Had she been flying in from a publicity trip organized by her publishers, a white Daimler would have been awaiting Giacopazzi at the London end; as it was, a discreet black BMW with a discreet brown driver awaited her. The driver took her hand-luggage and held open the door. ‘Hello, ma’am, nice to see you again.’
‘It’s nice to be back, Salim.’
‘Been somewhere nice this time, ma’am?’
‘Jo’burg.’
‘City of gold, they say.’
‘They can keep it.’
The car slid away and headed towards London. Georgia Giacopazzi sank into the comfort of fine leather. ‘I swear they keep moving Johannesburg further away from London. Or perhaps it’s old age.’
He moved his fine Asian profile to the left. ‘Not old age, ma’am. I have it on the best authority that they have in fact moved the entire continent further east.’
Only the best for Giacopazzi. A driver with a sense of humour, who handed her out, dealt with the hotel reception, took care of her bags, saw to it that she had everything she wanted, saluted without subservience and went. Alone for the first time since early yesterday, she kicked off her shoes and sank on to the bed. She longed to phone home but it was a bad time to do so. Her body ached with the fatigue of disguising the nag of arthritis and of keeping on her public face for so many hours, but her mind was afire. As when an idea for a novel was building up, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to take whatever turn they wished.
The phone purred gently. Thinking that they must be phoning from home in spite of the hour, she answered at once.
‘Room eleven hundred.’
‘Mrs Giacopazzi? A call for you.’
‘Georgia?’
Mrs Giacopazzi’s heart leaped. ‘Yes.’
‘This is Eve.’
‘I know…’
‘Georgia? Oh, I thought we’d been cut off.’
‘No, it’s just the surprise… you sound exactly the same as ever.’
‘I’m an old lady.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Georgia, I don’t know about you, but I hate telephones. One cannot see the other person’s face. But I wanted to tell you that I think the book is very good.’
‘You do?’
‘Very good. But not at all the usual Giacopazzi story, except the hint of mystery…’
‘My instincts are to make the reader wait.’
‘I couldn’t wait. I read the end – I wanted to know…’
‘And?’
‘I wish that you had told me.’
‘It was all too bizarre, I simply couldn’t.’
‘I had no idea, Georgia.’
‘Of course, how could you? I thought it best to do it short and sharp.’
There was a short silence while Georgia retained her composure. Eve’s voice came through again. ‘Are you still there, Georgia?’
‘Of Course. It’s only that with a fifty-year gap, one doesn’t really know what to say first. Could we meet? Where are you now?’
‘Boston.’
‘Mass?’
‘Yes, visiting with Melanie – my daughter. But I shall be in London again in a couple of days.’
‘I shall wait here for you.’ Another short silence. ‘Eve?’
‘Hullo… yes, Georgia?’
‘You said you thought the book was good… does that mean you don’t mind that I’ve written it?’
‘It’s the truth, and you’ve been kind to us. Which is mostly why I have called you.’
‘Until you get back to London then.’
‘Yes, until then, Georgia.’