“No, I’m meeting someone for dinner,” I said. “Signor Da Rossi.”

“Ah. Welcome.” His gaze implied that my dress didn’t measure up, but he couldn’t stand in the way of someone who was meeting Leo. As I entered the foyer, I tried not to gasp at my first impression of the hotel interior. It had formerly been a palace, and it still looked like one. Marble pillars supported the ceiling on one side of the room, while on the other side the atrium was several stories high with a red carpeted staircase that wound around the walls. It was luxury such as I had never seen before, and I hesitated, feeling like a country bumpkin, horribly out of place.

But then I saw Leo. He was standing at the bar, conversing with another man, but he spotted me instantly and came over.

“So the nuns let you escape?” He was giving me that so-well-remembered wicked smile.

“They did. And the other teacher was nice enough to agree to look after the girls.”

“Is it very primitive?”

“Not too bad. The food is simple, but good.”

He took my arm. “I can assure you that the food here will be a lot better. Come. We go upstairs.”

I allowed myself to be steered to a lift.

“Terrazzo,” he said to the lift operator, and we rode upwards in silence. I was conscious of the closeness of his presence, and as if he sensed my feelings, he gave me a little smile. We came out to the restaurant—a huge room with mirrored walls, velvet chairs, sparkling glass and silver. Leo muttered something to the ma?tre d’, and we were led through the restaurant and out to the terrace beyond. Now I really did gasp. Before us was the most spectacular view of the lagoon, the waterfront, the island of San Giorgio, all glowing in the setting sun.

“Oh, it’s beautiful” was all I could say.

Leo beamed as if he had arranged it for my benefit. “I thought you’d like it. My favourite view of the city,” he said. “You don’t mind to sit outside?”

“No, It’s perfect.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene. A waiter pulled out a chair for me at a front table, and I sat. A menu was opened for me. I glanced up at Leo. “I’ll let you choose,” I said. “I’m afraid my experience of Italian cuisine is limited to spaghetti.”

He nodded and spoke in rapid Italian to the waiter, who retreated with a little bow.

“We shall start with a Campari, and some olives and bread,” he said. “To prepare the palate. And I believe when one is in Venice, one should eat from the sea. Is that all right with you?”

“As long as it’s not the fritto misto that made my aunt ill,” I replied.

He chuckled. “I can assure you that any fritto misto here would be better than the one that poisoned your aunt. But no, we shall not dine on fritto misto tonight. For our first course, I have ordered a marinated octopus, a puree of red prawns, and scallops. Also a plate of foie gras, because they do it so well here.”

The Campari arrived. I tried not to react with surprise at the bitterness. Leo was smiling at me.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said.

“Oh, I think I have,” I replied.

“Well, maybe your eyes are a little wiser, and a little sadder, maybe?”

“Life doesn’t always go in the direction we expect it to.”

“But you were going to art academy. You were excited about it. Did you not go? Why are you not a famous artist, but teaching schoolgirls?”

“I did do my first year there,” I said. “It was wonderful. Everything I had hoped for. But my father invested all his and my aunt’s money, then lost it all in the Great Crash of ’29. He had been in poor health, as I think I told you, since he was gassed in the trenches, and this was too much for him. He caught pneumonia and died soon after. I had to leave college and find a job to support my mother and little sister. I was lucky to be hired as an art mistress at a girls’ school near our house. Mummy knew the headmistress from church. So I’ve been teaching art ever since. The pay isn’t particularly good, but it’s enough to keep our heads above water.”

“What water is this?” He looked confused again.

I laughed. “Another silly English idiom. It means to survive, but only just. And anyway, I’ve been learning Italian in my spare time. Ora posso parlare un po’ di italiano.”

He beamed at me. “Molto bene! That means you must have meant to come back here if you took the trouble to study my language.” He said the words in Italian.

“I had hoped to, one day,” I replied, glad that I had understood him and could find the words.

I looked up as the dishes were put on the table. The waiter spooned a little of each on to my plate. The tastes were amazing—the octopus tentacle looked alarming, but was tender as butter, with a smoky, spicy taste. The prawns were salty, fresh, like eating sea foam. The scallops crisp, then melt-in-the-mouth. Then Leo spread some paté on a square of Melba toast and held it up to my mouth. The gesture of feeding me was somehow so intimate that I shuddered.

“You don’t like foie gras?”

“Oh, but I do,” I insisted.

“You didn’t write to me,” he said, reverting to English now. “I was disappointed.”

“I thought about it, but I didn’t dare to,” I replied. “I couldn’t really believe you’d want to write back.” I didn’t add that my aunt had planted seeds of uncertainty in my head. I wasn’t quite sure he was who he claimed to be. “Besides, you didn’t give me your address.”