She confided as much in her father, hoping that he might have enough influence to discover where Nico was buried, but to her dismay he seemed strangely reluctant to help. 'It will only make it harder for you,' was his explanation, but Saffron had a peculiar conviction that this was not his real reason, and once again the thought floated elusively through her mind that she was not being told the full truth. But what more could there be?
Even her desperate wish that she might have conceived Nico's child was denied her. Her father urged her to try and take up the threads of life again, but she felt no urge to do so. Four days after they had arrived at the house, to please her father, she agreed to his suggestion that they lunch out. He drove them himself to a small pub, well patronised by locals, and ordered a meal for them both.
The pate which was served with mouth-watering homemade bread was coarse-grained and appetising, but Saffron had barely taken a mouthful when she saw a man standing up at the far end of the room, dark hair curling into his collar, his movements fluid and sure. She only had the merest glimpse of a back view of him, but it was enough to drive the colour from her face, Nico's name falling achingly from her lips. Her father's reactions were swift, as he moved to shield Saffron's pale face and shaking body from the other diners.
'It couldn't have been Nico, Saffron,' he told her quietly, but there was a look in his eyes Saffron found it hard to analyse, compounded of guilt and anger. When he was sure she had fully recovered he told her that he had just remembered a phone call he should have made before leaving the house.
Watching him disappear towards the telephone, Saffron tried to pull herself together. Her father seemed to be gone for a long time, and when he returned he looked thoughtful and preoccupied.
They left the pub almost immediately, but it wasn't until they were back at the house that he said softly, 'I know you've already given me the basics of what happened when you were held prisoner—I know how you feel about Nico, but you've kept so much to yourself, Saffron. Would it help to talk about it?'
'Oh, Daddy!' She flung herself into his arms, her fragile composure cracking completely, as she sobbed out her story and he listened in silence.
When she came to the end he looked very grave, and very much older. 'My poor darling girl,' he said sadly, 'what can I say? You talk of love for this man, are you sure it isn't simply infatuation— intensified by the fact that you know he's unattainable? Even if he had survived…'
'Would he have wanted me?' she asked soberly. 'Daddy, I don't know. I only know that I love him, and without him life is simply existence.' Her fingers rested lightly on her stomach, and he followed the gesture before saying softly, 'You were lovers, weren't you?'
She nodded, slow tears spilling down her cheeks.
'Yes, and believe it not, he was the first. He didn't want to, but I insisted, and I'm glad,' she cried desperately. 'At least I've had that. And don't tell me that I'm young and there'll be someone else; there never will—not someone like Nico.'
'Oh, my poor girl! What can I say? That time heals? It does, you know. When I first lost your mother ...' He sighed, and seem to age even more. 'Saffron, I've misjudged you, and worse ...'
'Because you didn't think I was capable of such love?' she asked sadly. 'Or perhaps because I said Nico was the first? I can't blame you, Daddy, my press hasn't been good.'
'What can I say? You're too old to be fed platitudes, and too young to accept that eventually they prove to be correct.'
But nevertheless Saffron knew he watched her with growing sadness when they returned to London. She worked doggedly in the office, and even enrolled on a course for secretarial work, but work was the only means of exhausting herself enough to sleep at night, and she needed her sleep because in her dreams Nico was always there, always loving, always warm and alive.
Christmas came and went. Her hair had started to grow long again. She was too thin, brittle and fragile as glass. The pain was getting worse, not better.
In the New Year her father had to go to New York again. The week before his trip he seemed on edge and unusually nervous. When Saffron tackled him with it, h
e said that it was because he didn't like the thought of leaving her alone. 'I've asked Dom to call round and see that everything's okay,' he told her, avoiding her eyes. 'He's in Sweden at the moment on business, but he'll be back next week. He's got a key to the penthouse.'
They were back in London and Saffron wanted to tell him that she didn't need keeping an eye on as though she were a witless child, but he looked so grave and careworn that she didn't have the heart.
'Saffron, I.. .' he began when she didn't demur, breaking off to say unevenly, 'May God forgive me for what I've done to you, because I can't forgive myself. If I'd known ...'
Thinking he was referring to the fact that but for having a wealthy father she would never have been kidnapped, never have met Nico, she said softly,
'Daddy, there's nothing to forgive, just the opposite. What happened with Nico is more precious to me than anything else in life, and even though I'll never see him or touch him again my life is richer because of what happened. Perhaps you're right and it's better this way; at least I can pretend that he might have felt something for me ...'
'Of course he did,' her father interrupted explosively. 'Saffron, I. ..'
Knowing that he was trying to ease her pain, she managed a shaky laugh. 'What do you mean, "of course he did"—why should he? Because I'm your daughter?' she teased.
He left the following afternoon. Saffron drove him to the airport, driving the heavy Rolls with skill. Afterwards instead of returning to the penthouse she drove to the office, engrossing herself in work, until she was so tired that she could have slept at her desk.
For several days she was at work by eight in the morning, not leaving until eight at night, when she returned to the penthouse, too exhausted even to eat, but gradually her body adapted to the punishing pace, and sleep became more elusive.
'Saffron, you can't go on like this,' her boss told her one morning when he arrived to find her already seated at her desk, huge circles beneath her eyes. 'Take a few days off—and that's an order! You're no use to me working like a zombie the way you are at the moment.'
Acknowledging the truth of his comment, Saffron gave in. The penthouse seemed stark and sterile without her father, and on impulse she decided to go down to Surrey.
Snow started to fall as she left London, tiny fluttering flakes, so vulnerable and yet so tenacious, like her love for Nico. It had grown without her being aware of it, until it was too late. Too late—the saddest words in any language, she thought drearily as she manoeuvred the heavy car through the traffic.
It was late when she reached the house, and as she unlocked the door, she made a mental note to ring her father. He would be worried if he phoned the penthouse and she wasn't there. The drive had made her tired; tired enough to be able to sleep almost immediately she slipped into bed, into the dreams where Nico was always with her.