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‘But…’ Peter hesitated, then saw her grin; it seemed she wanted him to play with her son.

‘Oh, please come with me, Peter. The adults never play with us.’ Danjel grabbed his arm. ‘We’ll be back, Mama.’

She shooed them towards the door, smiling. Peter pulled off his jacket, giving her a look of helplessness as her son hauled him back downstairs.

Valentina didn’t have to cook the carrots – they were already in the stew – but she smiled to herself, stepping back slightly so they couldn’t see her watching them play in the street below.

Peter wasn’t bad at football; she’d thought he might be awkward, but maybe that was the mistake that everyone made with him, because he looked so clean cut and talked about art. ‘Your history colleagues should see you fly, Peter,’ she murmured. ‘You knew no fear in your brave little Spitfire.’

That all felt so long ago and yet it still felt so fresh in her mind; she knew it was because she’d never let it go, never let him go. She could replay that aerial dogfight in her mind in vivid colour.

Valentina blinked, pulling herself from the past, smiling wider as the game became noisier in the street and others began to hang out of windows to watch the foreigner playing. At first the youngsters ran rings around him, but before long Peter was dribbling a ball well enough to fool even Danjel on one occasion. Soon more boys joined in until it was nothing short of a throng, all chasing the ball or each other around the wide street. There were always two who seemed to choose the role of goalkeeper and within moments a serious game was on. She could hear his laughter mingling with that of the boys, echoing off the limestone, the whistles and cheers of the locals watching from their balconies, and just for a fleeting second, her world righted itself. Since the outbreak of war in Valletta fifteen years ago, it had felt as though her war had never stopped. Long after the planes had stopped bombing, and military ships had stopped clogging the harbour, and long after civilians had clambered out of the tunnels to start rebuilding their lives again, her war had continued raging.

Tonight, though, that battle had paused.

Tonight she felt at peace with herself as she looked at the shining, happy face of her son and the man from London who had always had her heart.

TWENTY-TWO

Peter sat back in his chair, putting down his knife and fork. ‘That was the best rabbit stew I’ve ever eaten, Valentina.’

Danjel mimicked his action and agreed. ‘Something different in there to usual, Mama. Delicious.’

Valentina stood to clear the plates. ‘Made with love,’ she said and turned away; she couldn’t meet his gaze after saying that.

The meal had passed with sparkling conversation between Danjel and their guest, her son excited to talk about football, his art studies and Caravaggio, of course.

‘You must be important if you’ve been sent here to help the Queen,’ Danjel said.

Peter laughed, tilting his head from side to side to suggest that wasn’t really an accurate summary. ‘It was my idea to come, actually. I said it would be a good precaution to have someone on the ground, just in case one of Their Majesties has a query.’ Before Valentina could leap in, he added, ‘But if I’m being honest, Danjel, I think the cathedral team is more than capable of answering all and any questions.’ He shrugged. ‘Neither the Queen nor Prince Philip are art experts, so if there is a question, it will likely not be too deep or challenging. But I am glad to have the chance to be back in Valletta – to see the Caravaggio again, and for other reasons.’

‘What other reasons?’ Danjel asked.

Valentina shot Peter a look of apology. ‘Danjel, I think it’s time you got on your way, no?’

Danjel stopped just short of rolling his eyes. ‘Mama, I suddenly don’t feel like homework. Can I get to it later?’ His tone was hopeful.

‘You’ll go to George’s and get to it now. I happen to know that your teacher is going to do a progress check tomorrow. Go on, your bag is packed. Away with you.’

He made the sound that Peter suspected all children made when they were being forced away from what they might consider ‘fun’ to the isolated misery of homework.

Valentina explained about his project, adding, ‘George’s mother said Danjel might as well sleep at their place and go to school with George in the morning. They have to carry a model in.’ Peter thought she seemed suddenly nervous, avoiding his eye with those last words, but then so was he, he realised. Danjel’s absence meant they were alone. The beer, the stew, the warm night meant he had become increasingly relaxed, and he was enjoying himself more than he cared to admit in the company of this woman and her son.

‘Will I see you again, Peter?’ Danjel asked now, returning with a backpack in his hands.

‘Er…’ Peter glanced at Valentina and said, ‘I do hope so.’ He pushed his chair back and stood to say goodbye properly, holding out a hand. ‘See you soon.’

Danjel ignored the hand and instead gave Peter another swift hug. ‘Thanks for the game and the book.’ Then he kissed his mother goodnight.

‘Danjel, you know how easily distracted George can be. Make sure you get that next stage of the model finished or you’ll regret it tomorrow.’

Danjel gave a dramatic sigh, making Peter grin. ‘I will.’

She walked downstairs with him and Peter moved to the window to watch the boy leave. Danjel saw him and lifted a hand in farewell. Peter waved, then heard his mother call something after him in Maltese, and waited for her to return.

Valentina called after her son as she watched him walk off towards his friend’s place, then slowly returned upstairs, feeling with each step as though she was walking towards something. Now they were alone. Was it awkward? While the chatter had flowed between Danjel and Peter, she’d been able to study them, especially their guest.

Age had only made him better looking, she’d decided. She liked the lines that had carved themselves into his cheeks on either side of his mouth and around his eyes. He still looked as slim hipped and broad-chested as he’d been over a decade ago; it hadn’t just been her teenage fascination that had planted the image of him like that in her mind. But now he sat across from her at the table with his tie removed after the football game, his collar loosened, sleeves rolled up. She’d insisted he not bother tidying himself up for their dinner, especially since she could see a triangle of pale skin from the open collar.