Page 28 of My Fake Italian Marriage

She glanced at the Franciacorta bottle they’d emptied. “Probably not.”

“Then we should take our time and enjoy the evening. What is it about you Londoners that you never slow down to enjoy the moment? Sarah was the same when she arrived in Tuscany. You treat life as if you’re on a runaway train.”

“That’s precisely how it feels—like I’m on a runaway train. And each year since I passed thirty has felt as if the train is moving faster.” She closed her eyes, as if to block out the dizzying sight of her life flashing by outside the train’s windows.

“Is that what you want for your life, to rush through it? Are you happy?”

She opened her eyes, pinning him with her direct gaze. “I’m notunhappy. Sure, there were other things I’d planned for my life which have passed me by, but what we want isn’t always what we get. All we can do is make the most of the hand we’re dealt.” She grinned. “That’s what I do: make lemonade out of lemons.”

That was his philosophy too. But sometimes he wondered what life would have been like if he’d been brave enough to make limoncello instead of lemonade, if he’d been brave enough to step out of the shadow of his family’s low expectations and pursue the things he really wanted. “So, what did you want for your life that you didn’t get?” he asked.

She twirled an unused spoon between her fingers. “What most women want: love, marriage, a family of my own. A career, sure, but there was a time I thought I could have it all. Not either/or.”

He could picture her as a mother. Behind the decisive business brain and no-nonsense attitude, lay a warm, nurturing soul. “You’re still young enough—”

“Please don’t tell me there’s someone out there for me, or that I should put myself out there more because, trust me, I’ve looked. And looked. Nope. The dating pool shrinks the older a woman gets, and it gets harder to find a man who measures up—” She pressed her lips together, biting back what she’d been about to say.

“Who measures up to…?” he prompted. Who was this man she measured all others against? Not her father, or she would have finished that sentence. And certainly not Evan The Arse. Maybe her first love? It usually was the first love.

She lifted her chin. “To my high standards.”

He was sure that wasn’t what she’d intended to say.

She shook her head as if dismissing an unpleasant thought. “I’m not willing to compromise on my dreams. I’d prefer to remain single than marry a man who isn’t the perfect fit for me, just to be married. I watched a good friend do that and it didn’t end well.” She smiled ruefully. “And since there’s usually a very good reason why a man is still single when he’s my age, I’ve learnt to adjust my expectations.”

“I am still single,” he pointed out.

“And you’ve just proved my point!”

He laughed. “Then let us do what single people do on a beautiful spring evening, when the stars are out and the air is warm.”

“Binge-watch Netflix?”

Another laugh. “Do you like jazz?”

“In the right environment.”

He grinned. “I know exactly the right environment.” He summoned the waiter to bring the bill, then they headed to the car to make their way back along the tortuous mountain roads to the lake.

* * *

In the town of Como, Luca eased the Ferrari into a tight parking space, then led Cleo down a narrow road decorated with arches of spring greenery, to a bar. Vintage jazz spilled into the street, and the pavement tables were crowded. Inside, the bar was small and unpretentious, with plain, white-washed walls. The decor was simple too, red-painted chairs and rough wooden tables that looked like the table in the kitchen of the old farmhouse where she grew up. The cocktails Luca ordered arrived in jam jars, though this was nothing like a typical hipster joint.

“I have to admit, this isn’t the sort of place I expected you to enjoy.” She sipped her classic negroni cocktail. “I thought you’d prefer flashy, five-star places.” The kind of pick-up joints where the women were all under twenty-five and looked like models. This place was certainly not that.

Luca laughed, throwing his head back to reveal the strong column of his throat, darkened now by day-old stubble. “I don’t need a fancy setting to seduce a woman.”

“Is that what this is? A seduction?” Oh God, she was flirting with him again.Stop it. Right now.

He smiled, setting his dimple flashing. “Now that we are an old married couple, we must make an effort to keep the flame alive.”

She suppressed the laugh that bubbled up, and took another sip, glad he’d turned her question into a joke. The bittersweet taste of cherries and citrus slid smoothly down her throat. What was she thinking? It must be the music and the moonlight and the cocktails going to her head. If he were merely some man she’d met on holiday, or in a pub, she could let herself imagine this moment turning into a seduction, but if there was one thing she’d learned from her embarrassing relationship with Evan, it was that business and pleasure should never mix.

So she sipped her cocktail, and tapped her feet along with the lively jazz rhythms, and when his knee brushed hers, or when he took her hand and stroked her palm, little touches he made quite unconsciously, she ignored the way her pulse fluttered and gently pulled her hand away.

They talked about music and concerts they’d attended, about places they’d visited, and then, over a second cocktail, about the deeper issues of life and faith and politics. They talked and laughed, and if this had been a first date, on a scale of one to ten it would have been a thirteen. Wasn’t that typical? A date worthy of the record books, and it wasn’t even a real date, just two business associates killing time on a business trip.

The bar emptied around them, the band packed up their instruments, and the wait staff stacked away the chairs and tables, a clear signal to those still lingering that it was time to leave.

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