On the second day of the visit Evie answered the phone briefly, then covered the receiver to say to Carlo, ‘Your fame has preceded you. Will you do a live TV show tonight? They’ve heard you’re here, and they need an expert to talk about some new discovery.’
She named the discovery, a brilliant one by a fellow archaeologist, which had left Carlo full of envy. He accepted eagerly, and that night he arrived at the studio ready to talk. The discussion grew animated. One of the other speakers was jealous and dismissive. Carlo was up in arms, defending a man he admired. A good time was had by all.
The producer was ecstatic.
‘It doesn’t often get so lively,’ he enthused. ‘Hey, weren’t you going to do that series for Della? What happened?’
‘We couldn’t dovetail our schedules,’ Carlo said, trying to calm the frisson that went through him at the sound of her name.
‘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
