Barbara Taylor Bradford - Secrets from the Past

‘I was glad to come, if a little concerned. I didn’t know what I was going to find.’

‘I haven’t been so bad, have I?’

‘No, you haven’t. Not too many nightmares. I was worried about you when you had that strange attack, when you were so icy cold last week.’

‘I’ll never know what that was,’ he answered, shaking his head, looking baffled. ‘Exhaustion, being very stressed out after leaving the front line, as you suggested.’

‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘Today you’re the best you’ve been since I got here. And I know now it was rest and food you needed, among other things.’

‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ he told me, and squeezed my hand again.

We had reached the piazza, and Zac said, ‘Let’s stop off at Florian’s and have a drink.’

‘All right. But not a drink, Zac,’ I replied. I instantly knew I sounded uptight, and I was annoyed with myself.

‘That was just a turn of phrase,’ he responded, his voice even. ‘So an ice cream, a Coke, a lemonade, a coffee, a glass of water. Anything. It’s just too nice to go back to the bolthole yet, and this square is full of memories for me. Isn’t it for you too, Serena?’

I did not speak for a moment, and then I said softly, in a low voice, ‘Very many memories, Zac,’ and I felt my heart lurch. I was suddenly a little afraid. Not of him but of myself and my reaction to him, and what might happen between us.

In the past, when we had been in love and together, Caffè Florian had been a favourite place. We had come here every day and now here we were again. Florian’s was still the same but we were not. We had changed.

Despite the sun it was a cool afternoon, and a wind had blown up, and so we sat inside at a cosy table near the bar. Zac ordered coffee, but I fancied a vanilla ice cream. As I ate it slowly, Zac couldn’t keep his spoon out of the dish, kept dipping it in and spooning dollops of ice cream into his mouth.

At one moment, he glanced at me, and asked, ‘Have you ever let another man eat food from your plate? Or, as in this instance, a dish?’

I shook my head, endeavouring not to smile, detecting a hint of normality surfacing – his jealousy about unknown men. Actually, nonexistent other men. ‘No,’ I said at last.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and murmured, ‘Good. It’s very intimate.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you mind? That I’ve always done it?’

‘No, I don’t … and listen, it’s a privilege only you enjoy.’

He gave me a funny little smile, sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve always loved this place. Perhaps because it smacks of another era, from a time gone by.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. I feel the same way,’ I said, thrilled that we were actually having a proper conversation, one that wasn’t stilted or awkward. ‘My mother told me that the original eighteenth-century décor had been carefully preserved; that Florian’s was one of the first places in Europe to serve coffee, when it was considered an exotic drink.’ I looked around. ‘It does have a special warmth. It’s very welcoming, sort of quaint.’

‘I loved your mother’s bits and pieces, as she called all that information she had tucked away at the back of her beautiful head,’ Zac remarked. ‘She was such a lot of fun.’

I nodded, smiled at the memory of her. ‘She used to say she was a fountain of information nobody needed or cared about.’ I picked up my glass of water, took a swallow, gazed at him for a moment.

I saw him clearly, as he was now, and there was something of the old Zac about him this afternoon. His colour was better, his eyes unexpectedly brighter, and the sharp angles of his face had softened. He was obviously relaxed, and it was visible in the way he held his body, as well as in his face.

Suddenly, he said, ‘You’re staring at me, Pidge. Is something wrong?’

‘No, something is good,’ I responded quickly. ‘I think you’re much less uptight, and it shows. Ever since I arrived in Venice you’ve had strict control of yourself, as if you were afraid to be you, to be who you really are.’

‘I know, and I’m still in control.’

‘But you’re not so rigid this afternoon.’ I eyed him carefully, and a smile broke through when I added, ‘It’s as if you have loosened the tight rein you’ve had on yourself, and decided to trust me.’

‘If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have asked Harry to persuade you to come!’ he exclaimed, giving me an odd look.

‘He didn’t have to do much persuading.’

‘I would’ve been in a mess if you hadn’t agreed,’ he said after a moment, now gazing at me intently. ‘I’d have been lost. Your presence is very soothing to me, Pidge, even healing. I really believe I need you to help me get through this difficult period.’

‘I think so too,’ I agreed, and went on carefully. ‘How did you know you had to get out? Did something happen? Go wrong? Or did Harry decide to pull you out? He’s not discussed it with me, nor has Geoff. They sort of left me in the dark, actually. Are you able to talk about it? Or would you prefer not to? Is it too hard?’ I asked, the questions tumbling out of me. Questions I’d wanted to ask for days.

‘I can talk. I want to talk about it, and about other troubling things. That’s what I told Harry – that you’re the only person who would have a clue, would be able to properly discuss the front line and war reporting. Because you’d been there, seen it all, been as heartsick and as numb as me at different times.’

He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and continued speaking in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.

‘I feel so rotten at times, Serena, so devastated I can hardly stand myself. There’s a remorselessness about war that is chilling. And it kills the soul. Yet I’ve gone back time after time, and I don’t know why.’

‘Because you had to, Zac,’ I answered. ‘Because of your honesty and humanity, and the need you have to tell the world the truth about brutal regimes oppressing people, and to expose the terrible suffering in war zones. You’re a photojournalist, as I am, and that’s what we do.’

I reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Except that there comes a time when we can’t do it any more, because we’re too battered, exhausted and disillusioned. Those are the reasons I stopped, and they’re yours.’

He nodded, squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Something happened one day, and I just couldn’t stand it any more …’ Unexpectedly, tears filled his eyes, and he blinked, cleared his throat. ‘I can’t discuss it, go into details, not at this moment, mostly because we’re here at Florian’s. I know I’ll cry …’

I continued to hold his hand. ‘I understand. You don’t want to weep in public. So we’ll save it for later. Whenever you want. Anyway, from what I gather, you told Harry you wanted out. Am I correct?’

‘Yes. I had to leave the front; I knew it was the time I had to go. I didn’t feel well, physically or mentally, and I realized I needed help. Harry said he’d come in and get me, and I told him not to. He suggested Geoff, and I agreed at once. And fortunately for me, so did Geoff. He came in within twenty-four hours, and he never flinched.’

‘He’s a good guy. You seemed startled earlier, when he said he wasn’t going back to Pakistan.’

‘I was for a split second, and then I knew he felt like I did, burnt out. And also mentally bludgeoned by what he’d witnessed.’

‘You asked him what he was going to do, once he’d left war photography, and he didn’t really have an answer for you. But it troubles you , doesn’t it? You’re facing the same dilemma,’ I suggested.