Page 107 of The Start of Something Wonderful

‘What? Oh, no, Francesco, I can’t dance. And anyway, it wouldn’t feel right, dancing here,in front of a memorial dedicated to plague victims.’

‘Esatto! We must celebrate the life,cara–la dolce vita,’ he says. He takes my right hand, places it in his, snakes his arm tightly around my waist, and pulls me close to him. I freeze.

‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre…’ he whispers hypnotically, mouth grazing my ear as he gently rotates in time to the music.

‘Francesco, please,I am not joking. I’ll only tread on your toes …’

‘Uno, due, tre, uno, due, tre…’

He pulls me closer, drawing me in with those magnetic eyes, his signature scent of Dolce & Gabbana tapping into my female senses.

Slowly, tentatively, my brain gives my arms and legs the green light to loosen up, and I yield to the ebb and flow of the music, the rise and fall of Francesco’s body.

As we gather speed, I tilt my head back. Coloured lights flash across my eyes, buildings move, sounds are distorted, wind rushes in my ears. I am a child again: vulnerable, trusting, spinning, carefree, weightless, dizzy; like I’m back on the merry-go-round of my youth. Is this how it feels to be high on hallucinogenic drugs, I wonder?

How my view of Italian men has changed since that schooltrip to Rome when I was sixteen; I remember how my classmates and I watched gleefully gobsmacked from a street café during rush hour, as overcrowded mopeds and cars mounted the pavement, while a group of cool Carabinieri posed in the doorway, smoking Camel cigarettes and flirting with pretty women, oblivious to the chaos all around them.

I had grown up presuming all Italiansignorito be loud,reckless, unpredictable, smooth-talking, fashion-addicted gigolos. Now I know first-hand that beyond the wild gestures, these passionate people derive pleasure in the simplest of things: organic food, family, wine, conversation, espresso, music, dancing – and it’s contagious. Right now, I would rather be here, in this damp square, feet squelching, mascara running, nose dripping, than dressedup to the nines, sipping cocktails in some trendy nightclub in downtown Manhattan.

‘My flight tomorrow is not until the evening, so we have some time together,sì?’ says Francesco, stopping and turning me to face him as we enter Kärtnerstrasse.

‘Sure,’ I say in what I hope is a seductive tone, my head starting to swim with the giddy mix of Sekt, Strauss, andLa Bohème. He reaches out andremoves my hat and a wet strand of hair from my eyes, then raises my freezing hand to his mouth. I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin as he says in a low voice, ‘Aah,cara, today isuna bella giornata– a beautiful day for me.’

I open my mouth to speak, but unusually for me, no words come, so I just grin. Long-lost emotions are starting to stir inside me. The passionate woman of threemonths ago is coming back to life. I’ve missed feeling like this. I want to let myself melt into his arms …

We turn up a little cobbled alley and arrive at Pension Margaretha after midnight.

Herr Wildthan, the proprietor, opens the heavy wooden door in his dressing gown and slippers.

‘Entschuldigung. Sorry,’ I whisper.

‘Kein Problem,’ he replies good-naturedly.

After signingin, we follow him quietly up the dimly lit staircase. To enter the room we have to stoop low and pick our way down a flight of narrow steps.

‘Breakfast is from eight until ten.Gute Nacht,’ says Herr Wildthan, closing the shutters then pulling the door to.

‘Gute Nacht.’

The room has a low, oak-beamed ceiling, exposed stonework, and the linen is embroidered Egyptian cotton. Francescoproduces a bottle of Sekt from his bag, fetches two tumblers from the bathroom, sets them down on the oval table in the arched window, turns off the lamp, and reopens the shutters.

‘Salute, cara,’ he says, clinking glasses.

We sit in the darkness, looking down onto the deserted, tree-lined street below, not saying a word.

There’s something in the air tonight; something has changedor is about to change, I can feel it.

Francesco puts down his glass, pulls me onto his lap, his warm, dark, liquid eyes holding mine for a long moment.

‘Amore mio,’ he says, his voice low and serious. My heart accelerates. ‘In two weeks Sergio will return to Il Mulino full-time. Then I must go home to Napoli. My father is nearly eighty years old and is hard for him to manage our familyrestaurant alone. Isabella will begin to teach at the elementary school. They need me back in Italy.’

‘I know,’ I say softly, toying with my locket, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Please can we just enjoy tonight and not think about the future?’

Without warning a flash of silver rips across the sky, followed seconds later by a mighty crack of thunder. Heavy, sullen rain pelts against the windowand onto the leaves of the cherry trees below.

He pulls me closer to him with an intense yearning I’ve never felt before.

We lie side by side, holding each other tight, breathless in a tangle of limbs, staring at one another in the blackness, our faces eerily illuminated by beams of evanescent, blue lightning. No need for words. I fight the urge to sleep. Plenty of time for sleeping whenhe is gone from me.

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