A Year of Chasing Love Read online

Later that evening, after Olivia had rinsed away the day’s sunscreen from her still-reddened skin, she selected her favourite scarlet shift dress and golden gladiator sandals and decided to treat herself to an artistically presented meal in the hotel’s Phoenix restaurant.

  At the suggestion of the head waiter, who could have been Hercule Poirot’s younger brother, she chose to dine al fresco on the terrace overlooking the gardens where she could listen to the crickets tuning up for their evening sonata. The sky had left twilight behind and in the distance, she could see tiny squares of amber lights flash on and off as the city’s residents went about their night-time exploits.

  She relished every mouthful of the sea bass dressed in a jus of sweet chilli, ginger, and spring onions on a bed of fragrant jasmine rice, and savoured the sharp, crisp flavour of the Pinot Grigio. However, the meal was not a patch on the home-made feast she had tasted the previous evening, and the thing she missed most was the welcoming company. Even the view, with the backlit pool resembling a crumpled sheet of turquoise foil, did not compensate for the swirl of relaxed family banter of the Garzias’ celebration. And she might have been sitting amidst the elegance of starched linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and crystal glasses, and serenaded by soft classical music, but she couldn’t fail to notice that she was the only one in the restaurant dining alone and her heart contracted painfully that this was how it was going to be for the foreseeable future.

  Feeling awkward and conspicuous, she refused dessert in favour of a speedy getaway, almost sprinting back to the sanctuary of her room and heaving a sigh of relief when she closed the door on the outside world that suddenly seemed to be completely made up of loved-up couples. Had it always been thus, or was she just noticing it now because of her current situation? As she lay against the tumble of pillows she had selected from an extensive menu, waiting for sleep to whisk her into oblivion, she mulled over what she had learned over the last two days.

  She loved Malta.

  The tiny island had welcomed her, a fraught, stressed-out executive on the brink of divorce, draped her shoulders with a soft mantle of sunshine and friendship and enveloped her nerve-jangled body with its rustic charm and easy-going acceptance. She’d had the honour of meeting some extraordinary people whose paths she was never likely to have crossed if she hadn’t accepted Rachel’s challenge, and her contact with the Garzia family had punctured the bubble of sadness she had been inhabiting for the last two months.

  Before she knew it, she was once again drifting off into a dreamless sleep, and she couldn’t believe it when she was woken up by a call from Niko at eight thirty the next morning, demanding that she met him in the hotel lobby immediately. Once again, when she leaned forward to greet him with the traditional kisses and caught a whiff of his cologne, she had to work hard not to close her eyes and revel in the fresh, crisp, orange-blossom-esque scent that sent a fizz of interest through her body.

  ‘Sorry, Olivia, there’s no time for breakfast. We’ll grab some mqaret on the way to the bus station.’

  ‘What are mqaret?’ asked Olivia as Niko slid his hand into hers as though it was the most natural thing in the world and guided her down the marble steps at the front of the hotel at speed. ‘And why are we going to the bus station?’

  ‘Mqaret are a bit like those pastizzis you were cramming into your mouth at my grandparents’ party on Saturday night, except these are sweet, stuffed with dates and deep-fried.’

  ‘Deep-fried?’

  She wrinkled her nose in distaste and Niko laughed.

  ‘Trust me, there’s no other way to start the day. Every bar in Valletta serves their own home-made version, but the best ones are to be found at the bus station.’

  ‘So we’re breakfasting at a bus station?’

  ‘Yup. And then, Miss Snooty, we are catching a bus.’ Niko grinned, clearly enjoying her reactions to his plans for the day. ‘When was the last time you rode on a bus?’

  ‘When I was a teenager! What’s happened to your Fiat?’

  However, when she thought about Niko’s little rusty roller skate, she realised that she probably didn’t need to ask that question.

  ‘Nothing’s happened to my car. I just thought you might like to take a trip on one of the old snub-nosed buses we have here in Malta – they’re part of our culture, as much a tourist attraction as the medieval architecture. Come on, keep up!’

