He grinned and bent to kiss her.
“Thank you, milácku,” he said. “Is this what you have come to say?”
“No, not quite.”
Oh God, could she say it? Could she tell him now?
“There’s someone here who’s very keen to see you. Someone you haven’t seen in a very long time.”
Milan, detecting her nervousness, went from elated to concerned, a shadow fleeting across his face. “Darling? You look scared. Who is it?”
“Just—come. Please? Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Milan took her arm and followed her through the crowds.
They were five yards away when he saw and recognised his visitor. He stopped dead and stared.
“I’m sorry,” whimpered Lydia. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“Hush, hush. It’s okay.”
Milan’s father rose and took a step or two towards his son. “Milan,” he said, halting, waiting for his response.
“Táta,” said Milan, almost inaudibly.
His father came closer, speaking all the time in impassioned Czech.
Lydia hated not being able to understand what was being said. The exchange looked for a moment as if it might turn to anger, then Milan shook his head, his father held his arms wide and the pair embraced, sobbing so that Lydia felt it polite to turn aside and tiptoe over to Karl-Heinz.
“Is it okay?” she asked him anxiously.
“I don’t speak Czech, but I think so,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Come on, let’s leave them alone for a little while. I think you deserve champagne. I know I do.”
* * * *
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Lydia woke up between two sleeping men in Karl-Heinz’s giant bed.
She had a few hours before she had to get her train to Surrey. Karl-Heinz needed to check in for his flight to Berlin after lunch. As for Milan, he would be off to join his father at his Barbican flat and she had heard that his brother was hoping to fly over for New Year.
“All’s well that ends well,” she whispered to herself.
Milan’s parent-and-child reunion had had some rocky moments—recrimination on Milan’s side, remorse on his father’s then vice versa when Milan had confessed to not telling his father about his mother’s death. But now it seemed to be on track, with the past forgiven and the future eagerly anticipated.
“Was ist los?” Karl-Heinz was still half-asleep, muttering and stretching before opening one eye. “Morgen, Liebling.”
He noticed Lydia looking at him and pulled her against him, spooning her, his lips on the back of her neck.
“Fröhliche Weihnachten,” she said, reaching back into her memories of GCSE German.
“Oh, very good,” he chuckled. “Yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Do you want your gift?” He ground his hips behind her, pushing his hard-on between her thighs.
“You cheapskate,” said Lydia with a giggle.
“What is a cheapskate? I don’t understand.”
“You are, if your Christmas present to me is feeling me up.”
“This sounds a little disrespectful, Lydia,” he said, in a tone of playful warning.