Page 122 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

Elena cleared her throat. ‘I’m afraid there was only one ticket left, so I cannot be there. But don’t worry,’ she added quickly, ‘you won’t be on your own. You’ll be sharing—’

‘Sharing? Who with?’

Elena shrugged. ‘I don’t…’ Her voice fell away. ‘I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of cour-se!’ Lucy replied a little too brightly, attempting to hide her horror at the prospect of spending her birthday evening with a bunch of strangers.

‘Drink up,’ said Elena with a self-satisfied grin. ‘I’ve made you a ten o’clock appointment at the spa.’

‘What?’

‘Whether you like it or not, you’re having a pamper day – massage, facial, manicure, hair, the works.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’

‘Elena Moretti, you are so bossy sometimes.’

Stefano shrugged. ‘Allora, Mamma. I told you. I am not the only one who think this.’

The cab pulled up outside the Teatro di San Carlo.

Lucy took a deep breath and swung her vertiginous-heeled feet onto the pavement.

The evening sun was slipping down behind the opera house, bathing the piazza in a honey-orange light.

Sparkling water, like tiny crystals, cascaded from the fountain.

Elegant, starry-eyed couples hurried by arm in arm, filling the air with expensive perfume and excited laughter.

In her designer dress and long evening gloves, hair piled high with soft, wavy tendrils framing her face, Lucy felt like Julia Roberts inPretty Woman.

Why, oh why couldn’t Richard Gere be her opera date, instead of a clique of artsy opera buffs?

Because life isn’t like the movies, Lucy.

She entered the glittering foyer just as the three bells were ringing out, hastening the audience to their seats.

‘Buonasera,’said the uniformed usher, checking her ticket and directing her upstairs.

Heart racing, Lucy took a deep breath, put on a smile and warily opened the door to the private box.‘Buonaser—’

To her surprise and relief, there was no one there, allowing her galloping heart to slow to its regular pace.

She took her place at the front, leaning on her elbows for a better view of the lavish red, gold and ivory horseshoe-shaped auditorium, alight with the excited babble from a myriad of faces and the discordant notes of the orchestra tuning up.

Her wide eyes were then drawn heavenwards to the circular frescoed ceiling, depicting god-like figures perched on clouds, beneath the golden rays of the sun.

She found herself wondering how on earth the painter had got all the way up there, and had he too suffered neck pain afterwards, just as she had done when she helped emulsion the teashop ceiling after the fire.

She was brought back down to earth by a sudden hush, then thunderous applause as the conductor appeared, taking centre stage.

The lights dimmed and the baton was raised. Lucy shot a final nervous glance at the door.

Please don’t come, please don’t come.

She knew it was selfish, but she longed to relish every moment of this once-in-a-lifetime experience, to allow the music and the story to carry her away without worrying about the embarrassment of crying uncontrollably or applauding too enthusiastically, and of having to make polite conversation afterwards.