‘Buona sera,’ Dario said in a low voice, swiftly placing his sunglasses in his top pocket, his espresso-brown eyes locked on hers. ‘You look beautiful.Bellissima.’
It took a few seconds for Lucy to find her voice, momentarily distracted by his powerful gaze – and by a curly wire tucked into the collar of his white dress shirt.
‘Grazie,’she replied, squinting up at him through her dense, furry lashes.
‘And your eyes…’ he continued, looking at her with a curious intensity. ‘Your eyes, they are…’
‘Doesn’t Elena look gorgeous?’ Lucy said, blushing under his scrutiny, hyper-aware that he had clocked her ridiculously enormous fake lashes. ‘Like one of those old movie stars… not old, as in “old”, but like—’
‘Scusa,’ Dario cut in, a frown marring his brow. Pressing his fingers against his ear he disappeared into the crowd, muttering something, his tone authoritative, stern.
In the blink of an eye he’d changed from the jokey, flirty, familiar Dario to someone else – someone serious with a serious job to do.
Lucy stood on the red carpet chatting to the production team, the students and the factory workers whom she hardly recognised, their white overalls and hairnets replaced by flowing dresses and sharp suits.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to a black Mercedes with darkly tinted windows parked on the other side of the street. The back window was rolled down just a few inches. The passenger was wearing black Raybans and had a camera pointed at the crowd.
She jumped as she felt someone touch her bare arm. ‘There’s a special guest I want you to meet,’ said Elena excitedly, taking Lucy by the hand and leading her through the crowd.
Tapping a stout, bald-headed man on the shoulder she announced, ‘Lucy, this is Signor Conti. Signor Conti, this is Lucy Anderson, who I’ve told you so much about.’
‘Please call me Richard,’ he said in his Scottish-Italian accent, lightly kissing her hand. ‘I have so much to thank you for, my dear.’
‘Stefano! Where did you get that ball?’ Elena cried, throwing up her hands in despair. ‘Please excuse me. I’ll leave you two to it.’
Mr Conti shook his head and smiled. ‘Kids, eh? Do you have any children?’
Lucy’s throat tightened. ‘No. I… I love kids, but things just didn’t work out that way.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
‘Please don’t be sorry. I’m lucky in so many ways – like living here. I mean, this has to be the most beautiful place in the world. I love my job, and Elena and Stefano have become like family.’
‘She told me you’re helping the family to move on since…’ Mr Conti cleared his throat. His eyes glistened. He cleared his throat again. ‘Anyway, I want you to know that I am grateful to you for having paved the way for us to rebuild a relationship with the Moretti family and to make Giancarlo’s dream a reality. And I’m not just talking as a businessman here, but as someone who, through tragedy, now has an unbreakable bond with…’ He raised his watery eyes heavenwards, grappling for the right words. ‘I know I can never make it up to them but…’
Lucy squeezed his arm. ‘Mr Conti – I mean Richard – what happened wasn’t your fault.’
‘Och, I know it’s irrational, but I still feel responsible. If only I’d taken a taxi to the airport that night then…’ He drew a deep sigh. ‘Still, I can’t turn back the clock – more’s the pity. Anyway, m’dear, as I was saying, it’s thanks to you that I’m here today and that Elena is able to come to the cookbook launch in June. That’s a positive.’
The church bell chimed a quarter to seven.
‘Signore e signori,’boomed a voice through a loudspeaker. ‘Please take your seats, as this evening’s screening ofTea with the Buffalowill begin in five minutes. Five minutes please.’
As Lucy entered the teeny-tiny gilded auditorium, her attention was immediately drawn to the majestic, shimmering chandelier.
Open-mouthed, she turned around slowly and looked up at the balcony, adorned with faded gold-leaf cherubs and foliage.
Her gaze was drawn to a lone figure, wearing a tuxedo and headset who looked down, smiled and waved. It was Nick Cooper, the director, almost unrecognisable without his baseball cap and five o’clock shadow.
Vintage movie posters decorated the flocked walls, Rococo lamps glowed on side tables, on which sat glasses of chilled prosecco and ribbon-tied gift bags.
Smiling ushers in cherry-red waistcoats with gilded buttons directed everyone to their seats – not your usual lumpy, scratchy synthetic fibre cinema seats, but squishy leather armchairs with footstools.
The background music faded and excited chatter ceased as Nick appeared before the red-curtained screen.
‘Signori e signore,’ he began, grabbing a microphone. ‘Benvenuti e mille grazie.’He paused, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Erm, I’m afraid that’s the sum total of my Italian, but I know you all speak excellent English. Puts us Brits to shame. Ahem. Anyway, I’ll be brief… Many years ago now I directed a film about injured servicemen and women and how they were learning to rebuild their lives after returning from war. One of those inspirational servicemen is now a lifelong friend and, incidentally, a member of Clanadonia, my bagpipe rock band. You may have heard of them?’
The crowd cheered. One audience member cried out, ‘I hear them play at the Burns Night inGennaio…January.Fantastico!’
