‘It’s only a few lines, guys.’
But my Italian supporters are havingnone of it.
Luigi says he hasn’t felt this excited since Naples scored against Real Madrid, Nonna Maria has prepared a special meal for the “diva del televisione”, Rosalba and Luke perform a few Italian songs, and Francesco told me to pack an overnight bag as he has a treat in store after work.
We toastDoon Placewith my gift of Laphroaig whisky, and I promise to prepare a feast of haggis,champit tatties, and bashed neeps for them on my return.
After the restaurant has closed, Francesco whisks me away on the back of his vintage Vespa. I feel like Audrey Hepburn inRoman Holiday. Admittedly she sports a stylish headscarf, and I a helmet that makes me look a bit like a soldier in Nazi Germany, but in my mind I am her, hands clasped tightly around Gregory Peck.
We check intoThe Parkway Hotel on Richmond Hill, where Francesco has booked a deluxe room with spectacular views over The Thames. We sit huddled on the balcony, my head nestled in to his chest, as we sip champagne and talk until the sun appears, casting an orangey glow over the meadows, the winding river, the moored boats, the trees.
‘Eh, why you look so sad,cara?’ he says, kissing the top of my head.
‘I wish I could freeze time, that’s all,’ I say, hastily turning my head away.
Here I go again. Feeling so pathetic makes me cross. So much for my new-found, inner strength, eh? Get a grip, woman! Don’t spoil things by getting all serious on him. I’ve been serenely self-sufficient for ages now, and one romantic fling throws everything into chaos, exposing my needy, insecure side. But thenthis isn’t just a fling, is it? Talk about bad timing!
Tenderly turning my face towards his, he looks deep into my eyes and whispers, ‘Ti amo, cara.’
He kisses my hand, then just like Rhett Butler, he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me through to the bedroom.
No one but Francesco has ever swept me up before. Nigel had a bad back and Greg, my previous boyfriend, had dodgy knees.
