‘What?’ I said, laughing.
‘We must paddle. I have always wanted to, but I felt like a fool on my own. But now you are here,’ he said, standing up with a satisfied smile and holding out his hand. ‘Ready?’
I nodded and took his hand, feeling safe and looked after the instant his fingers closed around mine. Kicking off my sandals, I dipped a toe in the water, grimacing.
‘It’s freezing!’ I exclaimed.
Gabriele laughed. ‘This is the Atlantic Ocean, you must be brave. Come, let us go deeper.’
Together we waded further out so that the water soon came up to my knees.
‘Your trousers are already soaked,’ I warned him, looking down, thinking he’d be irritated, but he just laughed it off.
‘Then there is nothing for it,’ he said. ‘I am going to have to soak you, too.’
He dropped my hand to bend and scoop up palmfuls of water before throwing it all over me, breaking out into a deep rumble of a laugh that I’d never heard from him before. Shocked for a second and gasping at the sharp coldness of the water on my face and arms, I barely hesitated before dipping my own hand into the Tagus and splashing him right back.
Our clothes dried off in the sun during the fifteen minutes or so it took us to walk to the infamous Pastéis de Belém, the former monastery and home of the Portuguese egg tart –pastel de nata– that I’d been dying to try ever since I’d heard we were coming to Portugal. According to every single travel guide ever, the tarts at Belém were the original and the best.
As we stood in the –long! – queue to be served, Gabriele and I chatted easily about, well, custard tarts, mainly, but also about how he thought the show was going, what he thought I should do next – he wanted to introduce me to his agent – and also what he was most looking forward toabout returning to Italy in a few days’ time. I teased him that he wanted to be asked for autographs again, that was what he was most excited about, but he denied it vehemently, insisting it was the food. And seeing his mama, who he told me had booked tickets for herself and his dad for the last night of our run in Florence.
I took a photo of the monastery and then a selfie of both of us grinning madly in front of it and posted it straight onto the James Jive Instagram account, with a caption about arriving in Lisbon and heading straight for custard tarts. Then I clicked on the red heart at the top of the page and nearly dropped my phone clean out of my hand when I saw that the teaser reel I’d posted of Gabriele and me running through an Argentine tango routine in Barcelona now had 625 likes and seventy-nine comments. This was unheard of for the James Jive account, which could usually expect about ten reactions – at most! – to any given post. I flicked through the brief messages underneath, which were mostly from studio members congratulating me and saying they wished they’d known about the show when it was in London, and how they couldn’t wait to practice the steps Gabriele and I had demonstrated. The @jamesjivestudio account even had seventy-five new followers, which potentially meant several new clients. Gabriele was on to something here! I showed him, my mouth open in slightly exaggerated shock.
‘I told you,’ he said smugly. ‘Followers adore this kind of content.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, reluctant to tell him he was right, because I knew he liked to be, and therefore I didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction.
Soon it was our turn in the queue and Gabriele bought us two tarts each, which I thought was a little excessive until we found a spot at a table and I tasted them.
‘Oh. My. God,’ I said, pausing my munching for effect.
They were unbelievably good – flaky yet crunchy pastry, soft wobbly custard, caramelized sugar on top; they might just be the most delicious thing I’d tasted in my entire life. Gabriele wasn’t holding back, either.
‘These things are addictive,’ he enthused, in between mouthfuls.
‘I think I’m in love with custard tarts,’ I said dreamily, already wondering whether it would be too much to go back to the counter to buy a box of them to take back to my room.
We didn’t speak properly again until we’d finished eating, the silence peppered only by loud chewing and moans of delight. With four tarts polished off between us, I wiped my mouth with a napkin and dusted pastry flakes off the front of my dress.
‘Wow,’ I said.
Gabriele smiled.
‘It is nice to have someone to share these things with,’ he said.
I’d never seen him as light and happy as he’d been this morning, a playful side to him appearing that I’d neverknown existed. We either seemed to be tearing each other’s clothes off or putting our hearts and souls into a performance. Seeing this different aspect of him made me wonder why he didn’t show people these parts of him more often.
‘I never knew you were capable of such jollity,’ I said, winking at him to prove I was joking.
He shrugged. ‘There is much you do not know about me.’
‘Is there now?’ I said, challenging him to tell me – or show me – exactly what.
‘Maybe one day you will find out.’
‘That sounds like a promise.’
‘Okay, I promise that one day you will know me better than you do now. That you will realize there is more to me than you think there is. That you will discover I am not always so serious.’