  Olivia trotted in Niko’s wake, enjoying the view of his buttocks flatteringly encased in a pair of tailored navy-blue shorts, and congratulating herself on her foresight of pairing her white Capri pants and Breton T-shirt with a pair of red flatties – if she had worn her stilettos on the cobbles she would have been walking like a demented duck! With the skill of a seasoned local, Niko led her swiftly through Valletta’s higgledy-piggledy streets, every spare inch lined with parked cars and discarded scooters, until they reached the edge of the city.

  ‘Here, taste this!’

  As Olivia had come to accept, Niko was right again – the tiny, flaky parcels were delicious and the injection of sugar to her system fuelled her energy levels and lifted her spirits. She even grabbed a packet of Qubbajt – nougat made with honey and almonds whose history dated back to when the Arabs occupied the islands – to share with Niko on the journey to Mdina.

  Sod the sugary calories, I’m on holiday, she argued, relegating the image of a tutting Matteo to the back of her mind.

  They climbed onto the bus, selected a seat at the front, and just as she was beginning to think her bones were about to rattle into dust and she could no longer feel her backside, the suspension-less bus rolled into Malta’s most beautiful city. That morning, however, it was teeming with tourists who had arrived on more sophisticated, air-conditioned transport.

  ‘Mdina is one of Europe’s finest examples of an ancient walled city,’ explained Niko with pride as they sauntered towards the entrance into the town – a soaring columned gate topped with a baroque-style crown of russet and ivory. ‘Its origins can be traced back to the Phoenicians – they chose this particular site for its strategic importance because it’s on an elevated rocky plateau and as far inland on the island as you can get. Come on, this way.’

  They climbed to the top of the fortifications and the view that greeted Olivia was breath-taking. She could see the whole of Malta, and even the tiny island of Gozo beyond, spread out before her in a haphazard patchwork of emerald and mustard, and she stood for a while, shoulder-to-shoulder with Niko, in silent contemplation of the medieval town shrouded in mystery and oozing a history that stretched back over thousands of years. Unfortunately, the spell was broken by Olivia’s growling stomach and heat rushed into her cheeks.

  ‘Gosh, I’m so sorry. You know, at home I don’t normally eat breakfast and lunch is usually a latte or an espresso depending on exhaustion levels and whether I have an afternoon court hearing to prepare for.’

  Olivia tucked her hair behind both ears and was relieved to see that Niko was smirking at her embarrassment.

  ‘Then, Ms Hamilton, would you do me the honour of allowing me to buy you lunch? I know the perfect place.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love that.’

  They meandered together through the winding cobbled alleyways with Niko still wearing his tour guide hat and regaling Olivia with random facts about the many inhabited palaces and monasteries they walked past. Every one of them was steeped in history and conflict, their secrets buried deep in the crumbling fissures in the stone, their height ensuring the air remained cool and still.

  ‘Here we are. Ciappetti happens to be my favourite restaurant in Mdina.’

  Olivia took in the hand-painted sign announcing the well-hidden restaurant; its name was scrawled on a white ceramic tile surrounded by hand-painted images of pears and lemons and grapes. She liked the place already. And, as if to agree with her conclusions, her stomach produced another noisy confirmation.

  What was going on? She was never hungry.

  The waiter seated them at a corner
table in the restaurant’s courtyard, its high walls ringed with an impressive balustrade. Large terracotta urns sporting miniature palm trees laced with pretty fairy lights had been strategically placed to add a touch of colour and privacy to the oasis of calm, and a low burble of chatter added to the relaxed ambience. Within moments a carafe of house wine arrived, accompanied by a tiny dish of black olives.

  ‘So, what do you think of my country, Olivia?’

  A shiver of delight shot down her spine at the sound of her name on Niko’s tongue and she smiled at him as she took a sip of the rough Merlot.

  ‘I love it, Niko, and I love your amazing family, too. I enjoyed seeing the way each generation interacted so easily with the next, how relaxed everyone was in each other’s company. The warmth and genuine respect were humbling to witness – it’s something I haven’t experienced since moving to London and I didn’t realise how much I miss it.’

  Why had she discarded her Yorkshire roots so carelessly? Even her northern accent had been buried under years of rounded southern vowels, only popping up when she was angry or had enjoyed a few drinks – the former rare, the latter not so.

