This is the re-issued one for the one Al Poochino destroyed. But instead of being for Francesca and her husband, it’s for Dante. And me.
My head swims. I observe, with an odd sort of neutrality, that I might faint. The man who I really liked, and felt was something special, but who rejected me… Is my husband?
This is a mistake of epic proportions.
Does he know? I check the letter.
One copy. Please keep in a safe place, blah, blah. Fee for extra copies…
No. It seems it’s up to me to inform Dante Angelini that he’s accidentally married.
The rain has cleared up and there’s early evening sunshine by the time I’ve taken the bus across London to Clerkenwell, which feels like unrequested commentary by the weather. I walk through streets with tall buildings, using my phone’s map to find the address. There are trees, and a very large house beyonda high wall when I get to what I think is the right place. The lower part is brick with those old-school different colour brick patterns, and the upper is pale, creamy stone, and there are so many windows. Turrets emerge from the corners and are flanked by dozens of chimneys.
It’s as big as a palace, and totally inaccessible, walled off. I curse inwardly that I wore cute shoes because I wanted to impress Dante, rather than something comfortable for being lost in a part of London I don’t know.
Dante’s residence must be close? But this place is huge. My anxiety increases with every minute I walk, trying to find an entrance. I get to a metal gate, but there’s no way of getting through, or gaining attention. I keep walking, tracking along the wall until my certainty wanes.
I check my phone repeatedly, and nervously take out the marriage certificate to be sure. But this is the right address.
And eventually I reach a huge set of impenetrable gates. There’s a prominent CCTV camera perched on top of the wall, a matte black grill, and one button.
A bell?
My palms are kinda damp, and my heart is racing. The button feels expensive beneath my finger as I press it. Solidly made.
“Name,” demands a tinny male voice.
“Uh. Ruby Wilson. I’m here to see Dante Angelini.”
“Address,” he snaps, and when I answer, he gets my phone number and email address, too.
I glance around, but there’s no one here. Hopefully he isn’t going to ask for anything else, because I think I might be in the weirdest identity fraud scam ever.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No…” I don’t know why I imagined I’d just knock on Dante’s door, and he’d answer.
“Return with an appointment.”
And this whole journey will have been wasted? It’s taken most of my evening, and although the bus isn’t super expensive, it’s not nothing.
“I really need to see Dante!”
“Come back with an appointment.” There’s no mercy from the disembodied voice.
“Please! Please, you have to understand.” Desperation grips me. “I’ve walked for ages, and I have a blister, and I really, really, need to see Dante.”
“That’s not?—”
“Please. I’m begging you. I have to talk to him today. Just let him hear me out. I promise you can kick me out right after if he doesn’t want to see me. I won’t be any trouble.”
“Don Angelini is not?—”
“I was the hairdresser at his niece’s wedding,” I try as a last-ditch attempt. “I need to talk to Dante about something that happened there.”
There’s silence.
I’ve probably made it sound like I’m either pregnant from a one-night stand and trying it on, or some kind of bunny boiling stalker with a crush on Dante after having met him once.
