‘Let’s save that for later,’ I replied under my breath, trying to kick my gown out of the way as I walked. ‘These things tend to come in threes.’
‘You do look utterly charming,’ Al said as Amy skipped down the last few stairs and planted a kiss on his cheek. She did a spin for the assembled crowd, entirely comfortable in her four-inch heels. There had to be an upside to being very short and it certainly wasn’t getting a good view at concerts. While I stumbled around in heels like a stoned Bambi, Amy had been wearing four inches and up ever since she turned fifteen. ‘It’s not usually quite so formal an affair but tonight is some grand premiere or charity event or something. I forget.’
‘I feel like Eliza-fucking-Doolittle,’ Amy replied, giving the boys another spin. ‘This is batshit amazing.’
‘Perhaps Eliza Doolittle at the beginning of the story,’ Kekipi replied, patting her shoulder.
The second Amy had slipped into the dress Kekipi had chosen for her, she had been transformed. Unfortunately, her mouth hadn’t. But still, swapping the black and green striped strappy playsuit she’d worn all day for a floor length, nude-coloured Carmen Marc Valvo gown with a high neck, long sleeves and endless handsewn sparkles had turned Amy into something unearthly. Smoothing her hair and adding a flick of black eyeliner finished the look perfectly. I had never seen her so breathtaking.
‘And Tess, look at you.’
Al, Kekipi, Domenico and two silent men in what I recognized as the chauffeur’s uniforms waited patiently as I clung to the banister and tiptoed down the stairs. I wasn’t especially scared of falling again but Kekipi had been very clear that if I ripped the dress, he would rip me a new arsehole, and I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
‘Didn’t I say you would look incredible?’ Kekipi said, more to everyone else than to me. ‘You look incredible.’
To agree with him would have seemed a little conceited but to argue would have been total bullshit. There was nothing else for it: Kekipi was going to have to dress me every day for the rest of my life. He had arrived at our suite two hours earlier with a bag full of deep blue-green Monique Lhuillier tulle and I had been incredibly suspicious. It was tight, it had a high neck and tiny little cap sleeves that threatened to make the most of even the slightest of bingo wings but once I had been properly trussed up, I couldn’t imagine ever wearing anything else. The colour of the dress made my hair and eyes glow and the crossover bodice pushed everything into positions my body had long since given up on ever achieving naturally again. At the bottom of the tight mermaid skirt, a semi-sheer skirt fell in clouds around my feet. I never wanted to take it off. I wanted to wear it to do the washing-up, I wanted to wear it to go to the post office, I wanted to wear it to the gym. And I didn’t even go to the gym.
‘Quite beautiful,’ Al commented, holding out his arm. ‘Shall we?’
I felt myself colour up a little, hoping it came off as a blush of modesty and not the sweaty flush of someone who had been sitting too close to a radiator. There was a lot of internal structuring to the dress.
‘I’m not late, am I?’
I turned to see Nick jogging down towards us, two stairs at a time, one hand running along the banister.
‘Sorry, I got carried away working, totally lost track of time,’ he said, rubbing his chin and looking straight through me. ‘Can we pretend it’s designer stubble?’
‘How very George Michael of you,’ Amy commented, tossing her head like an angry pony. Nick ignored her. He was very good at ignoring people.
‘Not late at all,’ Al told him, giving my arm a squeeze and pointing me towards the door. ‘Nothing is more Milan than being fashionably late.’
It was pointless to pretend Nick didn’t look devastatingly handsome in his midnight-blue tuxedo, and it was even more pointless to pretend my heart hadn’t dropped to the floor as soon as I saw him. While we were shooting Jane’s studio, I’d filled Amy in on our dining disaster and somehow managed to get through the entire story without crying once. Granted, I’d had to throw up twice but I was pretty sure that had more to do with the bottle of wine I had drunk on a stomach full of burrata than how upset I was about Nick.
‘How cheesy does he look?’ Amy asked as we climbed into the first waiting car. ‘I thought every man looked better in a suit but he looks like a crap stripper.’
He didn’t. He looked like a God and he made me feel like I was wearing a dishrag. But I knew she was still feeling guilty and so I smiled and kept my mouth shut.
