‘Hi,’ she says with a coltish toss of her glossy, strawberry-blondemane.
‘We loved the show, didn’t we, Nige?’ she continues, resting her head territorially on his shoulder.NIGE? He hates to be calledNige.
‘So,’ I say after an awkward pause, ‘what brings you to Vienna?’
‘Tasha had a night-stop and I thought I’d come along for the ride.’
‘What a coincidence,’ I say wanly.
‘Actually, it wasn’t … a coincidence,’ he says, turning to ‘Tasha’with a half-smile.
‘I did a two-day Houston with Wendy last week. She told me you were performing here, and then when Tasha discovered she had a night-stop, I …wethought we’d surprise you.’
‘We fancy getting married in Vienna, don’t we, babe?’ says Natasha in her little-girl-lost voice. ‘It’ssoromantic. I saw the most gorgeous ring in a jeweller’s near the opera house, but Nige sayshe can get somethingmuchbigger in Hong Kong.’
I take a huge gulp of champagne. That says it all. They make a good pair, these two. It’s all about the size of the diamond, not the sentiment behind it.
And what became of whatshername … the bimbo he left me for … Maddie? Did she end up on the reject pile too? Did she have their baby? Poor woman.
‘Tasha used to be in show business –kind of, didn’t you, kitten?’ says Nigel, swiftly shifting the subject.
‘Really?’ I say flatly.
‘Yeah, a model – I was withModels One,’ she purrs. ‘I could have gone into acting as I know lots of directors an’ stuff, but I like this job for now. Maybe when I’m older, like you, and we’ve had a couple of kids, I might do it for a while.’
My jaw drops.When I’m older, like you? The bloodynerve! Something inside me snaps. That’s it. How dare they waltz in here and invade my lovely opening night? Nigel may have movie-star looks, but to the new me, they now only accentuate his air of self-obsession.
‘Emily, my darling, the cars are outside to take us to the restaurant,’ calls Mags from the other end of the bar.
‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ I say, switching on my haughty-yet-friendlyvoice. ‘Hope the wedding and everything is all that you wish for.’
With that, I about turn, and with a theatrical swish of my pashmina, I head for the door.
Out on the street, I slip into one of the waiting taxis and exhale deeply. The old me would have been swallowed up by sorrow. The new me is relieved that it didn’t work out between us. What a fool I was back then. All those wastednights spent waiting for him to call from LA, pretending to myself that he’d been delayed or couldn’t get a signal. Were he to tell me now he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, I wouldn’t be tempted to take him back – not for all the diamond rings in Hong Kong.
I tut inwardly as I recall how secretly upset I was when Nigel bought me an exercise bike for my fortieth. He’d casually informedme that he was doing me a favour, as he’d noticed I was getting a bit flabby around the waist. I’d felt instantly ashamed and unattractive. Now I’ve actually grown fond of my flabby bits, crow’s feet, and the wee freckles that have started to appear on the backs of my hands. Francesco says they are beautiful because they are part of me and tellla storia della mia vita. To misquote Whitney: ‘Learningto love your cellulite. It is the greatest love of all.’
No more regret, bitterness, or resentment. In fact, I feel grateful; thanks to Nigel’s betrayal, I’m following a path I would never have had the courage to take. I like my life now, with all its risk and uncertainty. It’s given me an inner freedom. What if he hadn’t dumped me? How would my future have panned out then? Would we have married,had children, been happy? Life is so full of what-ifs – just like when Gwyneth Paltrow misses that tube train inSliding Doors.
‘Come on, you old poop!’ calls Mags, emerging through the stage door giggling, arm in arm with Oliver, his gait a little unsteady, trilby pulled down over his eyes.
She shoves him into the front seat, then plonks down next to me and says, ‘Lord, Emily, who wasthatdivineman in the bar?’
‘Him? Oh, no one of any importance,’ I say, flashing her a huge, self-satisfied grin as we are whisked off into the Vienna night.
* * *
My footsteps echo down the empty street under the pewter moon, my shadow flickering along the cracked walls of Rudolfstrasse. I raise the collar of my trench coat and am reminded of those old films noir, where spies silentlydisappear through enormous, heavy wood doors of once-grandiose buildings. The only things missing from the picture are the dark glasses and headscarf (and spies in thriller movies do not get drunk and waste five minutes fumbling for their keys).
I stagger through the shadowy entrance, up the long, winding staircase to the third floor, and tiptoe into the apartment, quietly closing the doorbehind me.
I kick off my shoes and the bed groans as I flop onto it. My mobile bleeps and the little screen lights up greeny-blue. One new message:Tonight, I think about you many times, cara. Sogni d’oro. Francesco?
I curl up and slip into a smiley, alcohol-induced coma, clasping my phone tightly to me.
* * *
I awake with a tongue reminiscent of Beryl’s shag pile and a body likethe Tin Man from Oz. I will never drink Sekt mixed with apricot Schnapps again. In fact, I will never drink alcohol again. EVER. I pull the quilt over my head and snuggle further down, but then the irresistible aroma of freshly ground coffee and home baking wafts under the door, luring me along the corridor and into the kitchen.