  ‘The spirit of love dances in all our souls, Olivia.’

  A waft of warm, roasted garlic floated on the air as a generous platter of antipasti was delivered to their table, preventing Olivia from adding anything further that her karma-infused state would cause her to regret later. Instead, she dug into the food, every mouthful a serenade on the lips. The young Merlot improved with every sip, and the tranquillity of the little enclosed patio cast a mellow mood over the meal.

  Later, when they were toying with tiny cups of bitter black coffee laced with brandy and a plate of home-made mqarets, Niko confided in Olivia about his parents’ growing frustration at his refusal to settle down and add more grandchildren to the expanding Garzia family.

  ‘They were okay with me pursuing my education, even with me choosing a career outside the family’s farm or vineyard, and when I qualified as a lawyer they were the proudest parents in the whole of Malta. However, when I dropped the bombshell that I wanted to study for my Masters in London I think they were worried I would meet someone at UCL and never come home. I did meet many beautiful girls, and made some great friends, Rachel amongst them, but I am happy to be back home, surrounded by the people I love and who love me.’

  A flash of guilt tore into Olivia’s heart. Were her own parents so different from Niko’s in their hopes for their daughter’s future to include children? Or were they just too reticent to mention it? And if so, why? Had she drifted so far beyond the outer realms of her family that her closest relations, the two people she loved without reservation, couldn’t speak their minds?

  The thought made her uncomfortable, but fortunately Niko hadn’t noticed because he was distracted by the arrival of their check. After refusing her offer to contribute, he gave Olivia one of his devastatingly attractive smiles, shoved his chair back from the table and stood up.

  ‘Come on, we can’t leave Mdina without a visit to St Paul’s Cathedral. I promise to ditch the “tour guide” commentary. We can simply soak up the atmosphere.’

  Olivia returned Niko’s smile, and followed him out of the restaurant, down a shady alleyway, and into a large rectangular piazza in front of the most beautiful Baroque-style cathedral she had ever seen. Its twin bell towers – each adorned with a white clock face – presented a pleasing symmetry to the columned façade, and beneath the rays of the afternoon sun, the ochre-hued stone seemed to emit a golden glow.

  When she stepped through the magnificent entrance door of the cathedral and raised her eyes skywards, a gasp of incredulity escaped her lips; the ceiling frescoes defied description. Craning her neck, she feasted her eyes on the vast central lantern, filled with intricate portraits enriched with ornate gold cornices surrounded by eight soaring-arched alcoves, each depicting a scene from Maltese history.

  ‘Wow! Just … wow!’

  ‘That’s the famous Shipwreck of St Paul painted by Mattia Preti,’ said Niko, pointing to the largest mural on the ceiling, deep pride suffusing his words.

  ‘It’s … it’s absolutely amazing!’

  The paintings were more than just works of art – they were creations born of devotion and love and, as any conversation seemed to melt away into the cavernous dome, Olivia chose awed silence in the presence of such exquisite craftsmanship until it was time for them to leave.

  As they made their way back through the stone gate to catch the last bus to Valletta, Olivia slotted her arm through Niko’s, revelling in the warmth of the early evening sunshine after the coolness of the cathedral, giggling at the increasingly hilarious family anecdotes he was sharing with her. Any passing tourist, or member of the nobility who still resided in the many palaces of Mdina, would have been forgiven for thinking they were a couple.

  In love.

  And Niko must have been thinking the same.

  ‘You know, I promised Rachel I’d take care of you whilst you were here, and I’m honoured she felt able to trust me with such an important role. Perhaps, if you’ll allow me, I could help you begin to smooth over at least some of the cracks in your heart?’

  Olivia loved the way Niko’s eyes lingered on hers for those few extra seconds, loved being in his easy company, enjoyed being the focus of his attention. She couldn’t deny the connection they had formed from the moment he’d taken her by the hand and dragged her into the buzzing courtyard to share in his family’s celebration. Just being there at the farmhouse, in the bosom of his family, had gone some way towards soothing the burning mortification she felt at the termination of her marriage, at least for the time being, and the concrete-heavy block that pressed the breath from her lungs had definitely lessened.

