‘Is she still with that private equity firm in London?’ Zia wandered over to the small kitchen window from where she could see pigeons on nearby rooftops, lined up to watch wheeling seagulls like spectators at an air show. The benches in the gardens were almost hidden by white and blue agapanthus exploding from the flower beds. A small child threw a cheap kite at the sky only for the wind to spit it back onto the grass.

‘Headley Whiterow, yeah. Doing very well,’ he answered. ‘She asked me to give you her number. I’ll send you her contact card now.’

Moments later her phone pinged as the message was received. ‘Right,’ she said. Part of her brain knew it was a good opportunity. In October her apartment’s annual management fees and ground rent would be due. Her redundancy money was draining and she’d soon be burrowing into her savings. She gathered her thoughts. ‘Sorry, you took me by surprise. Thank you.’

He sounded boyishly eager. ‘So, you’ll contact her?’

‘Of course.’ She didn’t like the feeling of accounting to him for her time, even though he was helping her with a job opportunity, so added bluntly, ‘Before I go back.’

The lightness faded from his voice. ‘Back to Italy?’

‘Yes.’

With a gruff farewell he rang off.

She heaved a sigh. Whether he’d been trying to curry favour by helping her, hoping to keep her in the UK or trying to be a nice guy, he’d obviously been disappointed by the knowledge that she wasn’t back in the UK to stay. Maybe Stephan had forgotten to relay the brevity of her visit.

She smiled wryly. Brendon would have been even less pleased if she’d accepted Piero’s offer to accompany her. On the flight she’d found it hard to keep her attention on her Kindle because her mind had kept floating back to Piero and the idea of the two of them visiting Chichester together. It was appealing, imagining his reassuring warmth beside her as she tried to unlock the secrets others had kept about her life. The time was growing nearer for her to turn up at Harry Anstey’s door and her tummy flipped like an acrobat whenever she thought of it.

She texted Elise Stokes to distract herself. Elise called and soon Zia was agreeing to meet her at her company offices in London on Monday morning at ten o’clock. ‘It’s an OK commute from Brighton,’ Elise pointed out enthusiastically. ‘I do it myself. The offices are close to Victoria Station.’