‘You’re so right,’ I say, humbled by his tragic story, and ashamedfor having suspected him to be a love rat.
‘I want to tell you before, but is difficult for me …’
His mouth then breaks into its customary playful grin as he says, ‘Eh, you have a littlecaviale… how you say? … caviar on your chin.’
As he wipes it off with his napkin, I feel the spark reignite. He leans across the table, tilts my face towards his, and kisses me lingeringly.
Hisroom is entered via a stone turret staircase. He turns the pewter key, the door creaks open, and as I step inside, I travel back in time, landing somewhere resembling Anne Boleyn’s bedchamber; the walls are upholstered in rich red brocade, the canopied bed is opulently draped in velvet, and the gilded ceiling is adorned with thistles and bagpipe-playing angels. I run my fingers along the bookcaseand a secret door clicks open, leading to a chapel-like bathroom.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say breathlessly, desperately trying to keep my raging emotions in check, as he plants a gentle kiss on the nape of my neck.Stay cool, Emily.
‘Andyou arelovely too,’ he whispers, turning me to face him, ruffling my hair and kissing me again, urgently, hungrily – this time on the forehead, then the lips.‘I want to do this all night,’ he says.
Coming up for air, I ask myself if this is wise.
Oh, to hell with it! I am no Philippa Gregory virgin queen, for God’s sake; I am Emily Forsyth, aged forty-two-and-a-half, and I haven’t been kissed for longer than I care to admit.
By the fading glow of candle and firelight, he undresses me slowly.
Why, oh why did I wear my tattiest Primarkunderwear on today of all days? And dear God, I haven’t shaved my legs or armpits for weeks.
He laces his long fingers through mine. Our breathing becomes faster, his mouth feverishly covering me with kisses.
‘God, Emily, I want you,’ he whispers, scooping me up and throwing me onto the four-poster, which squeaks loudly. I bite my cheeks, determined not to ruin anotherdolce vitamoment.I let out a small, pleasurable gasp as I feel the warmth of his body pressing against mine. Farewell, feminism! I am being swept away by a tsunami of emotions, like those heroines in Barbara Cartland novels – and I am relishing every single moment of it.
* * *
Hardly daring to breathe, I study his sleeping face: the small scar above his top lip (the result of an altercation with the neighbour’shungry Alsatian when, aged five, he carried home steak for Nonna), his slightly bent nose (broken at football as a teenager), his thick hair – inky black and silver in the morning sun’s rays. My eyes are drawn to his shoulder and the heart-shaped tattoo with the letters ‘F’ and ‘A’ intertwined. My finger gently traces around it.
‘Buongiorno,’ he croaks, pulling me towards him and nuzzlingme with his stubbly chin.
The promise I made to him over last night’s dinner of a pre-flight, whistle-stop tour of Edinburgh is broken, because it’s raining, and he says we can’t possibly go outside. And who am I to argue with that?
We therefore make a deal: he will show me Florence, and Edinburgh will have to wait – until Festival time perhaps.
* * *
That night, back at Beryl’s,I toss and turn until the early hours. All of the hopes, the desires I had long ago are starting to stir, to grow and come together. I find myself wondering what would have happened if I had met Francesco sooner …
NAPLES, ITALY. A HOT SUMMER’S DAY IN A GARDEN OVERLOOKING THE SEA.
A WOMAN IS HANGING OUT WASHING, A CHILD PLAYS AT HER FEET.
ALFREDO, THE POSTMAN, PASSES BY ON HISBICYCLE AND WAVES.
ALFREDO: Buongiorno, Emily! Buongiorno, Matteo!
EMILY: Alfredo! Ciao!
THE SOUND OF CRACKLING GRAVEL AS A 1950s’ VESPA GRINDS TO A HALT.
MATTEO (excited): Babbo! Daddy!
THE MAN REMOVES HIS HELMET AND RACES TOWARDS THEM. HE LIFTS THE CHILD HIGH IN THE AIR, SPINS HIM AROUND THEN RUNS TO THE WOMAN, WRAPS HIS ARMS AROUND HER, AND KISSES THE NAPE OF HER NECK.
EMILY: Ciao, Francesco.
FRANCESCO: Ciao, cara. What’s for dinner?
