He frowned. ‘I wrote to her but my letters were returned unopened.’
‘And that was it? You just gave up?’
He smiled wryly. ‘You have to remember, I wasn’t that old. I was twenty-two. So I did the impulsive thing and flew over to England. I thought that I could make her change her mind if I saw her—but when I arrived your grandparents told me she had moved out and they wouldn’t give me a forwarding address. I didn’t know who her friends were, where she worked, where even to start finding her. And then I thought, clearly, she meant it. She really didn’t want to see me again or she would have left me clues.’ He looked sad. ‘And now I know I was right. She decided to keep it a clean break. Otherwise she would have told me about you. My Costanza was never a liar.’
‘But she never told me about you. I grew up thinking Dad was…’ She shrugged. ‘Well, my dad. I only started wondering when I bought my house and the bank queried the fact my birth certificate had my surname as Firth. Mum said it was just an admin thing. Then, when I was clearing out her things afterwards, I found the papers: they changed my name from Firth to Forrest by deed poll after they married.’
‘So her husband brought you up as his own.’ Bartolomeo looked anxious. ‘She was happy with him? He treated her well? Treated you both well?’
There was a lump in Eleanor’s throat as she remembered. ‘They loved each other very, very much. And, yes, they were happy. We were happy. We were a family.’ The perfect family. And how she missed them.
‘I am glad.’ Her surprise must have shown on her face because he said, ‘I would not want my Costanza to be sad. And I would want your childhood to be full of smiles.’
‘It was. Tim obviously wasn’t my biological father, but he was my dad. He read me bedtime stories, taught me to ride a bike and drive a car, grilled my boyfriends and grounded me when I was late home, helped me with my homework and opened the champagne when I got my exam results. He was always there any time I needed to talk—always there with a hug and a smile and sheer common sense when I was full of teenage angst. Mum was, too.’ She swallowed back the tears, the aching loss. The knowledge that Tim would’ve seen through Jeremy and gently made her see the truth. ‘And you? You were happy with Mariella?’
‘We married, but it was a mistake.’ He sighed. ‘I loved her, but not in the way I loved Costanza—there wasn’t the same spark, the same passion I found with Costanza. We were more…friends. I tried to be a good husband, worked hard to provide for her and build up my family’s business. Too hard, maybe, because she thought I neglected her.’ He shrugged. ‘She found love in someone else’s arms.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He sipped his coffee. ‘No matter. But I’ve had my work, and my sisters are close to me. And I have two nieces to spoil.’ He smiled. ‘And you? You have a husband, a fidanzato?’
She’d had a fiancé. Five months ago. ‘No. I’m single.’
‘A beautiful ragazza like you? Why?’
‘There was someone,’ she admitted.
‘What happened?’
‘He was wrong for me.’ She wasn’t prepared to tell Bartolomeo just how close she’d been to making the biggest mistake of her life. If she hadn’t met Penelope and found out the truth…She pushed the thought away. ‘So what made you send that message to the radio station?’
‘To find my lost love? I’ve reached that age when you look back at your life and you wonder what you would have done differently.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am just lucky you heard the Lost Loves programme.’
‘And put the pieces together.’ She nodded. ‘That song always made Mum cry. And the dates fitted—the summer before I was born. I never even knew she’d been to Italy.’
‘I regret that I never knew you as a baby.’ His voice softened. ‘I can’t change the past. But we can change the future. And I would very much like you to be part of my future, Eleanor. Part of my family.’
Longing tugged at her. To be part of a family again…how could she say no?
Before Eleanor knew it, it was lunchtime. She and Bartolomeo ate a leisurely panini and fruit and ordered more coffee, and spent their time talking and catching up.
Finally she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry—have I made you late for an appointment?’
Bartolomeo smiled. ‘I kept my diary free today.’
But he looked pale, tired. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Just getting old—at the stage in my life where I need a sonnelino, a nap.’
But Bartolomeo could only be in his early fifties. If he’d been twenty-two when her mother had fallen pregnant, that would make him fifty-three now. He was too young to feel this tired, this early in the day.
‘Come to dinner tonight,’ he said. He took a business card from a small leather case, and wrote swiftly on the back. ‘This is my address. My sisters and their husbands usually come over for supper on a Tuesday evening. Come and meet them.’
Eleanor wasn’t sure. ‘It’s the evening you spend with your family.’
‘You are my daughter. So they are your family, too.’ He smiled and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s nothing formal—a simple supper. Please come.’
‘I…’
‘Please?’
How could she resist that beseeching look? ‘All right.’
He beamed at her. ‘Then I will see you at seven, yes?’
Once his taxi had driven off, Eleanor headed into the centre of Naples. For a mad moment she thought about calling Orlando—but he was probably in surgery right now. And anyway, she wasn’t there to have a holiday fling: she was there to find out the truth about her father. She really didn’t need the extra complication.
She wasn’t sure whether the etiquette of dinner parties was the same in Italy as it was in England, but she bought wine and chocolates to take with her anyway. She’d just finished changing when the phone in her room rang.
‘Dottoressa Forrest? I have a call for you,’ the receptionist said.
Odd. If it was Tamsin, the call would’ve come through on her mobile phone. Who would call her at the hotel? Bartolomeo, to cancel this evening? ‘Thank you. I’ll take it,’ she said quietly.
‘Hello, Eleanor?’
She recognised the voice immediately, and a shiver of pure pleasure ran down her spine. ‘Orlando?’
‘I was just passing your hotel on my way home. Do you have time to have a drink with me in the bar?’
She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes until she needed to catch the metro. Fifteen minutes when she could sit on her own and worry about whether Bartolomeo’s family would accept her, or… ‘I have to leave in about fifteen minutes,’ she said.
‘Then you do have time. Bene. What would you like to drink?’
She knew that alcohol wasn’t the right way to soothe her nerves: she didn’t want to turn up at dinner reeking of wine the first time she met the Conti family. ‘Mineral water would be lovely. Sparkling, please. I’ll be right down.’
She replaced the receiver, picked up the things she wanted to take with her to Bartolomeo’s, and went to join Orlando in the bar. He was sitting at a table on his own, skimming through a newspaper and seemingly oblivious to the admiring glances of the women sitting in the bar. Including her own. In a well-cut dark suit with a sober tie and a white shirt, he looked absolutely edible. As she reached the table, he put down the newspaper and stood up. ‘Thank you for joining me, Eleanor.’
Old-fashioned etiquette. Funny how it made her knees weak.
‘I