‘Well, you can write him a message, and we can tie the message to the balloon.’
Misty-eyed, Lucy quietly gathered up the dirty plates and retreated to the kitchen. She flipped on the radio. A sad, romantic Italian song was playing. She began scrubbing the crockery and the casserole dish, tears sploshing into the sink.
‘May I help you?’ came a husky voice from behind. Lucy quickly ran her sleeve across her face. She could smell him, minty clean, hair gel mixed with his signature scent. She turned around. Dario was just two feet away from her.
‘Everything’s under control, thank you. Besides, you don’t want to spoil…’ Her eyes flickered over him. ‘… your… erm… your lovely suit.’
Pulling back the strands of hair that had fallen over her face, she then carried on scrubbing the now-clean casserole dish.
‘These are for you,’ he said, producing a bouquet of delicate, pink roses from behind his back and thrusting them into her soapy hands, his skin lightly touching her fingers. Her lashes dropped, face flushed, her heart beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
Flowers. Nobody gave her flowers – except a grateful father once, who’d forgotten it was his turn to pick up his daughter from school.
‘Grazie.’Lucy’s hand shook, aware of his piercing dark eyes lingering on her. Flustered by his gaze, she cursed herself for being so impressionable.
Stefano ran into the kitchen, arms spread out, making aeroplanenoises. ‘Can we light the cake now? I sent three messages to Daddy in heaven!’
‘Three?!’ Dario scooped him up and spun him around. Stefano threw his head back and giggled.
Lucy dried her hands and, standing on tiptoes, reached on top of the dresser for the hidden storage container.
‘Prego,’said Dario softly in her ear. She felt the warmth of his body as he leaned across her and carefully retrieved the cake box.
It had not been easy keeping their baking a secret. Lucy had offered to stay home with Stefano while Elena went to the hairdresser. As soon as the car had left the driveway, the heat was on. Like greased lightning, together they assembled the bowl, mixer, cake tins and ingredients, and set to work. Their challenge had been to bake a Victoria sponge in the shape of a vintage railway carriage in under three hours. Stefano had had the important task of monitoring the time, which he’d taken extremely seriously, by fixing his stare on the kitchen clock and calling out reminders every few minutes – in between whisking the icing.
It had been a close call, as despite all the evidence having been removed from the scene by the time Elena returned, she had been slightly alarmed as to why Stefano’s teeth had turned green.
Carefully carrying the lit cake between the three of them, they stepped onto the balcony singingBuon Compleanno. Elena’s eyes popped open, joyous disbelief replacing the sadness of earlier.
‘Mamma, is the school!’ squeaked Stefano, as they presented their very own showstopper to her. ‘And this is you… and the students,’ he continued, proudly pointing to the wonky fondant figures he had so painstakingly created.
Elena raised her hand to her face, opened her mouth to speak, choked by emotion.
‘Quick, make a wish, Mamma!’
She closed her eyes, mouthed a few incoherent words, drew a deep breath and blew out the candles. One remained lit. She blew harder this time. The candle went out then burst into flame. There was a momentary pause. Stefano stifled a giggle. She puffed with all her might. The flame went out then reignited. Hysterical laughter erupted from the three of them.
‘Okay,’ said Elena, brows knitting together, a gleeful glint in her eye. ‘Which one of you is responsible for the trick candle on the cake?’
As the lights dimmed and the conductor appeared, Dario’s thoughts turned to Lucy. He couldn’t help smiling a little, imagining her as a wizard and reading to Stefano in those softly mellifluous, Celtic tones.
Even if she wasn’t interested in him in the romantic sense, why shouldn’t a man and a woman be ‘just friends’? This wasn’t something he’d ever considered before, but aside from the physical attraction, after the evenings they’d spent together with Elena and Stefano, he genuinely liked her for her personality and kooky character. Besides, in his experience, a romantic relationship always came with an element of risk, and were it to fail, the subsequent drama could make things awkward, given both their lives were intertwined with Elena’s and Stefano’s.
In fact, he was now warming to the no-strings, friendship idea. He could be himself, not worry about inadvertently upsetting her by forgetting her birthday or Valentine’s Day, by not noticing her new outfit or hairstyle, and he wouldn’t be under any pressure to impress her – like feigning interest in music that made his ears bleed.
Of all the noises known to man, opera is the most expensive ~Molière
With Stefano happily tucked up in bed, Lucy poured herself the last of the wine and propped her bare feet up on the balcony railing.
The sunset was a spectacular dash of violet and blood orange, the shooshing sound of the sea rhythmic and soothing, like when you put your ear to a shell on the beach.
Lucy closed her eyes, images of the last two weeks – was it only two weeks? – flickering across her brain.
No two days at the school had been the same so far. After the first week, Lucy was now trusted to fly solo, leaving Elena more time to manage the factory and be around for Stefano.
She now understood why flexibility was a prerequisite for the job; as many of the students worked shifts, Elena decided to draw up a monthly timetable to try and accommodate everyone. Each lesson was scheduled for one hour and students were required to book in advance. Lucy was happy to work some evenings or Saturday mornings if required. She welcomed the variety, which had been lacking in her previous teaching role.
She was already getting to know the students by name. Some laughed at her pronunciation, permitting her to laugh at theirs. She was learning almost as much from them as they were from her. She checked her watch. Act Three ofLa Traviatawould now be well under way. She felt a stab of guilt that, thanks to her, Dario now found himself in what, to him, was some kind of over-the-top, screeching, droning, glittery hell – a privilege he had insisted on paying for too.
