Falling in Love Read Free Page B

The thrill it caused Flavia was almost sensual, like having her face stroked by a cashmere scarf. Or a human hand.
    ‘Are you a singer?’ Flavia asked automatically.
    ‘A student, Signora,’ she answered, and the simple response struck Flavia like a cello’s lowest note.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘The Conservatory of Paris, Signora. I’m in my final year.’ She could see that the girl was sweating with nervousness, but her voice was as steady as a battleship in a tranquil sea. As they continued to speak, Flavia sensed the growing restlessness of the people standing behind the girl.
    ‘Good luck to you, then,’ she said, and shook the girl’s hand again. If she sang with that same voice – something that was often not the case – in a couple of years she’d be on the other side of this crowd, measuring out pleasantries and thanks to grateful fans, going out to dinner with other singers, not standing awkwardly in front of them.
    Valiantly, Flavia shook hands, smiled, spoke to people and thanked them for their compliments and good will, said how happy she was that they had stayed behind to say hello. She signed programmes and CDs, careful always to ask the name or names of the people to whom to write the dedication. Never once did she show impatience or reluctance to listen to fans’ stories. She might as well have had a sign saying ‘Talk to Me’ printed on her forehead, so much did the people believe she wanted to hear what they had to say. All that made her worthy of their trust and affection, she kept telling herself, was her ability to sing. And, she thought, her ability to act. Her eyes closed, and she raised one hand to wipe at them, as if something had flown into one of them. Then she blinked a few times, and beamed at the crowd.
    She noticed, in the midst of the remaining people, a middle-aged man at the back of the group: brown-haired, head lowered to listen to something the woman next to him was saying. The woman was more interesting: natural blonde, powerful nose, light eyes, probably older than she looked. She smiled at whatever the man had said and batted her head a few times against his shoulder, then stood back and looked up at him. The man wrapped an arm around her and pulled her towards him before turning to look at what was happening at the head of the queue.
    She recognized him then, though it had been years since she’d last seen him. There was more grey in his hair; his face was thinner, and there was a crease running from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin that she didn’t remember from before.
    ‘Signora Petrelli,’ a young man who had somehow got hold of her hand said, ‘I can only tell you it was wonderful. It’s my first time at the opera.’ Did he blush at saying that? Surely, admitting it seemed difficult for him.
    She returned the pressure of his hand. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘ Tosca ’s a wonderful way to begin.’ He nodded, eyes wide with the magic of it. ‘I hope it made you want to see another,’ Flavia added.
    ‘Oh, yes. I had no idea it could be so . . .’ He shrugged at his inability to express his meaning, grabbed at her hand again, and for a moment she feared he was going to pull it to his mouth and kiss it. But he let it go and said, ‘Thank you’, and was gone.
    There were four more, and then the man and the blonde woman were in front of her. He put out his hand and said, ‘Signora, I told you my wife and I would like to hear you sing.’ With a smile that deepened the wrinkles in his face, he added, ‘It was worth the wait.’
    ‘And I told you,’ she said, ignoring the compliment and extending her hand to the woman, ‘that I wanted to invite you both to a performance.’ After the two women shook hands, Flavia said, ‘You should have got in touch with me. I would have left tickets. I promised you.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you,’ the blonde woman said. ‘But my father has an abbonamento , and he gave us the tickets.’ As if to ward off the