Page 80 of The Start of Something Wonderful

EMILY: I made your favourite – Pasta Al Forno.

FRANCESCO: Mmm. Ti amo, Emily.

EMILY: Ti amo, Francesco.

Stoooop!! What’s happening to me? Have I learned nothing from past mistakes? I knew I shouldn’t have letromanzaback into my life. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up that fragile, pathetic woman again, sobbingon the sofa into a family-sized tin of chocolates.

My life no longer revolves around a man; my happiness does not depend on it. So yes, though I think I may be falling for Francesco Rossi from Naples, I am not the same woman I used to be, willing to give up everything for her man. I AM NOT.

* * *

Since that weekend, when our friendship turned into … more than friendship, everythinghas now shifted to a different plane at Il Mulino.

The innocent, flirtatious banter we had in the kitchen now feels a teensy-weensy bit awkward, overthought. I wonder if Luigi, Maria, and Rosalba have noticed the change? There are obvious signs, aren’t there, when people go from being friends to lovers? Nothing you can put your finger on, but there’s a definite aura. And if anyone can sniffoutamore, it’s the Italians.

I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a good idea for me to carry on working there; much as I love Il Mulino and seeing Francesco every day, Sergio’s return to work will trigger big changes. Maybe it’s time for me to start letting go.

* * *

As if reading my mind, Rosalind calls me the next day.

‘Got a casting for you, Em,’ she says in her customary blunttone. ‘Nice little telly. Nineteen forties’ period drama. One episode.’

‘Wow, that’s great. When?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Where?’

‘Glasgow. I’m forwarding the breakdown to you now.’

‘Glasgow? Hello?’

The line goes dead.

I spend the next two hours scouring the internet for cheap flights, but they’ve all been snaffled. The train won’t get me there on time, and in any case,the only seats left are in first class, for the same price as a low-cost ticket to New York. It’s dawning on me with sinking horror that there’s only one solution: missing my shift at Il Mulino and taking the overnight coach from Victoria. Nooooo!

* * *

It’s 0730 and I’m staggering around the Glasgow streets half conscious, eyes like slits, mouth like sandpaper, looking for a coffee shop.

The only place open is a depressing greasy spoon, reminiscent of the losers’ café onThe Apprentice.

I order a coffee and study the script: just one page of dialogue, but four days’ filming, as the character is in several crowd scenes, reacting to the action with a variety of looks, ranging from withering to firm. I haven’t quite mastered the firm yet, and just hope they don’t ask for itin the audition.

I arrive at the TV studios in good time, so disappear to the ladies’ to repair my face and hair, do some deep breathing exercises, and practise my lines and various looks in the mirror.

I return to the reception area, where there’s now another candidate waiting nervously.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You up for the middle-aged spinster role?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply, a little affronted.‘You?’

‘The girlfriend.’

‘Ah.’

The door is flung open. ‘Emily?’

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