in which to lose myself and start a new life.’
‘That’s what Edie Buckle and I did; we moved to London when Hope Hall had to close.’
‘You did? Just think,’ he said reflectively, ‘our paths could have crossed! Where did you live?’
‘I’ll tell you about that later. For now, I want to know all about you. How did you cope in London on your own? You were so young. Was there anyone to look out for you?’ She thought what a slight boy he’d been, his chest weakened with asthma and his eyesight so dependent on spectacles.
‘I had to grow up fast,’ he said. ‘I slept rough to begin with and then I managed to get a job in the East End working in the docks. Next, I found somewhere to doss down.’
‘But you wanted to do so much more than that. You wanted to be a doctor.’
He took a mouthful of his brandy. ‘Rarely can we have what we dream of. Did you end up doing what you thought you would?’
‘No. But I enjoyed the work I did, and I made a success of it for myself. Just as you have with your art,’ she added, worried that she sounded as if she were boasting.
‘I wouldn’t call my art a success, I merely dabble for my own amusement. I started painting when I moved to Suffolk to be by the sea. I still suffer with asthma and the sea air suits me.’
‘You no longer wear glasses,’ she pointed out.
‘Laser surgery sorted that.’
‘Did you stay in London for very long?’
