Page 83 of Mirrors of the Past

Bellissima! I hope you do something similar at Easter. I will look forward to seeing it! I hope to be with you at Easter, my love.

‘Easter?’ she said out loud. Hang on. She stared at the screen for a moment, then started to type.

Easter?What happened to February?

I have many gigs. Valentine’s Day and all that. They are baying for my blood! I cannot afford to miss the events — I am so sorry. I should have told you.

But Valentine’s Day. You won’t be here?

I am so sorry, my love.

She waited in case he expanded on that.

Fine.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, she fired off: Shall I come to Sicily for Valentine’s then?

He responded a little too quickly for her liking. Ah, no. It isn’t worth it. I will be working. I have so very little time. Next year. Next year, we will do something fun. Like go on the beach again!

‘The beach.’ She looked at the phone, her heart thumping. There had been something niggling her since she’d seen that picture of his on Instagram — the one of the sandals and the guitar and the flip-flops. And now, with all the crystal clarity of the mirror that Elsie’s gown was displayed upon, she knew what it was.

The flip-flops.

She hadn’t worn flip-flops that day.

The toe bar on her flip-flops had broken and she’d worn white, strappy Roman sandals instead.

She felt the bile rise in her throat and carefully clicked through Angelo’s Instagram.

The flip-flop picture was still there, but, as she scrolled back in time, way back in time, she saw her beach photo — staged exactly the same as the recent flip-flop one. Only in her photo, a pair of white strappy Roman sandals were discarded to the side of the heart drawn in the sand.

‘Really?’ A dozen emotions churned up inside her at the same time. ‘Seriously?’

Wow.

Before she could second-guess herself, she took a screenshot of the flip-flop picture. She sent it to Angelo, with the comment, Whose flip-flops are they?

There was a brief pause, then he responded.

Yours. Of course.

I don’t think so. These were my shoes. The day we went to the beach and took that photo. Then she attached the Roman sandal one.

Then they must have belonged to someone else on the beach that day. I was missing you and wanted to remember our days in the summer.

It was plausible, she supposed. But . . .

But they are in a heart.

I didn’t realise they were in the shot.

She paused for a moment. She could take the comment at face value. Or she could take it further.

She did know there were other girls in his Instagram feed — but for the first time she wondered whether they were just friends of his. Or friends with benefits.

Or ex-girlfriends.

She went hot and cold all over, and it was nothing to do with whoever or whatever might have been lurking in Pencradoc that day.