‘You’re not going to slag him off with me?’ She looked sad. ‘Come on, you’ll feel loads better. Say it with me: Nick is a cockweasel.’
‘I just want to get to the opera,’ I said, watching his spectacular arse climb into the second SUV. ‘He’s not worth talking about.’
‘All I’m saying is, no one gets this upset over someone they don’t care about.’ Amy held up her hands in surrender before switching to a fist pump. ‘And now, not another word. Let’s get our opera on.’
Banging my head gently against the cool glass of the car window, I crossed every available appendage and prayed that we would all get through this night without showing Al up, getting thrown out or arrested. Once a week was quite enough for me.
‘Oh man, it’s ridiculous,’ Amy breathed when we rolled to a standstill ten minutes later. ‘Tess, look!’
But I was already looking. The opera house really was beautiful. Standing proudly opposite a large square that seemed to have emptied itself as a courtesy to La Scala, the exterior was dramatically lit with huge golden spotlights that shone upwards onto its grand white exterior. The building itself reminded me a little of Buckingham Palace, as if it were her maj’s sexy Italian cousin, but the people stepping out of the cars and walking inside made every single person who had ever stepped foot inside the palace look like a right old set of tramps. And that included any and all royal weddings.
‘Is this seriously where we’re going?’ Amy asked as a man strolled past us carrying a cane. ‘That man is wearing a cape.’
‘Maybe it’s Batman?’ I offered, really wishing I’d bothered to do something more impressive to my hair than wash it. ‘Why is there so much fur? It’s July.’
‘I think all these people are on their way home from their weddings,’ Amy said. ‘Or maybe they moved the Oscars. This can’t just be a Tuesday night on the town, can it?’
‘Who knows?’ I spotted Al exiting his car across the street and unbuckled myself quickly as our driver opened my door. ‘But can you please make sure I don’t fall over and make a total twat of myself?’
‘No, I can’t,’ Amy said, full of regret. ‘But don’t worry. All the best people fall over these days. Jennifer Lawrence falls over all the time and everyone loves her.’
‘And me and Jennifer Lawrence are basically the same person, so we’re sorted,’ I muttered, taking the driver’s hand and pulling myself out of the car. ‘I’m going to die here, I can tell.’
In my heels, I was easily pushing six feet which made concentrating on remaining upright and joining a conversation with the vertically challenged Amy and Kekipi virtually impossible. Al was merrily chatting away to assorted strangers in rapid-fire Italian, throwing out air kisses and laughing heartily at every other thing every other person said. Anxious, I tried to hang back, afraid of being drawn into a conversation when I didn’t speak the language and afraid that I was not going to be able to take off my heels when they started to hurt beyond the telling of it in approximately seven seconds.
As someone who had barely left the country her entire adult life, it was strange to be surrounded by another language. My ears prickled at the dance and rhythm of words I didn’t understand and inside I heard instruments tuning up, the discordant notes clashing against each other but harmonizing completely with the din outside.
‘Nice dress.’
I wasn’t sure how long Nick had been stood in front of me as I was very busy staring at a woman in a floor-length red gown that was so h
uge, she had two men carrying her skirts, but when I came to my senses, there he was.
‘Thanks,’ I said, finding my voice somewhere in the pit of my stomach and dragging it up whether it liked it or not. ‘Nice suit.’
‘I thought it might come in handy,’ he replied, shaking out his arms until the white cuffs of his shirt appeared at the end of his sleeves, ‘coming to Milan, working with a fashion designer and all that shit.’
‘You have a beautiful way with words,’ I said, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I really wanted to get inside and I really wanted to get away from Nick. ‘You should be a writer.’
‘I’ll consider it.’ He held out one arm and waved towards the entrance of the theatre with the other. ‘May I?’
Across the road, I saw Amy already wrapping herself around Kekipi’s arm and laughing wildly at whatever disgraceful thing he was saying. I had never been so jealous in my whole life.
I brushed my hair out of my face and shook my head. No. I was strong. I was woman. Or something. ‘This is you being professional, is it?’
‘Really?’ His expression was about as comprehensible as the Italian I heard all around me. ‘Just shut up and take my arm.’
