CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FRAN didn’t answer her phone. Didn’t call Gio back when he left a message. Ignored his texts and emails.
He considered sending her flowers; then he remembered that she was on garden leave. So she might not even be in London. She might have gone home to see her family. Then again, he knew she didn’t think she fitted in with them: so it was unlikely.
So where was she? Had she gone somewhere? Taken a break to get away from everything?
There was only one way to find out. Talk to her, face to face. He went to her flat. Pressed the intercom.
No answer.
So then he pressed her neighbour’s buzzer—the one who’d flooded her flat in the first place.
‘If you’re selling something, I’m not interested,’ was the greeting through the intercom.
Charming. Gio resisted the urge to say something rude; if he put the guy’s back up, he’d never get the information he wanted. ‘I’m not selling something. Actually, I’m trying to get hold of your neighbour.’
‘Nothing to do with me, mate.’
‘I rather think it is,’ Gio said, ‘seeing as you flooded her flat in the first place.’
All the belligerence suddenly left the man’s tone. ‘Oh.’
‘She was staying with—with a friend of mine. And she left some things my friend wants to return to her.’
‘Well, I can take them in, if you want,’ the neighbour said, his voice slightly grudging.
‘No, they need to be returned personally.’
‘Are you calling me a thief?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Gio sighed. Poor Fran, having to put up with such an aggressive neighbour. The sort who’d fly off the handle at the least provocation. Definitely the sort who’d stomp out of his flat in a strop and forget he’d left the bath running. When Fran had had a hissy fit on him for flooding her flat, she was lucky he hadn’t flattened her. ‘Look, my friend hasn’t been able to get in touch with her. Do you know if she’s around at the moment or if she’s away?’
‘Her recycling box was out with the others, this morning. That’s about all I can tell you.’
Not a great deal, but it was enough—it proved that she was still in London. She was clearly just avoiding all Gio’s messages.
‘Thanks.’ He stopped leaning on the intercom.
So what did he do now? She obviously wasn’t going to return his calls. If his mother was right, this was a defence mechanism to stop herself being hurt, because she thought he didn’t want her. Given what he knew of her background, it was understandable she’d be wary of putting herself in a situation where she could be rejected.
But unless he could talk to her, he wasn’t going to be able to tell her how he really felt about her. That he wasn’t going to reject her.
Flowers weren’t going to work. Or chocolates. He needed something to show her he was absolutely serious about this. That the stakes were as high for him as they were for her.
But how?
He spent the evening brooding about it. And then he remembered her suggestion. Expanding the café chain by adding another branch would mean additional premises costs; whereas if they kept the same number of branches, but opened in the evening, the costs would all be marginal. Starting with the book group in Holborn.
So far, so sensible.
And then she’d suggesting opening the Charlotte Street café once a week.
For an evening of classical music.
With him as the performer.
Her voice echoed in his head: play the music you love for people.
And she’d told him to take a sabbatical. Be a musician. His old dream—the one he thought he’d stamped on and crushed years go. But the yearning was still there.
Maybe, he thought, it was time he did.
And maybe, just maybe, if he did it, it would convince her that he was serious.
Courier delivery? She hadn’t ordered anything that was likely to be delivered by courier. Fran frowned, but signed the courier’s form.
The envelope held no clues whatsoever to the contents. It was just a plain A5 cardboard-backed envelope. Her address was printed on a label, and the postmark was central London. Odd. At first glance, she would have said it was junk mail. But junk mail didn’t usually come in a cardboard-backed envelope—and it definitely didn’t come by courier.
She opened the flap, and took out the folded A4 sheet.
And blinked as she read the poster.
An evening of music at Giovanni’s of Charlotte Street.
She blinked even harder as she read who was playing.
He was taking up her suggestion?
And he’d written something on one of the blank spaces on the poster. Please come. Gio.
His handwriting was spikier than she remembered it. As if it was an effort for him to write the note. But the words themselves were so sparse, told her nothing about how he was feeling or why he’d invited her. Was it out of some sense of obligation, because she’d been the one to suggest it? Or was it because he really wanted her there?