Falling in Love Read Free Page A

them.’
    She didn’t answer at once, which surprised Flavia. How often were women given dozens of roses? But then Marina’s face brightened in obvious delight. ‘That’s very kind of you, Signora, but don’t you want to take some of them?’ She waved her arm towards the room, where the flowers glowed like artificial daylight.
    Flavia shook the idea away. ‘No, you can take them all.’
    ‘But your vases?’ Marina asked. ‘Will they be safe if we leave them here?’
    ‘They aren’t mine. You can have them, as well, if you like,’ Flavia said, patting her arm. In a softer voice, she added, ‘You take the Venini, all right?’ She turned away towards the elevator that would take her to her waiting fans.

3
    Flavia was aware of how long it had taken her to change and hoped that the long delay would have discouraged some of the people waiting for her. She was tired and hungry: after five hours in a crowded theatre, surrounded by people behind, on, and in front of the stage, she wanted only to find a quiet place to eat in peace and solitude.
    She stepped from the elevator and started down the long corridor that led to the porter’s office and the space in front of it where guests could wait. The applause started while she was still ten metres from them, and she flashed her most delighted smile, the one she kept for her fans. Seeing them, she was glad that she had made the attempt to disguise how very tired she was. She quickened her step, the singer eager to see and hear her fans, sign their programmes, thank them for having waited all this time for her.
    At the beginning of her career, these meetings had been a source of triumphant joy to her: they cared enough to wait to see her, wanted her acknowledgement, her attention, some sign that their praise was important to her. It was then, and it was now: she was honest enough to admit that she still needed their praise. If only, if only they could be faster about it: say they enjoyed the opera, or her performance, and then shake her hand and leave.
    She saw the first two, a married couple – elderly now, both of them shorter than when she had first seen them, years ago. They lived in Milano and came to many of her performances, then came backstage only to thank her and shake her hand. She had seen them all these years but still she didn’t know their names. Behind them stood another couple, younger and less willing to thank her and leave. Bernardo, the one with the beard – she remembered because both words began with ‘B’ – always started with praise for a single phrase or, occasionally, a single note, clearly meant as evidence that he knew as much about music as she did. The other, Gilberto, stood to one side and took their picture as she signed their programme, then shook her hand and gave her generic thanks, Bernardo having taken care of the details.
    When they left, their place was taken by a tall man with a light overcoat draped over his shoulders. Flavia noticed that the collar was velvet and tried to recall the last time she had seen that: probably after an opening night or gala concert. His white hair contrasted with his deeply tanned face. He bent to kiss the hand she offered him, said he had seen the role sung by Callas at Covent Garden half a century ago, and thanked her without causing the embarrassment any comparison would make, a delicacy she appreciated.
    Next was a soft-faced young woman with brown hair and badly chosen lipstick. In fact, Flavia suspected she had put it on especially to meet her, so strongly did it clash with her pale skin. Flavia took her outstretched hand and started to look behind her to see how many people were still there. When the young woman – she wasn’t much more than twenty – said how much she had enjoyed the opera, she said these simple words in the most beautiful speaking voice Flavia could remember hearing. It was a deep, luscious contralto, its depth and richness in wild contrast to the girl’s evident youth.