November Harlequin Presents 2(129)

‘But what about your menus?’ Angelo asked. ‘I wouldn’t want you to return to your little house without at least giving you the benefit of telling me what you had in mind for my wedding banquet…’

‘Stop it!’ Two bright patches of colour had appeared on her cheeks. ‘I always knew you were hard nosed, Angelo. I never realised you were just downright cruel!’

‘Cruel? How am I being cruel? Explain to me. I meet you here after three years and am polite enough to ask you what you have been up to in that time. I offer to see your menus, which I assume you have brought with you. Hardly the definition of cruelty.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Time has a habit of dimming our memory of past acquaintances and their expectations.’

There wasn’t a flicker of warmth on his face. He had found himself in her company before he had had time to retreat unnoticed and had managed to dredge up some semblance of politeness because the situation demanded it. A show of interest in her menu cards was just extending the politeness to embarrassing levels as far as she was concerned. The anger and dislike was there, she could feel it simmering behind the mask, but it was anger that had been roused by seeing her out of the blue. She doubted that he had given her much of a passing thought over the years or, if he had, only insofar as she had damaged his ego. Now, to him, she truly was an ex-acquaintance with whom he had shared a few months of his life, off and on.

He was engaged to be married. He had found love and affection and was eagerly planning his wedding day. She took a deep breath and tried to control the emotions beating against their constraints.

‘You’re right.’ She ventured a smile which didn’t garner a response. ‘Okay. You can have a look at the menu I’ve prepared.’ She rummaged around in her bag, feeling his eyes on her, and extracted neatly collated, printed sheets of paper. A choice, she told him, focusing on the papers and not on his face. Several options for starters, main courses and of course there would be a selection of desserts. She had only a vague idea of numbers but assumed that there would be roughly two hundred people from what his fiancée had communicated to her on her answer machine. Was she right in that assumption?

It was bizarre, sitting here like this, pretending to talk about a job that would not materialise while her heart did crazy things inside her and her head reeled with a sickening slide show of images of the past. She must have stored up so much information and, like a computer, her mind was now downloading it all in every painful detail.

What a joke to be sticking a phoney smile on her face and pretending that they were just two people having a normal conversation about a normal topic.

‘What is she like?’ It was spoken before she had time to think.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Angelo looked up at her politely.

‘I’m sorry. I meant…well, I’m glad you’ve found someone you love, someone to settle down with. I’m really happy for you, Angelo…’

And she had found someone as well. Time had moved on. But he certainly wasn’t happy for her, nor was he in control of his response. He inclined his head curtly in acknowledgment of what she had said and then returned to the menus. She had never been able to cook when he had known her. An omelette had presented a challenge. Now the array of food she had listed was exquisite.

‘I wanted to do something that had a career in it but wasn’t office-based,’ she said, tuning in to his thought patterns. ‘Hence the catering.’ The fact that she had left school at sixteen without any qualifications to speak of had also dictated a life-plan that didn’t include a university degree. That, she kept to herself. ‘Once I had bought my house and was grounded, I found that I actually had to prepare meals for myself and I discovered that I enjoyed it. It seemed natural to take it one step further.’ And specialising in Italian food had seemed natural as well, all wrapped up as it had been in memories of him. It had been a wise choice, as it turned out, for more practical reasons, because not many caterers specialised and very few specialised in Italian cuisine. She had found a ready market among the many well-to-do Londoners who held dinner parties and office dos and either couldn’t be bothered or preferred to have someone else do the catering for them.

‘How very resourceful. And how very puzzling that you were so eager to settle down. When we last spoke you were fighting the idea.’ Or maybe, he thought icily, just fighting the idea of doing it with him.

‘I know. I still thought that I wanted the adventure of never being in one place for too long, but…well…’