‘Rosalba, the piano tuner will arrive at five o’clock. Have you made a final decision about the music?’
‘Sì, babo.’ She sighs, her long, curling lashes almost touching her eyebrows as she looks up to the ceiling.
Rosalba and her fiancé, Luke, a dentist (they met and fell in love three years ago, when he serenaded her during painful root canal treatment), have been rehearsing tirelessly at the community centre, putting together an eclectic programme of popular Italian songs and various arias from well-known operas; nothing too high-brow, just something to complement the Italian dining experience, andto hopefully set Il Mulino apart from the many other, well-established restaurants in Richmond. If this goes well, it could also provide the duo with the ideal platform to showcase their musical talents.
‘Allora,’ says Luigi, rising, ‘the flowers and wine will arrive in the morning. If there are no questions, thenci vediamo stasera! Until this evening!’
* * *
I’m in the changing roomat H&M during my break, trying on black dresses for the opening, when my phone rings.
‘Emily? Lionel of LB Management.’
‘Sorry? Who’s this?’
‘Lionel. Susannah’s agent. We met atThree Sistersa few months ago.’
‘Hi. Yes, I remember now,’ I say, heart quickening.
‘I realise this is short notice, but I’ve got a free slot for a commercial casting. A client let me down at the lastminute, so I was wondering if you’d like to go in her place?’
‘Er, sure. When?’
‘This afternoon at three.’
‘Erm, but it’s one o’clock now.’
‘Up to you. Just thought I’d run it by you. It’s for a pasta sauce commercial and the fee, minus my commission, is two and a half grand.’
Two and a half… that’s the equivalent of … aroundfiftyshifts at the restaurant. I glance at mywatch again.
‘Where is the casting?’
‘Dean Street, Soho.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it!’
‘Great! Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send you the details.’
* * *
It’s bang on three by the time I reach Alpha Advertising in rain-washed Dean Street.
‘I’m here for the tomato sauce casting,’ I pant, a puddle forming around my feet.
The receptionist scrutinises me with her oh-I’m-so-boredexpression, and mumbles through her Angelina pout, ‘Fill in this form and take a seat.’
‘Where’s the ladies’?’
‘Emily Forsyth and Ninian Moncrieff!’ calls a shrill voice from the corridor.
A middle-aged, Bertie-Wooster type in cords, checked shirt, and squeaky, Church’s brogues placesThe Timesunder his arm, scrapes a comb through his slicked-back, greying hair, and swaggers overto the young woman with headphones slung around her neck.
‘Emily Fors…!’
‘Just coming!’ I cry, nervously unbuttoning my dripping-wet mac.
The studio door slams shut. At the far end is a long, leather sofa, crammed with young, trendy, advertising executives, sipping their takeaway Starbucks.
