It must be this time of year. The countdown to Christmas, when families are supposed to be together, put aside their differences and celebrate with too much food and wine. The Queen’s speech on the radio and backgammon played by the fire. Carols and mistletoe and skies filled with the promise of snow.

Only this year I will be here. Well, not here, in Rome, but with Giancarlo’s family. Gigi has extended her invitation to include me (luckily, Italian families seem to be ever so hospitable and always have an extra seat at the table). All because my father still hasn’t forgiven me for deserting him, for bringing shame to the family name by daring to go against his will. Anyone would think it was the nineteenth century, that women didn’t have the vote, or the right to bear arms, or actually have a brain inside their thick skulls.

But Mum wrote and told me it might be best to wait a little longer. At least until Henry and Bess have got married. (Didn’t take her long to slip into my place, to provide my former fiancé with some love and comfort. Fine friend she turned out to be.)

I know it was my decision to leave. I know I would have suffocated in that place, but part of me is afraid I might never be able to go back. How much longer before Dad forgives me? Because one day there won’t be any time left at all.

I’m trying very, very hard not to regret my actions. To look forward, to focus on everything that I have and I am happy, I am excited about where my next adventure will lead. It’s just sometimes I can’t help but think I might be asking for too much.

Noah wants me to go to him. That’s what the letter was about. He’s still in Italy, working at some fancy hotel until he can save enough money to buy his own boat. Gigi is adamant that I do nothing of the sort. But what if he’s my soulmate? Not all love stories are simple and without disagreement. In fact, aren’t they all somehow tainted and actually tested by the hands of fate? Could it be that Noah and I are actually destined to spend the rest of our lives together?

The end of his letter was like a poem. Just a few lines, but I’m sure he knew the effect they would have on me.

My heart is not as it was, before

You showed me what depth of love was possible.

My body knows not how to sleep, how to

Lie, due to the cold space you left behind.

Part of me wanted to burn his words, destroy his profession of love. For all I know, he’s given the same declaration to all his women. But I find him, the memory of him in bed, with me, so impossible to ignore. For when he is good, he is so very, very good. And kind and funny and he makes me breathe differently. As if he’s changed the way I choose to rise in the morning, drinking in the day. He makes me see the world anew, block out the noise, the modernity of life. Seek out what was there before and what will be long after we are all nothing more than worm food.