Stephanie hadn’t bothered with much luggage since her intention was to stay at the hotel no more than a couple of days. Following her instructions, Maddie had booked a suite at Browns, an elegant five star establishment in Mayfair. She could have used the Savoy or Claridge’s—hotels she had stayed in before—but felt a little less pomp and ceremony were in order this time.
She did not regret her decision. The rooms were stylishly sophisticated, with high ceilings and large windows overlooking the street. Leaving her unpacking to the room attendant, she went down to the hotel’s restaurant to pick over a late lunch. Afterwards, dressed appropriately for the season in boots and fur-brimmed hat, she went out to reacquaint herself with the fashionable streets nearby and to indulge in a little shopping.
The shorter days meant daylight faded early, but for once that was a plus. She wanted to visit Regent Street and the famous mile-long display of Christmas lights. Caught up in the crowds, she couldn’t miss the eager faces of the children, their wide-eyed excitement and anticipation. The pang of regret was swift and unexpected. Having a family had never been a subject she wished to dwell on. Perhaps her own childhood played a part—abandoned by her mother, and raised in wealth that was lost through a series of tragedies, and then there was her present lifestyle to take into consideration. It hardly leaned towards raising children, even though it could be argued she had the financial resources.
But nature could be heartless. Her biological clock was ticking loud and clear. Lately she’d been thinking more and more of the years ahead; if she didn’t do something, they were bound to be lonely ones.
The series of discussions involving Giancarlo were, according to the information she had uncovered, to start the following day. With no idea of where he or any of the other delegates was staying, she decided to pay a visit to the venue instead. Not that she had any expectation of a chance meeting. Rather, she was hoping a note could be passed to him at an opportune moment. After a decade of little more than spasmodic correspondence, he would be the one to decide whether they should meet again.
Taking a cab to a building just a few minutes’ walk from St James Park, she went over her strategy. She could have called—given the message to the concierge over the phone—but she wanted Giancarlo to recognise her writing. To experience the disbelief—and she hoped the elation—at discovering she too was in the city. And close by. She pictured him reading her note and looking up immediately to scan the reception area. Would he be disappointed she hadn’t waited? Or relieved?
Having little desire to find herself amongst clusters of delegates re-establishing acquaintanceships over coffee and biscuits, she timed her arrival to coincide with the morning round of talks. Then she returned to her hotel and spent the rest of the day in the spa.
By four in the afternoon she was sitting in her suite, idly flicking through a magazine. By five, she was pacing anxiously.
There had been no word. Not via the hotel phone or her mobile.
Her emotions were all over the place. He wasn’t going to call—not only had it had been far too long, but they weren’t twenty anymore. He would have changed, as she had. Anyone with any sense would have left the past alone.
Then again, perhaps the talks were still going on. Obviously he would have breaks, times when he could try her number. But maybe he’d been far too caught up in the importance of his work.
At five-fifty she rang down for a bottle of Champagne and some light nibbles. He wasn’t going to get in touch, that was clear. Why had she ever thought he would? Instead, she had made a complete fool of herself.
And then her mobile phone was playing the opening bars from one of her favourite pieces of light opera. She stared at it, shocked by the sudden intrusion.
“Ciao, amore mia!”
The voice was warm and velvety. A little deeper than she remembered. Her breath caught, and unbelievably she had no idea what to say.
He was talking.
“What? Sorry, sorry.” She hadn’t heard a word, couldn’t take anything in. “Say that again?”
“Can I take you to dinner?”
Straight to the point, as if they had last met only days ago. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and gazing up at the ceiling she pressed her lips together, blinking rapidly.
“I’d like that,” she managed.