Page 110 of The Start of Something Wonderful

So many things remain for me to tell you,

o una sol, ma grande come il mare,

or just one, that is vaster than the ocean,

come il mare profondoed infinito.

as the ocean so deep and infinite.

Sei il mio amore e tutta la mia vita!

You are my love and my whole life!

Tears spill freely down my cheeks as Mimi and Rodolfo’s heart-breaking lament floats through the tiny speakers of my portable player. I read the words scrawled across the CD cover:

A la mia cara Wurst. Un caro abbraccio, Francesco.(Wurst or Sausage is nowhis pet name for me.)

I will never forget last night – the opera, dancing in the square, his tender lovemaking, the secrets we shared.

I glance at my watch and tell myself to stop daydreaming and concentrate on tonight’s show. The prospect causes my tummy to flip over. It seems so long ago since Saturday’s performance and my awful memory lapse. I must stay calm, not give in to stage fright,and give a stellar performance.

I turn off the music and pick up my script. I know I’ll feel better as soon as I’ve got that dreaded scene over with.

* * *

The loons have flown and so must we. The run has sadly reached its end. Goodbye, Vienna. Goodbye, Chelsea. Hello, London. Hello, Insecurity and Unemployment. Are you going to accompany me on my journey once more? I’m trying to thinkpositively and visualise drowning in a sea of scripts, but I’m well aware that jobs are thin on the ground. Perhaps I’ve been living a little too much in the moment of late, splashing out on pastries, coffees, wine, the opera – and a need-it-now winter coat by the Viennese designer, Franz Blumauer.

Oh God … even if Luigi gives me my job back, how long can I survive on a waitress’s wage? DoI want to work there anyway after Francesco has left? It won’t be the same. Maybe it’s time for me to move on as well. But where to?

* * *

Half asleep, I pull my bag off the carousel and head through the green channel towards the exit.

‘Excuse me,’ calls a customs officer. I turn my head towards him and mime, ‘ME?’ He nods and beckons me over. ‘Mind if I check your bag?’

It’s theearly hours of the morning, I’ve had about two hours’ sleep, and there’s a gorgeous man waiting for me on the other side of those doors, so of course I mind, but I somehow doubt Mr Customs Man would reply, ‘No? That’s okay, love. I’ll try someone else. You have a nice day now.’

So with my best you’re-barking-up-the-wrong-tree smile, I reply, ‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Olly and I will wait foryou outside,’ says Mags reassuringly.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ I say airily. ‘It’s just a formality.’

They throw me a dubious look.

‘Really. I’ll be fine. Your son will be waiting. Give me a call soon.’

We hug and they disappear.

I unlock my suitcase, and while the officer rifles through my toiletries and manky washing, I study the mixed bag of bleary-eyed passengers, sleep-walkingtheir way to the chilly, outside world.

Snapping my bag shut, he says sternly, ‘Come this way,’ and I’m promptly ushered into a small interview room. As we enter, he slides the OCCUPIED sign across sharply and firmly closes the door.

‘Passport, please.’

Hot-faced, I surrender it to him, hand jittering uncontrollably. He flicks through the pages in silence. Then looking at me with aweighty stare he says, ‘Apart from Vienna, where else have you been travelling to?’

‘Where …? I … nowhere,’ I stammer, face reddening, doubtless giving the impression that I’ve got bags of heroin strapped to my thighs. I wiggle the loose button of my coat nervously. One eyebrow raised, he studies me for several seconds, a smug, disbelieving look on his face. I swear he’s deriving some sortof twisted pleasure in watching me squirm.

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