As the curtain rose on Act One, she was fleetingly reminded of the night she’d taken Stewart to seeLa Bohème.
‘How do you expect me to enjoy this pretentious nonsense when I haven’t a clue what they’re singing about?’ he’d hissed.
‘Let the music tell the story, Stew.’
It was no use. He’d stormed off to the bar after Act One and didn’t speak to her for the rest of the evening. She’d even found herself apologising for ruining his birthday.
Elena was right; he had done her a favour by jilting her. Thanks to him, tonight she was sitting in a private box in the world’s oldest opera house, dressed in designer clothes, feeling like Julia Roberts – Richard Gere or no Richard Gere – and nothing and no one was going to spoil it this time…
Ahem. Not even the narrow shaft of light which was now beaming in directly behind her.
She tutted inwardly, resisting the temptation to turn around and glare.
A slight click of the door and the box was again bathed in darkness.
At least they’d had the courtesy to enter quietly.
It wasn’t long before Lucy was whisked away to the Paris of the 1800s; the sights, the sounds, the smells, her emotions unleashed as Mimi and Rodolfo’s love-at-first-sight romance unfolded before her eyes.
All too soon she was hauled back to the present by the blackout, then the flare of the house lights, heralding the interval.
Another two acts to go, and she’d already used an entire pack of Kleenex and her white gloves were covered in smudges of mascara.
She stood up and turned around, her tummy doing a double somersault as she came to face to face with her heart-stoppingly dashing companion.
‘Dario, it’s you! What? How? No, don’t tell me,’ she said, slapping her wrist against her forehead and giggling. ‘Elena, the wee matchmaker, put you up to this, didn’t she?’
He shrugged. ‘No. It was my idea. I wish to give you a birthday surprise. I offer to buy her a ticket too, but she pretend she is busy.’
‘Oh Dario, I… I don’t know what to say,’ she said, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
There was that familiar scent again, the one that made her knees wobble.
‘You are most welcome,’ he said, bowing slightly and brushing her damp gloved hand with a gentle kiss. His liquid-brown eyes burned into her. She swooned, feeling like she had just stepped into a Jane Austen novel.
‘Buon compleanno,’he said, handing her a glass of prosecco.
‘Grazie,’she murmured breathily, clinking glasses, heart fluttering.
Producing a handkerchief from his top pocket, he indicated her mascara-streaked cheeks.
‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose in a very unladylike way.
Dario coughed, in an attempt to disguise his amusement.
‘God, I must look a fright,’ Lucy said, grabbing her bag then knocking back the rest of her prosecco. ‘Excuse me. I shan’t be long.’
Dario stood up and watched her as she sashayed towards the door, her figure-hugging dress accentuating her hour-glass shape.
Turning to give him a regal wave, she tottered slightly on her towering heels and giggled.
He smiled and shook his head. One of the many things he loved about her was her spontaneity, her ability to laugh at herself. He hadn’t known what he was looking for until she walked into hislife. This time it felt right. It had felt right since the day he’d met Lucy at the airport, but he hadn’t had the courage to put his feelings into words. Until now. He had been waiting for the right time.
Giancarlo’s car crash and the fire had changed all that; he now knew that there is no such thing as the right time.
He accepted that Lucy’s feelings for him might not be as strong; especially now with his facial scars, though if he wasn’t very much mistaken, the frisson between them had intensified since the fire. The clock was ticking and now he needed to know once and for all.
In the ladies’ loo, the tap squeaked. Lucy splashed cold water on herface. So much for today’s facial. Dario looked every bit the romantic hero, whereas she…
