But it wasn’t about limousines, designer dresses or red carpets; it was about trusting destiny, about understanding that sometimes you have to hit rock bottom in order to wake up and make a positive change.
‘Top up?’ said Elena, leaning across and nudging Lucy’s elbow with the prosecco bottle. ‘Are you okay?’
Lucy flicked away a tear from under her sunglasses. ‘I’m more than okay, Elena. I can’t remember ever feeling this happy.’
As they drew up outside Pizzeria Lorenzo, they were greeted by a sea of uniformed staff, taking cover from the sudden downpourunder the red awning, jostling for a glimpse of the limo and its glamorous occupants.
The pizzeria door was opened with a flourish to reveal Franco. With his grey, slicked-back hair, sharp black suit, wing-collared shirt, bow tie and red rosebud pinned to his lapel, he reminded Lucy of a portly Marlon Brando inThe Godfather– were it not for the man-bag and cheesy grin.
‘We’ll be back around nine. Make sure everything is ready.’
‘Mamma mia.Of course, Franco,’ said the chef with a sigh of exasperation. ‘How many times you tell us?’ Placing his tattooed arm around his shoulders, he propelled his boss through the door and onto the kerb. ‘Now, vai! Go!’
The chauffeur gave a polite cough.
‘Hurry up, Papà. We mustn’t be late,’ said Elena, leaning out of the car and grabbing his hand.
Franco ducked his head and came aboard. ‘Buonasera a voi tutti.’
Alfonso sniffed the air. ‘Madonna mia!’
‘Che cosa? What?’ asked Franco distractedly, checking out the bar.
‘You smell like aputana,’ spluttered Alfonso, pulling a silk handkerchief from his top pocket and waving it in the air.
Franco waggled his wrist. ‘Eh, what d’ya mean? I’m wearing Acqua di Parma.’
‘What’s aputana?’ asked Stefano.
Alfonso tapped the glass partition between them and the driver. ‘Andiamo! Let’s go!’
As the limo glided smoothly forward, everyone waved.
Franco put down the window and raised his glass. ‘Salute! Nine o’clock. Be ready!Capito?’His voice was drowned out by the whine of a police siren.
‘What’s aputana?’ repeated Stefano.
Valentina turned away, shoulders shaking, struggling to contain her giggles.
‘Never mind,’ said Elena, glaring at Alfonso, mouth twitching.
‘Nonno Franco is aputana,Nonno Franco is aputana…’
‘Punto e basta, Stefano!’ said Elena, trying to sound authoritative. ‘Look, look over there. There’s the football stadium. Can you see?’
‘Matteo, what’s aputana?’Lucy whispered out of the corner of her mouth, barely moving her lips.
He cupped his hand around her ear and leaned in.
Lucy flushed. ‘Oh. I see.’
As the limo turned into the piazza and pulled up outside La Luna Cinema, Lucy felt she was daydreaming; the clock tower, the fountain, the church, the cobbled street, the faded, crumbling stucco walls of the former observatory, transported her toCinema Paradiso, the movie which had so captivated her all those years ago and ignited her love affair with Italy.
‘Signorina?’ The chauffeur’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. Placing her hand in his, she stepped out of the car into a sea of flashing camera lights and unfamiliar faces, cheering and waving.
Dario, Bond-like in tux and aviator shades, unhooked the velvet rope and ushered everyone onto the red carpet.
Head held high, Lucy drew a sharp breath, Elena’s words ringing in her ears. ‘Lean back a little, don’t look down, heel first, tip of the toe, heel first, tip of the toe… turn, pose with a slight toss of the head and a confident smile. Aaand breathe.’
