Francesco turned, eyebrows raised. ‘Allora, let’s hope the universe is listening.’
The doors opened, and the thump and beat of the music rushed at them. It was loud, much louder than Lucia thought it needed to be, but what did it matter? She wasn’t there for conversation. Tonight was about distraction. About letting go and having some fun. The mask allowed her to simply blend into the wash of colours of the ball. She could be comfortably insignificant.
Stepping through the doors, Lucia saw her black ballerina slippers peeking out from under the full-length hem of her skirt. The floor beneath her feet transitioned from terracotta tile to polished hardwood, centuries old. It felt like stepping back in time. Looking up, she took in the opulent seventeenth-century ballroom, which had been decorated with elegant Valentine’s Day décor. In fact, it was the most elegant Lucia had ever seen the ball, having attended a number of times in the past.
This must be what Tiziano was talking about . . . This year’s new changes . . .
White satin ribbon garlands were suspended from the twinkling chandeliers; the railings which cordoned off the intricately carved wooden reliefs rising halfway up the walls had been looped with sparkling fairy lights; and the vaulted wooden ceiling space was dotted with red ribbon tails. There were two roped-off sections on either side of the ballroom, both markedVIPand overseen by a number of waiters dressed in tuxedos.
Something in Lucia’s middle effervesced with excitement, and she thought of Tiziano’s promise.
Surely, all this glam and show is a good sign of potentially higher profits . . . Just breathe and relax.
She turned and followed Francesco to a sign-in desk, where a large red heart dangled over the maître d’. Seeing it, despite her excitement and good intentions, a lump formed in her throat. While the decorations were beautiful and set the scene for Valentine’s Day, for Lucia they could only ever be a reminder of the most painful anniversaryherheart marked each and every year.
Andthisyear was the twentieth.
Even as the memory of her parents’ lifeless faces returned, she knew she needn’t feel guilty for a night of distracted indulgence. People had been reminding her for decades that her life had to go on. She didn’t need to hold back on enjoying a full life just because her parents had lost theirs. In fact, she was finally starting to accept, after so many years, thatthiswas what they would have wanted for her.
A life.
And so she and Francesco joined the crowd, and within minutes, Francesco seemed to have become the life of the party, and was dancing with whoever would hold his hand or gaze long enough.
Watching on, stifling her giggles, Lucia had just ordered a second drink at the bar when a man approached, well disguised by an ornate black leather half-mask and flowing black satin cape. His eyes followed the direction of hers, and he too laughed as Francesco somehow managed to dance himself into the centre of a circle of onlookers while the DJ mashed up Umberto Tozzi’s ‘Gloria’, with a new bass-heavy house track.
‘Your friend?’ the man yelled over the music.
Lucia laughed. ‘Only on the good days.’
The man gestured to the bartender for a glass of water, setting down his empty wineglass on the polished wood bar. ‘And . . . does today constitute a good day?’ His voice strained over the waves of bass.
Watching Francesco attempt to slow-grind the air, she chuckled fondly. Leaning closer to the masked man, she said, ‘Yes. I guess it does.’
The bartender set down a white wine for Lucia and the man’s water. Both turned to retrieve their glasses.
‘Apart from Arlecchino,’ he gestured to the dancefloor, ‘who else are you here with?’
‘No one. Just him.’ She took a sip of the sweeter than expected white. ‘You?’
‘No one.’ He looked back over the swelling crowd on the dancefloor, then leaned closer to Lucia and said, ‘I tend to keep to myself.’
‘Why come to a party like this, then?’
She watched as his teeth caught his lower lip. ‘For . . . work.’
His somewhat evasive response seemed to close the door on further questions, but it certainly piqued Lucia’s stubbornly curious nature. She turned to press her back against the bar, resting on her elbows. Looking back out at the crowd, she broke eye contact with the stranger for a moment. That was until he appeared in front of her.
Hand proffered, he said, ‘Dance with me.’
Lucia tilted her head thoughtfully. ‘Why should I?’
‘Then we can be melancholic together overthere.’ He gestured to the dancefloor with a flick of his head. ‘And notherekeeping the bar warm.’
The music, if it were even possible, seemed to grow louder, much to the delight and joy of the crowd.
What have you got to lose?Lucia asked herself. So she nodded hesitantly, and slipped her right hand into his. It was warm, but far from soft. In the few moments it took him to lead her to the dancefloor, she could feel the rough calloused skin of his palms and the splintery webbing between his fingers. It was the kind of dry, abraded skin one might expect on the hands of someone who performed tireless manual labour.
With a gentle twist, he spun her around, and her skirt flared then settled again. Lucia smiled.Nice move.
