Francesco grimaced.
‘Is it the jeans or my breasts?’ She feigned offence with a dramatic gasp.
‘The jeans. I have seen your breasts too many times for them to scare me now.’
She plucked the aforementioned green sweater from the chair and pulled it carefully and slowly over her head, leading with her good right arm. Once on, she tugged the long sleek lengths of her hair from under the collar. ‘I’m not wearing the sling tonight.’ She tossed it to her desk. Pivoting on the spot she said, ‘See? Fine.’
‘Your romantic funeral.’
‘So what exactly is happening tonight?’ She dropped to the edge of her mattress, pulling on a pair of thin black cotton socks before slipping into her boots.
‘Claudio will meet you for a drink at the jazz bar in Cannaregio. Around twenty-thirty.’
‘And you—’
‘Will be literally sitting at the next table.Tranquilla. I’m not sending you out there alone.’
Lucia exhaled. ‘Grazie.’ She stood, made her way to her desk and retrieved their pre-prepared table of information on her suitors. ‘Claudio Rota. Tall.Handsome, according to no one in particular . . .’
Francesco laughed. ