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‘Thank goodness,’ he muttered in her ear as the doors to the dining room opened. ‘Don’t worry—I tipped one of the waiters to put us next to one another. That way I can make sure you don’t run off with the Minister for Trade!’
* * *
The Minister for Trade turned out to be a large, florid man in his mid-sixties, whose wife was sitting next to Massimo.
‘She seemed nice,’ Flora said later as they sat in the salon della feste enjoying their coffees.
‘Carla? Yes, she is. They both are. It’s his second marriage. His first wife died. They had a daughter about your age who’s in a bit of a mess. She’s not really coping.’
Flora bit her lip. ‘That’s so sad.’
He nodded, his eyes resting on her face. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I told her about you.’
‘You did?’
‘I thought maybe you could talk to her. You don’t mind, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t mind. But I’m not sure how much use I’d be.’
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Stalling, she picked up her coffee. ‘I’d feel like a fraud,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s not as if I’m really coping.’
There was a brief silence, and then Massimo leaned forward. ‘Why do you think that?’ he asked quietly.
She shrugged. The air was shifting around them—thickening, tightening. ‘Because if I was I’d be at home in England.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘I only came out here in the first place because I couldn’t cope with being at home.’ She sighed. ‘My dad and my brother were always quite protective when I was growing up. But after my mum died they just completely stopped listening to me.’
Looking up, she gave him a small, stiff smile.
‘They treat me like a five-year-old. So in the end I ran away. I told them it was so I could get my head together and finish my thesis. But really it was to get away from them.’
A faint flush of pink crept over her cheeks.
‘That’s why I got on so well with Umberto. I know what everyone thought. But we were never lovers. We just understood each other: he was on the run too. From his wives and his mistresses. And the fact that he couldn’t paint like he used to. So you see I didn’t cope. I ran away.’
She fell silent. Around them the noise of laughter and people talking swelled and faded like a tide.
‘Could you talk to your dad, maybe? Or Freddie?’
His voice was gentle. Too gentle. She felt her chest grow tight. How could she explain her father’s grief? If she was struggling then he was hanging on by a thread. And Freddie was a lawyer. If she spoke to him she’d just end up agreeing with him as she always did.
‘It would hurt him,’ she whispered. ‘And he’s so broken. So fragile.’
Just thinking about her father, his face still anxiously scanning crowds, hoping for a glimpse of her mother, made her want to cry.
‘I don’t ever want to be that reliant on anyone,’ she said angrily. ‘What’s the point of loving someone and caring for them if it makes you feel like that?’
She looked up at him, but he’d glanced away to where the waiters were clearing tables, and she felt despair, sudden and sharp enough to cut her skin. Of course! Why would Massimo be interested in her pain?
‘It’s what makes life worth living.’
His voice was so quiet at first she thought she might be hearing things.
But then he turned and said softly, ‘If you don’t feel sad when someone isn’t there... If you don’t care if they’re happy or not...then there’s no point.’
His eyes fixed on hers and, leaning across, he took her hand and pressed it against his mouth.
‘Mr Sforza—?’
