Page 91 of The Start of Something Wonderful

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lost in Chelsea

September

I study Francesco as he queues up for our coffees at Heathrow; when I’m far from him I want to be able to recall the way his thick, greying hair curls up at the ends as it brushes his collar, how he talks with his whole body: the shrug of his athletic shoulders, the vibrant gestures of his strong, long-fingered, olive-skinned hands.

It’s barely three weeks since I returned from Scotland and now I’m on my way to Vienna forthree monthsto play the role of Chelsea inOn Golden Pond.

I’m thrilled, of course I am. After all, this is what I’ve sacrificed so much both emotionally and financially to do. So what’s the problem? I hadn’t bargained for finding someone I truly connect with and for having to leave him again so soon.How long can our relationship survive at this rate?

He turns around and I drag my gaze away from him, pretending to study my boarding card.

‘Allora, I have something for you,’ he says, putting down the tray and reaching into his bag. I blink at him several times, trying to keep my simmering emotions from boiling over. A package is slid across the table. My hands close around it and I giveit a shake.

‘Aprirlo! Open!’ he says, throwing me one of his delicious, roguish grins. How I wish I could capture that now familiar expression and put it safely away in my pocket, to sustain me over the next twelve, long weeks. ‘Aprirlo!’

I open the small, red box carefully and take out an antique silver locket.

‘This belong to mymamma…’

‘Francesco, I can’t …’

‘Please. Lookinside.’

Inside there’s a tiny photo of us taken at The Witchery in Edinburgh.

He fastens it around my neck, kisses my hand, and says, ‘Ti amo, amore mio.’

Please don’t let me cry.

‘The final call for passengers travelling to Vienna with British Airways. Please make your way to gate three.’

His eyes rest on mine.

‘Francesco?’

‘Sì?’

‘Kiss me.’

‘Would any remainingpassengers travelling to Vienna …’

‘Vai! Go!’

‘Yes, yes … plane to catch … bye, I mean,arrivederci,’ I say in a silly, cod-Italian voice and stride off towards Departures.

‘Cara!’ he calls after me.

‘Yes,’ I say, turning around, heart quickening.

‘Yourglassees,’ he says, hand outstretched, the corners of his mouth twitching.

* * *

Did the pilot take a wrong turningand land somewhere in darkest Siberia? This isn’t Vienna – the Strauss and coffee house Vienna of my dreams. The one with cobbled streets, horse-drawn carriages andSachertorte.

I give the rock-hard pillow a punch, wipe the condensation from my bedroom window with my pyjama sleeve, and peer out through the teeming rain at the redbrick industrial estate opposite.