Trying to act nonchalantly, rather than like a search and rescue team finally coming across the casualty, he wandered into the building as though it had always been his intention to pop in for a drink.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said, ‘Didn’t realise you two were in here. Can I get you anything to drink?’
Billie had a wine bottle in front of her, almost as empty as her glass. Amy didn’t seem to be drinking anything, her expression difficult to read as she looked his way.
‘Another bottle of whatever local crap this is,’ Billie said, her tone clipped and sharp.
He felt dismissed, searched Amy’s expression for support, or explanation – or anything, in fact.
‘Nothing for me,’ Amy said, her voice flat.
‘Right.’ He made to head for the bar, then turned back. ‘Is everything OK? Only, you left dinner rather abruptly. Was there anything wrong with the meal?’
He aimed the question at Billie, who folded her arms as she stared at him. Amy went very still, as though even the slightest movement might create a problem. What the hell was going on?
‘The meal was fine. Typical chef, though, only concerned with his food,’ Billie said, aiming her comment at Amy.
‘It was a bit more than fine,’ Amy said, quietly. ‘It was a lovely meal, Tad.’
Something was wrong. She was having trouble meeting his eye, looking anywhere but at him. And there wasn’t much Tad wanted more than to have Amy’s gaze on him.
‘Why don’t you come to the bar with me, Amy – make sure I get the right bottle?’
When Amy gave a slight shake of her head and didn’t move, he did as he had been bidden, returning to the table with a bottle of a local Bardolino red and some fresh glasses.
‘Planning on drinking tonight, then, are you?’ Billie said to him, eyebrows arched.
‘No. I won’t, thanks – but don’t let me stop you ladies.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Billie said, sloshing more wine into her original glass. ‘You won’t.’
Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to feel the iciness of Billie’s responses, although Tad had no idea what he’d done wrong. Frowning, he offered to pour a glass for Amy, but she shook her head.
‘Is everything OK, Amy?’
Tad stared at her, willing her to explain why she was treating him like a stranger. She said nothing, then pinched her lower lip between her teeth. It was Billie who spoke.
‘Thank you for the wine, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind leaving us – we were in the middle of discussing a strategy for taking my brand forwards. I think it’s only fair to tell you that I have changed my mind about working in partnership with any chef in particular – in case you were wondering. Amelia informed me she might have let that idea slip in a careless moment. Apologies if you were under the wrong impression about anything.’
‘No – of course. I understand.’ The words came out of his mouth, but Tad didn’t understand. Far from it. Stung by the off-hand dismissal, and with Amy all but ignoring him, he left the bar. His frown deepened as he tried to decide where to go. He didn’t want to head back to Casa del Cibo, his mood darkening as he stomped across Riva’s cobblestones.
In frustration, he typed a text and sent it to Amy before he could think better of it.
What the hell is going on? What have I done wrong?
Tad pounded the streets of a place he was – he realised – growing to love. He didn’t know what else to do, and the familiarity of the place allowed his mind time to shuffle his disrupted thoughts into some kind of order. Allowed him to work out a strategy.
He needed to get through the next twenty-four hours with Billie without messing anything else up, needed to do his best to calm whatever had caused her change in demeanour – Casa del Cibo still needed a good write-up to ensure plenty of future bookings. If possible, he wanted to spend some quality time with Clare, to properly check she was as happy as she kept telling him she was. And – on the top of the pile – he wanted to find out why Amy had gone cold on him.
His phone trilled with a text, his fingers scrabbling at the screen when he realised it was from Amy.
Sorry. Couldn’t talk at the table. She’s gone back to Casa now – can we meet?
Tad’s thumbs fumbled as he hurried to type a reply. Five minutes later he saw her approaching the bar down by the water – the place they’d visited only twenty-four hours previously. It could have been a lifetime ago as he studied her expression. The day before, her face had been open, her eyes bright. Nervous but excited – as he had been. Now she looked dull, as though someone had changed out her emotional light bulb for something with insufficient lumens to light her up.
‘Can I get you a drink here?’ he said.
Again, she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
