‘What a shame! Everything she touches now turns to gold. She’s up for yet another award in a week or two. The rumour is that she’ll get it.’

‘I’m sure she will,’ Carlo replied, not quite knowing what he said. ‘Excuse me, I have to be going.’

The visit passed pleasantly. Once Justin invited Carlo to lunch at a restaurant near his offices in London, and they talked about their mutual parent. It was the details of babyhood and childhood that seemed to fascinate him, as though he was trying to imagine a time with his mother that he’d never known. Carlo’s warm heart was touched, and he did his best to fulfil Justin’s hopes. By the time they reached the liqueurs they were good friends, and both inwardly groaned when there was an interruption.

‘Carlo, let me introduce Alan Forest,’ Justin said. ‘A valued business colleague.’

Forest was a chunky middle-aged man, with a bluff, outgoing manner.

‘I saw you on television the other night,’ he said. ‘Great stuff.’

He burbled on, impossible to interrupt. It became clear to Carlo that he had a great deal of money and, since his wife had left him the previous year, very little else. With too much time on his hands he indulged a variety of hobbies-one of which was archaeology, although his interest was amateur-and he spouted a good deal of nonsense. Carlo grinned and indulged him.

‘Now, I want you and your family to be my guests tomorrow night,’ Forest declared expansively. ‘I’ve got a table for a very glamorous occasion, but unexpectedly I find myself alone.’

Since they were both too polite to say that this wasn’t surprising, they merely smiled, while seeking for a reply that would get them out of the unwanted invitation.

‘It’s a television awards ceremony,’ Forest burbled on. ‘And it’s taking place at a hotel that I own, so they have to give me a table. It’s the biggest “do” of the year. Not to be missed.’

‘You’re very kind, but we’re busy-’ Justin began.

‘I think not,’ Carlo interrupted him swiftly. ‘I’m sure we have no plans for tomorrow night.’

Understanding what was expected of him, Justin hastily backtracked, and within a short time they were engaged for the next evening.

‘I think you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ Justin observed in the car afterwards.

‘Oh, yes,’ Carlo said quietly. ‘That happened a long time ago.’

Della didn’t recognise him at first. It was late at night and she was half asleep in front of the television. Through the sleepy haze she heard a man’s voice saying, ‘Far too much has been made of…sense of proportion-’

Then another man began to talk, and she felt disorientated because the voice was Carlo’s but the appearance wasn’t. She blinked, forcing herself to focus, and realised that it really was him but, with his shaggy locks cut off, almost unrecognisable.

His boyish looks had owed a lot to the neglect of his hair, she realised. With most of it gone, he seemed like someone else, serious, intense, and learned. She didn’t understand a word he was saying, beyond the fact that he was defending a recent discovery against those who would dismiss it. He was fierce and angry, almost contemptuous.

It was strange to see him as never before, and yet to recognise him. This wasn’t the young man who’d loved her passionately through the long, hot nights, and laughed with her through the sunny days. This man was stern, controlled, radiating a conviction that the world must take him on his own terms or not at all. Her heart ached as she watched him.

At any moment he would smile, and it would be the smile she loved, that had brightened the world. But suddenly the programme was over, and he hadn’t smiled once.

She discovered that she was leaning forward, her whole body tense, shaking. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he wasn’t there. He never really had been there. He would never be there again, and the tears were pouring down her face.

She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrate on the coming award ceremony. She decided to wear the elegant black cocktail dress she’d bought in Italy, and when it was on she knew she looked her best. She’d lost weight in the last few weeks, and had the figure of a girl, which the tight black dress emphasised. Her make-up was skilled and professional. This was going to be her big night.

And she would make the most of it, she decided. For professional triumph was the only satisfaction she would know for the rest of her life.

Her ‘date’ was her assistant, George Franklin, who had earned tonight almost as much as she had.

‘The word on the grapevine is that you’ve won,’ he told her, as they reached their table and he pulled out a chair for her.

‘Go on with you,’ she chided, trying to not to hope for too much. ‘I’ll bet we’ve all been told that.’

He grinned, and she thought how different he looked in a dinner jacket. Normally she saw him only in jeans and old sweaters, but now, shaved and almost elegant, he looked reasonably attractive, carrying his fifty years lightly.

The ceremony began. Factual programmes were dealt with first, and in half an hour the announcer was proclaiming, ‘Now the award for the best documentary series. The contenders are-’

He read out five names, and the screen showed five brief extracts from the programmes.

‘And the winner is-Della Hadley for The Past is the Future.’

She was a popular choice, and the applause swelled as she approached the stage. There she delivered a brief acceptance speech and departed quickly, to more applause. As she went back down the room lights flashed, blinding her, and when she’d blinked and recovered she found herself looking straight at the one person she’d thought never to meet again.

People were pushing past in each direction, but neither of them noticed. The world had stopped, leaving them on an island.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, seeming to speak from a distance.

‘I-thank you.’ He didn’t say any more, but stood looking at her with something in his eyes that she didn’t want to see. It saddened her too much. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said, for something to say.

‘I was invited at the last minute. You’re looking well.’

‘So are you,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t have recognised you if I hadn’t seen you on the box the other night.’

‘You saw that?’

‘You slaughtered the opposition. I couldn’t follow a word, but I understood that much.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘I was right about you. You’re a natural on television.’

