As I wait for Francesco to appear through the sliding doors of the arrivals hall, I realise even more how much I’ve missed him these last few weeks, and what a wrench it will be when he returns to Naples.
I’m practising mindfulness like mad, but still these anxious thoughts prod my brain, threatening to cloud our precioustime here.
Hotels and guest houses are all fully booked, though I managed to get us one night at a little Pension just off the Kärtnerstrasse.
Call me old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Anna if he could sleep at hers, so her sister, Cristina, has offered to put him up for one night. She speaks no Italian and very little English, but loves company and to cook, so I haveno doubt they’ll get along just fine.
‘Ciao, bella!’ And suddenly he’s standing there before me, looking effortlessly stylish in faded leather aviator jacket, white shirt, and cords, an expensive holdall bag swaying from his shoulder.
He wraps his arms tightly around me and kisses me for a long time, his familiar scent making me giddy.
‘Ciao!’ I whisper, dipping my head.
We interlacefingers and share a glance as we make our way down to the subway in contented silence.
The train clatters and jostles noisily along the track.
As we pull into Enkplatz, Francesco nudges my foot with his and points to a poster advertising the play. Our eyes meet. He traces his thumb back and forth across my hand, kisses my forehead and smiles.
* * *
My performance that evening isnot my best, as I find it hard to concentrate. In between my lines, when I’m normally listening to what the other characters are saying, I’m thinking about Francesco and wondering if he found his way to the theatre, did he pick up his ticket, and where should we eat afterwards? I am playing with fire. It therefore comes as no surprise that I miss one of my cues; serves me jolly well right. Oliver,ever the consummate performer, comes to the rescue, jumping in with his next line.
As soon as the curtain comes down for the interval, shamefacedly I flee the stage to the dressing room, slam the door shut, and burst into tears.
Mags enters quietly, puts a mug of tea down in front of me, and stroking my hair says soothingly, ‘Listen, sweetheart, it happens to us all, and tonight, welltonight it was your turn. Not one member of that audience will have noticed you missed a line, believe me.’
‘I wasn’t concentrating. I was being totally unprofessional, and I’ve let everyone down,’ I bleat through gasping sobs.
‘Nonsense. Look, love, we all have our off nights,’ she says putting a motherly arm around me. ‘We’re not superhuman. And promise me one thing: if Francesco, oranyone for that matter, congratulates you on your performance, you smile sweetly and simply say thank you, do you hear me?’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t you dare draw attention to the fact you missed a line, or Mama Mags will be very cross with you, do you understand? Now dry your eyes and drink your tea before it goes cold,’ she says, snatching a tissue from the box on the table.
As the curtaingoes up on Act Two, I can feel the adrenaline pumping round my body. Five pages of dialogue until my next entrance. Can I put my silly goof-up behind me, or will I freeze and ruin it for everyone? Is this what they call stage fright?
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … Our doubts are traitors and make us lose … rings Portia’s voice in my head.
Despite my initial tentativeness, itgoes without a hitch, and I am the complex Chelsea once more, at odds with her father and finally reconciled. The pent-up tears of earlier come in very handy during my emotional scene with Ethel, and then finally with Norman.
* * *
‘Brava!’ enthuses Francesco, as I emerge from the stage door. ‘It was fantastico!’
I give a modest smile and murmur, ‘Grazie.’ The others file past, callingout their goodnights. Mags turns and darts me a knowing wink.
Francesco takes my hand as we make our way along the Graben (one of the many posh, pedestrianised shopping areas), past the fountain and illuminated statue of Saint Leopold, up the alleyway, and through the stained glass doors of Annerls Beisl.
The waiter nods in recognition and guides us through the snugly arranged tables toa discreet, low-lit booth. As soon as we sit down, he brings over two glasses of complimentary champagne, lights a candle, and hands out menus.
A pianist plays quietly in the corner.
‘Allora, la mia cara attrice, come stai?’ asks Francesco, clinking glasses.
‘Bene,’ I reply. He looks at me expectantly. ‘Bene, grazie.’ I swallow hard, shuffling in my seat. ‘Erm,Vienna è meravigliosa… Che città fantastica!’
‘E-milee?’ he says, with a seductively cocked eyebrow.
‘Che cosa?’ I say innocently from behind the menu, cheeks flushing.
‘E-milee?’
