She ignored his look of affront and handed him a pint of bitter, willing him to disappear. Eventually he turned away when she started serving the people behind him.
It was the most excruciating three hours Lara had experienced. With every move she made she was aware of Ciro’s eyes burning into her from where he was sitting in a corner. She was surprised she didn’t drop every glass, fumble every order.
But finally the pub was empty and she stood in front of Ciro in beer-spattered jeans and T-shirt, a cardigan over her arm and her bag across her body. She felt exhausted, but also energised.
‘Where do you want to talk?’
Ciro stood up. ‘Do you live near here?’
Lara walked with him out of the pub. She saw Ciro’s security team nearby, and his car and driver. She thought of the hostel she called home.
‘I don’t think you’d like where I’m living. There’s a late-night café near here that should still be open.’
‘We could go to the townhouse.’
Lara immediately shook her head. That London
was a million miles from her life now. ‘No.’
‘Fine—where’s this café?’
Lara led him around the corner and into the friendly café. They were given a booth at the back. Ciro commanded attention and special treatment even here.
Lara ordered tea; Ciro coffee.
When the drinks were delivered, Lara said, ‘So what do you want to talk about?’
For a second Ciro looked comically nonplussed, and then he said, ‘You left no forwarding address.’
Lara stifled the hurt of recalling that moment in New York. ‘You kicked me out, Ciro. I didn’t think my forwarding address was high on your list of priorities. I contacted your solicitor with my details.’
‘A PO box. What even is that?’
Anger surged. If he’d just come here to harangue her because she wasn’t following divorce etiquette properly... ‘I’m living in a hostel, Ciro. I don’t know where I’ll be in a month’s time. That’s why I have a PO box.’
Now he looked horrified. ‘A hostel?’
Lara nodded. ‘It’s perfectly clean and habitable.’
Ciro had gone pale under his tan. Lara refused to let it move her.
He put a parcel on the table and said, ‘This arrived for you. I opened it. Why did you buy a wedding dress, Lara?’
Lara pulled the package towards her, lifting out the familiar dress. Her mother’s wedding dress. She’d tracked it down online and it had only been a couple of hundred dollars to buy it back. Emotion surged in her chest. She had it back.
She fought to keep her composure. ‘It was my mother’s wedding dress. I sold it once.’ Tears blurred her vision but she blinked them away, saying as briskly as she could, ‘Thank you. I’ll pay you back.’
‘Why did you sell your mother’s dress in the first place?’
Lara avoided looking at him in case he saw how much this dress meant to her. When she felt composed enough, she looked at Ciro. ‘I needed the money. After Henry Winterborne got injured I was useless to him. He made me work for him—for free, of course. He sacked his housekeeper. I put up with it because my uncle was still alive and he continued to hold the threat of hurting you over my head. I think he was scared I’d go to you, ask for help. Or that I’d try to warn you. I fantasised about doing that so many times.’ Lara touched the package. ‘I’d hoped to wear this dress when I married you...it was a connection to my mother. A piece of the past.’
‘But you sold it?’
Lara looked at him again. ‘The housekeeper who had worked for Henry Winterborne...we’d become friendly. After losing her job she was in dire straits. Her husband had lost his job and was ill... She couldn’t find work. I couldn’t do much, but I sold this dress and some of my other clothes. Some jewellery. I tried to help her. I felt responsible.’
‘Why on earth did you feel responsible?’
Ciro sounded almost angry. Lara avoided his eye. ‘If I hadn’t injured Henry Winterborne—’