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myself. To be honest, I also wouldn’t have known where to start with a fish that didn’t come in fingers. Neither did I feel like being alone. No matter how many times I checked my email, I had to accept that Steven was in no hurry to make contact. Left to my own devices, I knew, I would dwell on his continued silence. Dwelling is never a good idea when you’re on your own in a strange city.
    So I went with Nick to a bar on the Campo Santa Margherita, where we drank cold white wine, despite the chilly weather, and ate yet more prosciutto. Fearing I might well start oinking if I had to eat any more ham, I tried to slip a piece to the bar’s resident dog. The dog turned its nose up at my offering.
    ‘Ah,’ Nick observed. ‘He only eats beef. Unlike me. Prosciutto, chicken, fish; I can’t resist any of it. Italy has made me into a dustbin.’
    ‘You look very well on it,’ I said, as Nick patted his stomach. It was true. He did. And the enthusiasm with which he tucked into whatever was put before him was actually rather attractive. A healthy appetite in one area usually translates into others, after all. While Nick tried to catch the eye of the waitress, I remembered a conversation I’d once overheard on the Tube. Two girls were discussing one’s latest boyfriend.
    ‘Does he, you know . . . does he go down on you?’ the first girl asked.
    ‘He’s a chef,’ said her friend. ‘He’ll eat anything.’
    Having asked for the bill, Nick returned his attention to me. He cocked his head to one side and I had the feeling I was being appraised. I also had the feeling that I’d passed. That was perhaps confirmed when Nick gently probed for information about my living situation back in London. I told him I was staying with a friend, which was the truth. I had been staying with a friend in the six weeks since Steven and I fell apart. I hated to admit even to myself that the situation showed no sign of changing.
     
    After dinner, Nick insisted on walking me back to my apartment. He offered his arm as we weaved along the narrow fondamente .
    ‘It’s quite icy underfoot,’ was his excuse.
    I was grateful for the support.
    When we reached the apartment, Nick hovered as I tried to open the door myself, but in the end had to lend his physical assistance. I provided the magic swearwords. When the door swung open, I sensed he was waiting for me to invite him in. I didn’t. Though Nick didn’t seem like the kind of man who would ever pull rank, technically he was my superior. Inviting him in would be a bad idea and not just because we had to work together. I’d known him for such a short time I couldn’t really call him a friend. I was vulnerable. I’d had half a bottle of wine. At best I would end up boring him with my love-life woes. At worst . . .
    ‘Got to be on form for my meeting with Marco Donato,’ I told him.
    ‘Of course,’ said Nick, kissing me lightly on both cheeks, Italian-style. ‘The man of mystery. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    I watched him go. When I got upstairs, however, I began to think perhaps it would have been nice to have company for a little longer. Was it arrogant of me to have thought Nick wanted anything more than a coffee? Perhaps he just wanted some company too. I took off my coat and stood in the middle of the apartment’s dingy hallway, feeling my mood come back down. This was, after all, the worst part of the day. Alone at last. Absolutely alone. And in Venice, too. Steven had always said he would take me to Venice . . .

Chapter 6
    I undressed quickly and slipped under the covers of the creaky old four-poster. It was cold that night so I pulled the curtains around the bed, creating for myself a red velvet cave. Thanks to the wine, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow – and found myself dreaming of Steven again.
    It was so vivid. This time he was in the room in Venice with me. He was standing by the window. The moonlight threw shadows across his face, enhancing the high