‘Thank you,’ he said lamely. After a moment he asked, ‘What happened about the series?’

‘I’m still doing it, using several different presenters.’

‘Will you be going to the same places?’

‘Not all of them. I changed some. I’ve included the wreck of the Britannic.’

‘You managed to find someone who wasn’t chicken, then?’

‘Yes, I did.’

Silence.

‘I’m glad you’re still doing the series,’ he said.

‘Yes, so am I.’

It was months since their last meeting, and now the air about them seemed to clamour with unspoken thoughts and feelings. But these commonplaces were all that would come.

There was a brief agitation around them as people tried to get past.

‘We’re in everyone’s way,’ she said. ‘It was nice seeing you again.’

‘And you.’

Carlo watched her return to her table, waiting for the moment when she would look back at him. It never came. He saw a middle-aged man rise, put his arm around her and kiss her cheek. So that was her escort, he thought, no doubt chosen for his suitability.

He’d said she was looking well, but the truth was she was looking fantastic: beautiful, glamorous, sexy, every man’s dream. After the way she’d claimed to be getting old it was like another rejection hurled at him.

He returned to his own table, where his family were regarding him with curiosity, and Alan Forest with awe.

‘You know her?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

‘We met once briefly.’ He was still standing, watching her, willing her to turn and look at him.

‘Get her over here-we’ll all celebrate together.’

‘I’m sure she has her own arrangements,’ Carlo said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

‘Nonsense. We’ll have a great time-’

‘I don’t think we should trouble them,’ Evie broke in quickly. ‘She’s with a party of her own.’

Della was certainly having a night of triumph. People were coming up to congratulate her, kiss her, admire the award. The man with her was regarding her with proprietary pride, and it was clear to Carlo that everyone else saw them as a couple.

As he watched, Della lifted the statuette, so that it glittered in the light, and her crowd of admirers cheered and applauded.

Then she finally turned his way, and for a moment their glances locked. He thought her smile grew broader, her eyes more triumphant, as though she was telling him something.

He understood. She did very well without him. Just as she had always known she would. She had tried to warn him, but in his blind arrogance and stupidity he’d refused to see it.

‘I guess you’re right,’ Alan Forest said, beside him. ‘That lady doesn’t need us. She’s got everything she could ever want in the world.’

‘Yes,’ Carlo said, almost inaudibly. ‘She has.’

He sat down, and after a moment he felt Evie’s hand creep into his and give a sympathetic squeeze.

The next day he went home.

The award was the most prestigious there was, and it set the seal on her career. Congratulations poured in, also offers. Now everyone wanted her.

As well as work, she could occupy herself with Gina’s pregnancy, but she soon discovered that she was no longer needed. The Christmas visit to the grandmother had been a success, and it wasn’t long before Mrs Burton invited Gina to make her home with her.

‘I still want you to be part of the baby’s life,’ Gina explained to Della. ‘But-’

‘But you want to be with your own family. Of course you do.’

‘I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.’

Her new home was a hundred miles away, just too far for easy visiting.

On the last day of February Della escorted the girl there herself, and it was a happy occasion. Mrs Burton was a vigorous woman in her sixties, prosperous enough to take on the new responsibility, and eager to do so. She and Della established cordial relations, and there was an open invitation to visit.

It had ended well, but as she returned home Della realised that she was more alone than ever.

She reached the houseboat in the middle of a thunderstorm. Rain poured down in torrents, and it was a relief to get inside. Soon she’d dried off and done her best to get warm, but somehow it didn’t work. There was a part of her that remained trapped in a chill desert, and no amount of heating could reach it.

She went to look at the statuette, high on a shelf where it could broadcast her achievement, trying to draw comfort from it. But it only reminded her of that night, and his face, tense and drawn. Something was destroying him, just as it was destroying her.

She wondered if he, like her, had an ache in his heart so intense that it was an actual physical pain that went on and on. It had been there for months and she was beginning to wonder if it would ever fade.

But surely she’d made the right decision?

She listened, almost as though expecting a voice to answer her. But the only sound was the drumming of the rain in a bleak universe.

Reaching into a drawer, she took out the folder of pictures from her time in Naples. There were a hundred stills, plus a disk recorded in a camcorder, taken by a friendly passerby. Since returning she’d rarely allowed herself to look at it, but now she slipped it into the machine.

It was like watching strangers. The man and the woman were totally in love, totally right for each other, rejoicing in that rightness. Nobody watching would have known that her thoughts were far away, planning to leave him. Certainly he hadn’t known. There was a defenceless innocence in his manner towards her because he trusted her totally.

And he was wrong, she thought, tears streaming down her face. He shouldn’t have trusted her for a moment, because she’d been planning to betray him. He’d never suspected because there wasn’t a dishonest bone in his body, and when he found out it had nearly ruined him. Even then he’d wanted her back, and she’d refused because she hadn’t one tenth of his courage.

She could hardly bear to look at the blissfully happy young joker before her eyes. He’d gone, replaced by the haggard, distant man she’d seen at the awards. And she had done that to him.

She switched off and sat in the darkness for a long time.

If I go to Naples, he’ll know the truth as soon as he sees me. He’ll know I can’t keep away from him. How can I tell him that, after what happened?