Stubbornly, I crossed my arms and breathed out heavily.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
Nick grabbed hold of my arm, threaded it through his and began to walk towards the entrance, giving me very little choice but to follow him. I was already unsteady on my spindly heels and I would not fall over in front of all of Milan high society because someone was having another of his bipolar moments.
‘Do you know the Katy Perry song “Hot and Cold”?’ I asked him, tottering along a few paces behind.
‘Of course not,’ Nick replied, producing two tickets and handing them to a man wearing an incredibly impressive top hat. ‘Should I?’
‘No,’ I admitted. I knew it because Amy always sang it at karaoke and by the time I got out of work on most Friday nights, Amy was so drunk she always wanted to sing karaoke. ‘Silly question, really, it’s not jazz.’
‘I don’t only listen to jazz,’ he said as we dodged the kissing crowds and found ourselves in a huge foyer with beautiful crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The parquet floor shone so brilliantly that I could see reflections of the white columns that separated us from the opera boxes. ‘I listen to all kinds of music.’
‘Such as?’
‘Leonard Cohen. Joy Division. Radiohead.’
‘Oh, all the modern chart toppers,’ I said, ducking my head to hide a smile. ‘No wonder you’re so happy all the time.’
‘When Katy Perry has been around as long as Leonard Cohen, you can take the piss out of me,’ Nick replied, something like a smile hovering on his face for a moment. ‘How on earth are you going to get through an evening of opera if you can only manage to listen to three minutes of beeps and screeches and call that music?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage, Granddad,’ I reassured him, pretending that the warm fluttery feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with the fact that Nick was smiling at me and everything to do with the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast for fear of not getting into this dress. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Al’s box.’ He checked the tickets and pointed to a dimly lit archway. ‘Should be right over here.’
The atmosphere outside La Scala was excitable, like everyone was just a little bit drunk, but inside it was completely overwhelming. I couldn’t think of another time when I had been so overcome by a space. Hawaii had been spectacular, all that sea and sand and sky, but this was something else, something man-made and almost as beautiful. The theatre curved around the stage and the red, velvet-lined boxes above and below us seemed to go on forever. From where I stood, every surface seemed to have been touched with gold.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I said, almost too scared to take a seat. ‘Look at it!’
I glanced over my shoulder but Nick wasn’t looking at the theatre below us, he was looking at me. The warm fluttery feeling in my stomach hatched into a fully blown case of butterflies.
‘Amy wanted snacks,’ I said, taking a step away from him, holding one elbow with the other hand and trying to work out where was safe to look. It certainly wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity of Nick Miller. ‘Do you think there’s a concession stand?’
‘Do I think there is a concession stand in La Scala?’ Nick asked, his eyes flickering back up to meet mine. ‘Are you serious? You’re not in the Odeon.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ I mumbled as we reached our box, taking a seat in the back row. ‘I’ve totally had snacks in the theatre before.’
‘Whatever there is, you can’t eat or drink in the boxes,’ he pointed at a very polite sign that suggested proper theatre etiquette. ‘So, no snacks, no flash photography and phones on silent.’
Pulling my iPhone out of my little black bag, I flicked the buzzer on to silent. Through the shattered glass, I could just made out a new text message. It was from Charlie and appeared to be a row of smiley face emojis. Either Portugal was going very well or he’d been spending altogether too much time with Amy, I thought, putting my phone away. While I sat in an empty opera box next to Nick, mentally singing ‘LALALALALA’ as loud as I could to drown out my sobbing ovaries, I didn’t feel quite right, trying to resolve my Charlie situation. One regrettable shag at a time, Tess, one regrettable shag at a time.
‘Here you are!’ Kekipi and Amy barrelled around the corner, faces flushed and short of breath. ‘We were wondering what you were getting up to.’
‘And if I didn’t know better, I’d ask what exactly you two have been up to,’ I said, leaning over the back of my red velvet chair, forehead furrowing. ‘Snogging in a broom cupboard? Kekipi, has she turned you?’