  Under the benevolent glare of the Maltese sun, her spirits were lifting, and she was able to see her future in glorious Technicolour instead of the former monochrome. She felt as though every single one of her frozen senses had been woken by the dazzling light of the Mediterranean.

  So what was stopping her from moving her friendship with Niko on to the next level? To all intents and purposes, she was a free agent, and for all she knew, Nathan could, at that very moment, be acquainting himself with the delights Singapore had to offer and there was no reason why she shouldn’t do the same here.

  And yet she couldn’t.

  As much as she appreciated Niko’s charismatic magnetism, the cute way his fringe constantly flopped into his eyes, and his intelligent, attentive conversation, there was still something missing, and whilst she was loath to admit it, she knew what it was.

  He wasn’t Nathan.

  Nathan, who hide silly notes around the apartment for her to find when he was away on business. Nathan, who had saved a leaf that had blown into her face on their first date and preserved it in clear plastic resin. Nathan, who knew what she was going to order at a restaurant even before she had glanced at the menu. Nathan, who sent lunch to her office because he knew she wouldn’t bother otherwise. Nathan, who left her favourite songs on her voicemail instead of messages. Nathan …

  Chapter 9

  ‘Sooooo? Spill the gossip!’ coaxed Hollie, her green eyes sparkling as she scrutinised Olivia’s reddening cheeks under her practised cross-examination techniques. ‘And don’t try to deny that anything happened. You have a sickeningly healthy glow that cannot be explained away by the effects of a short sojourn in the Mediterranean sunshine.’

  ‘I think you’ve scored a direct hit, Hols!’ Matteo laughed, scooting forward onto the edge of his seat, jiggling like a puppy who had just been promised a long walk in the park. ‘Come on, Liv darling, you don’t have to spare our blushes, just give us the full, unabridged version!’

  ‘You two are so immature!’

  Olivia sighed and rolled her eyes at their juvenile shenanigans. Her Maltese trip had been the sole topic of conversation since she had plonked her behind onto the familiar leather sofa at Harvey’s. She had tried to stay away fr
om the wine bar and its addictive atmosphere where stress hormones danced in the air like fairy dust until sluiced away by a deluge of alcohol and offloaded gossip – the antidote that powered their lives. However, she could resist anything except the promise of a glass of ice-cold prosecco, and Matteo had made it his mission to ply her with her favourite fizz in the hope of loosening her tongue.

  Okay, so her friends were right to want all the details and she had failed miserably in her attempt at nonchalance as she sat there in the hot seat, struggling to mask her irritability. She was still struggling to come to terms with the grenades that life had thrown in her path recently, as well as the insights her liaisons with Niko and his family has produced. Self-knowledge was an uncomfortable gift and she hated to admit that she was a neglectful daughter, as well as an inattentive spouse and below-par friend. She had to accept that the lingering sense of guilt would probably never fade – the past could not be changed – but she could make a fervent promise that if she did nothing else she would spend more time with Malcolm and Julie Hamilton – her wonderful parents who had sacrificed so much to see their only daughter fulfil her dreams.

  And then there had been the bullet to her heart when the taxi from the airport had drawn up outside her apartment and she had seen the ‘For Sale’ board in all its red-and-white glory. She felt confused, cast adrift from the anchor her routine of ‘all-work-and-no-play’ had offered her. Despite her fatigue, her battle with insomnia had returned with a vengeance. She woke every night at 4 a.m. just as the spring dawn began to slice its way through the crippling darkness, her mind a whirl of turmoil about her approaching divorce, the loss of her home, what damage Miles was doing to her reputation, her inability to accept Katrina’s assurances that all was well, Henry’s refusal to allow her access to her office, the state of the universe …

  Katrina, bless her, had invited her to a barbecue in her back garden the next day to celebrate her mother’s birthday. She was pathetically grateful to have something to look forward to. Without the distraction of work, her days stretched endlessly into the distance, empty and lonely, with only the cooking programmes to prevent her from succumbing to the grasping claws of misery. She had no intention, or inclination, to attempt any of the delicious-looking recipes – she still had no food in her fridge – but their culinary guidance provided a homely feel she had never been able to replicate herself.