Page 64 of The Start of Something Wonderful

Learn to live in the moment.

Find inner peace.

Finding a new agent is not as easy as it sounds. They have to see you perform, and without an agent it’s nigh on impossible to get a job. There’s only one thing for it: I will have to take matters into my own hands and follow Faye’s advice by getting my one-woman show on the road. Quite how, where, or when, I haven’ta clue, but it’s no good waiting for something to happen, whingeing about Lionel or the fact that there’s a lack of roles for older actresses. Time to take control.

The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

~ William Shakespeare

* * *

I collect my bike from the station and puff and pant my way up the hill.

As the green, white, and red awning begins to appear, theanger, stress, and embarrassment of earlier is forgotten.

I peer through the glass and tap on the window. Luigi shuffles over from behind the bar, unlocks the door, and flings it open, sending the brass bell jingling.

‘Benvenuto, cara!’ he says, hugging me tight. ‘We have missed ourpiccola inglese.’

‘I’ve missed you all too,’ I reply, removing my helmet and kissing his cheeks. ‘Whoseis the Vespa parked outside?’

‘This belong to Francesco.’

My heart flutters at the mention of his name.

‘Ah. He’s still here then? What about Sergio?’

‘Ciao!’ says Rosalba, appearing at the top of the stairs, blowing me kisses, hair in rollers.

‘Ciao!’

‘Sergio spend time at his parents’ home in Sicily with Valentina and the kids.Scusi,’ he says, leaning over the counterto answer the phone.

The aroma of fresh coffee, the sounds of Andrea Bocelli singing quietly in the background, the red gingham tablecloths, the terracotta pots of rosemary, the Italian movie posters:Il Postino, Cinema Paradiso, andLa Dolce Vita, all so reassuringly familiar. I run my hand along the back of one of the rustic chairs, happy to be home.

I hang up my jacket and helmet, changemy shoes, put on some lippy, check my hair, and drawing a deep breath, I enter the kitchen, heart hammering.

Francesco has his back to me, head bent over the sink.

‘Francesco.Ciao. Come stai?’

He swings round to face me, holding a giant sea bass.

‘E-milee!’

My insides do a loop-the-loop as he kisses my cheek, the smell of Dolce & Gabbana mixed with fish wafting up my nose.

I fall back into the role of waitress with ease. I know my way around here, am sure of my lines, and feel valued, nurtured, and safe.

Over the next few weeks, Francesco and I meet every day at Costa’s. The Italian lessons have been put on hold while I rehearse lines for my play.

Poor Francesco. It must be driving him crazy, listening to me repeating the same dialogue over and over,like Talky Tabitha, the scary talking doll I had when I was ten. He feeds me the lines and prompts me whenever I have a senior moment.

‘But I like to listen to you,’ he always retorts earnestly, in that severely seductive accent of his, making it more difficult for me to focus.

I often wonder if this is all a waste of time, as so far I haven’t found a suitable venue that doesn’t chargeextortionate insurance and staffing costs. Even if I find somewhere, how many agents and casting directors will turn up? I sent forty invitations toThree Sistersand not one came, let alone replied.

‘I have an idea.Un momento,’ Francesco says one afternoon, heading for the counter to buy us more coffee.

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