The Padova Pearls

As she stood stricken, the latch clicked behind him. A second or two later she heard the slam of the front door.

He was gone.

And she didn’t even know his name.

Why, oh, why, had she let him walk out just like that?

Though what else could she have done?

She could have invited him to have supper with them. Mrs Caldwell wouldn’t have minded, she felt sure, and there was more than enough food for three.

That way at least she would have had his company for an hour or two longer.

But she’d missed her chance. He was gone, and it was too late for regrets.

If only she had been free to have dinner with him. Though what could it have led to? If he did live in New York, there would have been little chance of seeing him again.

Still the nagging ache of disappointment, the futile longing for what might have been, the empty feeling of loss, persisted as she tried to make sense of the brief encounter.

Why had fate brought him into her life only to let him walk out again?

She felt as though she had been robbed of something infinitely precious, something that should have been rightfully hers…

Becoming aware that she was standing like a fool staring at the closed door and Mrs Caldwell would be waiting for her, Sophia pulled herself together and went to dry her hair and change.

Resisting the desire to stand and stare at the portrait, she swapped her business suit for a skirt and top and leaving her hair loose, hurried back to the living-room.

There, she quickly sorted out the old lady’s change, picked up the carrier bag and glanced around for her keys.

They were nowhere to be seen.

But the stranger had actually opened the door, so he might have left them in the lock.

She took a quick look, but they weren’t there.

So what had he done with them?

When another glance around failed to locate them, it occurred to her that he might well have dropped them into the carrier when he’d put the shopping down.

In that case she’d find them when she unpacked.

Taking the spare set of keys from the sideboard drawer, she switched off the light and, closing the door behind her, hurried across the hall.

As she approached the old lady’s partly open door she could hear what sounded like one of the soaps on the television.

Calling, ‘It’s me,’ she let herself in and went through to the living-room.

Like Sophia’s own, the old lady’s flat was light and spacious, with a combined living-room and kitchen. A long fire was throwing out a welcome warmth and two schooners of pale sherry were waiting on the coffee table.

Mrs Caldwell, who was standing by the window looking through a chink in the curtains, turned to say, ‘Do make yourself at home, dearie.’

Sophia put the old lady’s change on the coffee table and, having crossed to the kitchen, began to unpack the shopping, while Sam, the boldest of the two marmalade kittens, rubbed against her leg, purring like a small traction engine.

Picking up the remote control, Mrs Caldwell switched off the television and, settling herself on the couch, urged, ‘Why don’t you sit down and drink your sherry before you start cooking?’

Aware that the old lady went to bed fairly early, Sophia suggested, ‘It might make more sense to drink it while I’m getting the paella ready. That way we won’t be too late having supper.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Sophia unpacked the last of the groceries and, finding no trace of the missing keys, collected her glass of sherry.

While she sipped it, with swift efficiency she sliced onions, peppers and tomatoes, added a crushed clove of garlic and began to fry them lightly.

‘The paella smells nice already,’ Mrs Caldwell commented. ‘I must say I’m starting to feel distinctly hungry.’

‘In that case, I’m rather pleased I decided to buy most of the ingredients ready-cooked and make the quick version.’

‘That was good thinking,’ the old lady agreed. Then, eagerly, ‘Who was the perfectly gorgeous young man who came in with you?’

Trying to sound casual, unconcerned, Sophia admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’

‘But surely you know him?’

‘No, not at all. He just offered to carry the shopping when one of the handles on the bag broke.’

Mrs Caldwell was clearly disappointed. ‘Didn’t you find out anything about him? Where he lives? What he does for a living? Whether or not he has a steady girlfriend? I would have done at your age.’

Forced to smile, Sophia said, ‘All I know is that he’s in London on business…Oh, and that while his father has English roots, and he went to university in England, his mother comes from Italy.’

‘Well, that’s something you and he have in common. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you still got relatives in Italy?’

‘If I have they’re distant ones. Like me, my mother was an only child, and her parents have been dead for quite a few years.’

‘I wondered, because the man who came to see your father was Italian.’

Sophia was surprised. ‘Someone visited Dad? How long ago?’

‘Quite a while ago now,’ Mrs Caldwell answered vaguely. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

The old lady was obviously taken aback. ‘That’s peculiar…Well, this man arrived one day while you were at the gallery. He came in a taxi.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He was a good-looking man, short and thick-set, the same kind of build as my Arthur, with a thatch of white hair. He must have been somewhere in the region of sixty, but he looked younger because his eyebrows were still jet-black.

‘He found your front door buzzer wasn’t working properly and rang mine. When I answered, he explained to me in very poor English that he was looking for a Signor Jordan. He had a package for him.’