So why did it hurt so damned much? she thought as she locked the door behind her. Why did she want to curl up in a ball and cry her eyes out?
GIO didn’t actually see Fran on Monday, because he was visiting a franchise organisation. She was a bit hurt he hadn’t asked her to go along with him; but then again, it was probably better if they were apart for a bit. Sensible. It would give them both a chance to cool down and wipe out any lingering awkwardness from Saturday night.
On Tuesday, Gio didn’t even call in to the office to see if everything was OK. Which was good, she told herself, because clearly he trusted her to keep everything in the cafés ticking over without supervision. And that stupid longing to hear his voice was just that. Stupid. Teenagery.
Which was even more stupid, considering that she was twenty-six and sensible, not fifteen and full of hormones.
All the same, she made serious inroads into the box of chocolates Gio had bought her for winning the bet about making latte art. She needed the sugar rush.
But after work on Tuesday night, things took a dip for the worse. Fran had called in at the supermarket on the way home. But as soon as she pushed her front door open, she could see that she had a problem.
A huge problem.
There was a hole in her ceiling, and bits of artex were scattered everywhere. And from the way her sofa-bed was completely soaked, it looked as if water had come through the ceiling, collected in the gap between the plasterboard and the artex and stretched it out until it burst—sending water cascading straight down. Her carpets were squelchy underfoot, there were stains on the walls from where water had seeped through the gap between the ceiling and the wall, and already she could smell something unpleasant: wet wool, she guessed. Probably the carpet.
For a moment, she just stood staring at the mess, too shocked to move.
And then common sense kicked in. She needed to make a few calls. Starting with the letting agency, to tell them what had happened so they could book someone to come round and start repairing the damage. The insurance company for the damage to her belongings. And work, to say that she’d be in late tomorrow as she had a ton of things to sort out.
Which meant she was going to have to talk to Gio.
Well, this was business and they were both adults. So there was no point in putting it off, was there? She rang his mobile; he sounded slightly absent when he answered, as if she’d interrupted him in the middle of something and he was only paying half attention to the call.
‘It’s Fran. I’m afraid I won’t be in tomorrow—at least, not until late—because I need to sort out a problem.’
Her voice sounded tight and slightly anxious, not her usual cheerful self. Gio, who hadn’t really been listening, suddenly snapped to attention. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘My flat’s been flooded. It’s a bit of a mess. I just need to sort a few things out.’
She was clearly aiming to sound practical, but the tiny wobble in her voice told him how upset she really was. Knowing Fran, ‘a bit of a mess’ was an understatement. And even though he knew it was sensible to keep his distance for a little bit longer and she was perfectly capable of dealing with the problem by herself, he couldn’t just stand by and leave her to it. ‘I’m coming over.’
‘Gio, you really d—’
‘I’m on my way now,’ he cut in. He ended the call, closed the file he was working on, locked the door behind him, collected his car and drove straight to her flat.
Her face was tight with tension when she opened the door to him. Because she didn’t want to face him, or…?
Then he glanced over her shoulder and saw the mess.
‘Porca miseria, Fran! How did this happen? A burst pipe?’
She shook her head. ‘The guy above me left the bath running. He was on the phone to someone, had a bit of a fight with them and stomped out. He forgot he’d left the bath running until he came back, three hours later.’
‘And by then it had overflowed and soaked through your ceiling.’ Gio shook his head in disgust. ‘What an idiot.’
‘I’m afraid I said something far worse than that when he came down to apologise, a few minutes ago,’ she admitted. ‘I would offer you a coffee, but—’
‘No. It’d be dangerous to use your kettle right now,’ Gio said. ‘The place needs drying out, the electrics all need checking properly to make sure they’re safe before you use them again, and then there’s the repair to the ceiling. The carpet’s probably not going to recover, so you’ll need someone in to measure the room and then fit a replacement. And I’m not sure your sofa-bed is ever going to be the same again.’ He surveyed the damage. ‘It’s going to take quite a while to sort this out. And there’s no way you can stay here while your flat’s in this kind of condition. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel or something.’
‘My family would skin me for letting you do that, when I have a spare room. Problem solved—you’re staying with me.’ It was a rash move, he knew; after Saturday night, having Fran that close would be a major strain on his self-control. But how could he stand by and let her struggle, when such a simple solution was right at his fingertips? ‘Just pack what you need for a few days. Clothes and what have you, paperwork and anything that might not cope with a high moisture content in the air.’
‘Clothes?’ She coughed and gestured to the rail next to the wall. The sodden canvas cover was sagging over the hangers beneath; it was a fair bet that right now the only dry clothes she owned were those she was wearing.
‘OK. Have you got some large plastic bags?’
‘I’ve got some dustbin bags.’
‘They’ll do. Put your clothes in those. I have a washer dryer, so we can deal with the laundry when we get back to my place.’
‘We’re going to carry bags of wet clothes on the Tube?’
He smiled. ‘You know you say my car corners like a tank? Well, it carries like one, too. And it’s parked outside. Without a permit.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Gio, you’ll get a fine!’
‘At this time of the evening? I doubt it. And no traffic warden would be hard-hearted enough to give me a ticket when your place is flooded and your visitor permits are probably so much papier mâché.’
She clearly didn’t share his certainty, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.
‘Just pack your stuff and I’ll carry it out for you and load it up,’ he said quietly. ‘Oh, and when you talk to your letting agency again, you might want to give them my home number. Just in case they need to get hold of you while you’re staying with me and for some reason they can’t reach you at work or on your mobile phone; the answering machine can take a message if we’re not there.’
Her eyes were suspiciously glittery; she looked very close to tears. How could he stay brisk and businesslike when she so clearly needed a hug? So he wrapped his arms round her, resting his cheek against her hair for a moment. ‘It’s going to be all right, piccolina. Really.’ And then he let her go before he did something really stupid, like picking her up and carrying her out to his car.
He helped her pack the rest of her clothes into dustbin liners.
‘There’s no point in packing these. They’re