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‘And where did you say he was from? Originally, I mean.’
‘Oban, in Scotland. Well, not far from there. Not that he ever went back after we met.’
‘Do you think she might be around the same age as him?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Well, I’ve found an Emily Parker on Instagram who looks about our age and has got a few old pictures of Oban on her feed. She runs a restaurant on Mull now.’ Bridget turned the screen round to show Stella. ‘Look.’
Stella took the phone from Bridget, taking in the open, smiling face looking back at her, colour in her cheeks, her blonde hair wind whipped by the wind. Behind lay a deserted beach, the sand stretching back to a blue-green sea white-tipped with waves. The woman’s green eyes shone, as if they had a light behind them. From the shape of her mouth, it looked like she was saying something to whoever was taking the photograph. Stella touched the screen and the face disappeared. She handed the phone back to Bridget and sat down opposite her. She reached for the untouched orange juice. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Go ahead. I’ve gone straight to coffee.’
‘So, what do I do now?’ Stella nodded at Bridget’s phone.
‘Figure out if you really want to go down that path. I know what you’re saying, if she does know him, she might know something you don’t. But at the same time, it also might bring more questions than answers. Or answers that you might not want to hear. Or no answers whatsoever. Stella, she might have nothing to do with him at all.’
Stella broke off a piece of the pastry on the top of the pile in the basket. ‘I know. But I can’t just sit and wait for him to decide when he might, if at all, give me an explanation. I need to do something. He left me, our family, our whole bloody life and stole from us. I need to know why. I can’t go on living a kind of half-life, waiting for someone to tell me what happens next.’
‘So there’s your answer.’ Bridget spoke through a mouthful of pastry.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t wait for him to dictate what happens next. You know he’s done wrong, in so many ways. If – or rather, when – he turns up and tries to mess it up again, you tell him you know he’s taken money and that if he’s sensible he’ll do as you ask, whatever that might be.’
Stella poured herself a coffee. ‘I still feel like I’m missing something.’
‘Then you should find Emily Parker, but only if you promise you’ll go into any search knowing that you might not find the answers you’re looking for.’
‘Promise.’
‘OK, then.’ Bridget drained her coffee cup. ‘Right, where are the others?’ She glanced back towards the door into the hotel. ‘We’ve got to get a move on if we’re going to fit everything in before we have to leave.’
As if on cue, Lucy appeared at the door. ‘Ready for some Botticelli?’
‘Steps first, remember.’ Stella raised her eyebrows.
Sarah appeared behind Lucy, moving slowly, sunglasses on. ‘Anyone else regretting the dancing?’
‘Not yet, but I’ve got a feeling climbing the steps is going to remind us that we’re not twenty-two any more,’ said Bridget, as she got up to stand.
They made their way back into the heart of the city, crossing the square and over the Ponte Vecchio bridge, still quiet at the relatively early hour. Stella and Bridget walked ahead, Lucy and Sarah a little behind.
‘Bridge, please don’t say anything to the others about what we talked about this morning,’ said Stella, quietly.
‘They’d definitely try to talk you out of it, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Exactly. That’s why I don’t want them to know just yet.’
‘Whatever you think.’ Bridget nudged her friend, smiling.
They soon reached the bell tower and, just as they’d hoped, had beaten the queue.
About half an hour later, they stood, breathless, at the top of the bell tower looking out over the Duomo and down to the terracotta roofs of Florence. In the distance, the cypress-covered Tuscan hills sat beneath a cloudless sky, looking like a film set that might suddenly be moved. Below, small figures could be seen walking around the outside of the Duomo. They picked out the places they’d been in the previous days, from the flat white front of the Santa Croce to the medieval tower of the Palazzo Vecchio and, on the other side of the river, the Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens beyond.
‘I think I might have to come back and live here one day, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning,’ sighed Bridget.
‘To sulk and be happy?’ laughed Sarah, offering Bridget her water.
