Which brought me to Stuart. I felt a flutter of hope, anticipation. But I can’t go there, I told myself. It might not be him. I still didn’t know if he even liked me in a romantic way but if, for a moment, he did … I let myself imagine it was him waiting for me and felt a smile deep inside. I could see his face light up when I arrived, his eyes, his expression, his smile. I imagined him reaching out for me. No. Stop this, I told myself. Why would it be him? Out of the blue? Just decides to pursue me? Why would he do that? Wishful thinking on my part, but something worth exploring when I get back to the UK if it is Jon or Sam waiting for me in Italy.

And what if one of these men had been Billy Jackson in a past life? Did it really matter? I didn’t care any more. Back in the days when Grace Harris was alive, it was so different. Women didn’t have many relationships. That generation usually married one man and stuck with him; never got the chance to play the field and discover what or who they really wanted. Grace hadn’t had time to do that. She’d died so young, as had Billy. Who knows how they would have got on had they lived, married, got older and more familiar, after the first flush of love had faded. My generation had more choice when it came to love. I certainly had. I’d had various love affairs in my life, made some good choices, made some bad, but I’d learnt from them all. Never mind past lives, as Stuart had said, in this life I already feel I’ve had different lives, even been different people: the schoolgirl, the student, the photographer’s assistant, barmaid, jewellery designer, shop owner, lover, partner, singleton, but those labels weren’t who I was, they were just parts that I’d played as my life evolved.

I gazed out of the window at the clouds and the planet far beneath and, for the last time, did a mental scan of the men who might be waiting for me. It was so clear. I knew exactly who I wanted to be there and, if it was him, hoped that despite the travel delays, he would still be waiting.

56

Once I got to Milan and through customs, I noticed a handsome, olive-skinned man holding up a board with the name ‘Bea Brooks’ written on it. He was dressed in a smart black suit and was wearing shades.

‘You speak English?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Yes. Speak good English. I Fabio.’

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Fabio. I didn’t even know if the flight was going to go.’