‘If I could bear the thought of a woman’s vagina, Amy’s would be the first on my list,’ he replied, shuffling down to the front row of the box and pulling Amy along behind him. ‘After yours, of course. And Britney’s. I owe her and she needs the love of a good man.’
‘What have you been up to?’ I asked. Nick busied himself with his own mobile, actively ignoring our box buddies. Hmm. I really hadn’t thought about him in all of last night’s nonsense but it seemed as though he was pretty pissed off with the whole set-up and the setter-uppers. Interesting.
‘Can you keep a secret?’ Amy leaned back and whispered, her breath heavy with whisky.
‘You know I can’t and – Jesus Christ, you stink!’ I said, pushing her away. ‘How did you manage to get tanked between here and the car?’
Kekipi opened his tux jacket for a split second, revealing a shiny silver hip flask, before whipping it shut just as fast. ‘None for you, Ms Brookes, if you’re going to be a buzzkill.’
‘I totally called her a buzzkill in the car!’ Amy shrieked loudly enough to turn heads three boxes away. ‘High five!’
‘She was a lot more fun in Hawaii,’ Kekipi stage whispered, unscrewing the cap of his flask. ‘Italy does not suit her temperament.’
‘I’m so glad we brought the kids.’ Nick looked away while Amy and Kekipi crouched down below the front of the box to take another drink. I smiled, reaching over to squeeze his forearm before I realized what I was doing. He stiffened as the lights around us lowered.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered, pulling away but before I could move my hand, he had covered it with his own. Even in the semi-darkness, I could see his eyes on me again. Not nearly as brave as the last time, I raised my brown eyes to meet his blue and tried very hard not to throw up. The butterflies had turned into something altogether less romantic and manageable and I was very, very close to freaking out.
‘Sorry, everyone.’
A white-gloved hand pulled back the scarlet curtain to our box and bathed Al in the light of a tiny torch. He followed it down to the front row and took a seat beside Amy, brushing his hair down.
‘My mullet isn’t in the way, is it?’ he asked, turning towards Nick and me.
I wasn’t sure whether it was the look on Nick’s face, the confusion on mine or just the fact that we were holding hands but something caused Al to slap his thigh and laugh out loud before turning back towards the stage.
‘Tell me you brought an old man a drink,’ he whispered to Kekipi as the orchestra started up. ‘You know I can’t get through one of these things without a nip of something.’
And with Nick’s cool hand still holding onto my sweaty one, I knew exactly how he felt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Everything I’d ever heard about the opera was true. It was dramatic and emotional and passionate, and if you didn’t have a clue what was going on, it was incredibly boring. For the first fifteen minutes, I sat patiently, waiting to get it. After that, I started looking around at the other boxes, frowning at the captivated looks on everyone else’s faces. What was wrong with me? Even Julia Roberts was moved to tears in Pretty Woman. Did I really have less emotional and cultural depth than a Hollywood Boulevard hooker?
On top of everything, it was nigh on impossible to pay proper attention to what was happening on stage when Nick had been holding on to my hand for fifty-six minutes exactly. Even though my shoulder was killing me, I was too scared to move more than an inch and every time Nick shifted in his seat, I felt a wave of warmth roll all the way over my body. It was like the lining of my dress had been replaced with a malfunctioning electric blanket. My mouth was dry but my palms were damp and I was terrified of sweating irreparably in my dress. I actually felt bad for the performers. No matter what else was happening, it was nothing compared to what wasn’t happening between Nick and me. Every breath, every movement, every time his eyelid flickered, I was aware of it all and it was all too much.
Halfway through a high note so impressive that I almost forgot to worry about whether or not I was ruining thousands of euros of borrowed silk with my mere existence, Nick suddenly pushed my hand away and shot up out of his seat. I watched, open-mouthed, as he fought with the velvet curtain for a moment before disappearing altogether. Well, I wasn’t the opera’s biggest fan either, but anyway you cut it, that was just rude. I flexed my suddenly cold, clammy hand and circled my shoulder in its socket. What had just happened? Where had he gone? Was he coming back? Amy and Kekipi seemed to be too busy giggling amongst themselves to have noticed anything and unless the occasional snore was how one was supposed to show proper appreciation for a well-presented aria, it looked like Al was fast asleep.