Page 81 of My Italian Love Affair

The interior is somehow both historic and modern at the same time; with soaring frescoed ceilings and gilded mirrors that meet sleek, contemporary furniture and strategically placed mood lighting.

It’s vast, filled with round tables draped in fancy linen and waiters moving seamlessly through the crowd with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres.

I scan the room, looking for my colleagues. I spot Mark near one of the tables at the edge of the ballroom nursing a glass of something dark and amber-colored, and his relaxed posture and loosened tie tells me he’s been enjoying the open bar for a while now.

As I approach, he glances up and his eyes briefly widen in what looks like surprise.

"Well, Sinclair," he says. "Didn’t know you cleaned up this well."

I blink.

Mark Chapman justgave me a compliment.

I barely know how to respond.

"Uh, thanks?" I say, half-waiting for some kind of sarcastic follow-up. Instead, he just gestures toward the table.

"Come on, I saved you a seat."

I slide into the chair beside him, smoothing the fabric of my dress over my lap.

"How many of those have you had?" I ask, nodding toward his drink.

"Not enough," he quips, taking another sip. "Let’s hope this thing isn’t a complete waste of time. With Rossi and his team here, we should havesomeentertainment."

I exhale slowly, already bracing myself.

The ballroom continues to fill as more guests arrive, the air buzzing with conversation and laughter. As expected, a large portion of the attendees are athletes - footballers in perfectly tailored suits, their usual intensity swapped for easy confidence, clapping each other on the back and exchanging greetings.

Among them are high-profile coaches, team executives, and various celebrities, all mingling over cocktails.

At the far end of the room, a small stage is set up, flanked by enormous floral arrangements and a banner with the charity’s name. A band plays live music to the crowd, and further back, an auction table displays luxury items and signed memorabilia.

I take another sip of my champagne, glancing around.

It’s strange being here and not working. At events like these, I’d usually have a press badge clipped to my dress, a notepad in my hand, and a clear purpose: meet people, get some comments from them, capture the atmosphere, report on thekey moments.

But tonight, I’m just…here.Floating.

I awkwardly follow Mark as he moves to stand and begins to weave through the crowd, greeting people he knows. He’s clearly in his element, schmoozing and making easy conversation with various reporters, PR reps and sports executives.

He’s also working his way through the free drinks at an alarming pace.

I can already see it in the way his movements are getting looser, his words a little more exaggerated. It doesn’t help that his usual crowd of sports journalists - all equally arrogant, all equally insufferable - are just as deep into their drinks.

They’re currently standing in a loose group, laughing loudly and throwing around inside jokes I don’t understand.

"Come on, Sinclair, don’t just hover," Mark says, handing me another glass of champagne despite the fact that I’ve not even finished my first. "Loosen up a little."

I force a small smile.

"I’m fine, thanks."

He rolls his eyes.

"You’re acting like you’ve never been to one of these before."

"I’veworkedevents before," I correct him. "But I’ve not… attended them for fun."

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