‘A mix.’ He gave her a sidelong look. ‘When I went through the rebellious teenage stage, I listened to terrible music. You know, the stuff that’s little more than fuzzy noise and guitar solos played as fast as possible.’ He grinned. ‘Mamma retaliated by singing the arias with the most dramatic scales and runs, to prove her music was faster and louder and much more technically challenging than the guitar solos I listened to.’
She laughed. ‘Your mum sounds amazing. And you’ve seen her sing on stage?’
‘In all the major roles. Mamma’s a dramatic coloratura soprano, so she played the big tragic parts. Norma, Lucia, Aida—and obviously the Queen of the Night.’ He paused. ‘What about you? What does an art expert do for fun?’
‘Visit art galleries,’ she said promptly. ‘Though I love cinema, especially period dramas.’
‘And you spend half your time spotting the artwork in it?’
‘Absolutely—that’s the best bit,’ she said with a smile. ‘There was a series set in Florence and I drove my sister potty by picking out all the sculptures and frescoes. Though it’s so good spending time with her.’
* * *
Angelo was guiltily aware that he hadn’t spent enough time with his sister since her pregnancy and Serafina’s birth. But, now he’d overcome that first hurdle, he’d make more effort. ‘I’m glad that your ex didn’t ruin things completely.’
‘Sophie could see what he was doing, fairly early on—but at the time I was still blinded by his charm and I kind of played into his hands,’ she said. ‘But when my mum and my best friend twigged as well, they joined her in trying to help me and they refused to give up on me. I’m really grateful for my family.’
‘I’m sure you would’ve done the same for them if it had been the other way round,’ he said.
‘Of course. They’re all pushing me to date again,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s hard to trust. I got it so wrong last time—how do I know I won’t make the same mistake again?’
He knew how that felt. He’d picked the wrong person, too—though if it hadn’t been for that bout of mumps things might have been so very different. If they’d been able to have a baby, maybe their marriage would’ve stood a chance. ‘I guess you just have to take that first difficult step,’ he said, knowing that he was being a complete hypocrite because he had no intention of doing that himself.
‘I’m happy with my work,’ she said.
‘Me, too.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is your family trying to encourage you to date, too?’
‘I don’t have time, between work and Nonno.’
The way she shifted in her seat told him she recognised that for the feeble excuse it was. ‘You mean, you don’t want to take the risk.’
‘No.’ And he didn’t. If anyone could’ve tempted him, it would’ve been Mariana Thackeray, with those stunning blue eyes and that sensual curve to her mouth—but she wanted children. He already knew from her profile on the television studio’s website that she was four years younger than him, almost at the age where her biological clock would start ticking. And that was an area where he definitely couldn’t deliver. What was the point of disappointing them both?
Finally they reached Calais, got onto the train to get through the tunnel, and at last back to London. He insisted on dropping her at home; apart from the fact he’d taken up so much of her time, he wanted to put some distance between them. Some of their conversations had made him antsy and he needed to get his equilibrium back. Unloading the boxes and moving things about made him physically tired enough to block out the questions in his head and let him sleep.
* * *
On Monday morning, Mariana turned up at Nigel’s office at half past eight with a turmeric latte and a muffin.
‘This had better be good, getting me here for the crack of dawn,’ he grumbled.
She laughed, knowing he was teasing. ‘It is.’ She showed him the photographs she’d taken. ‘I sent these to Jeremy and he rang me up and practically asked me to marry him.’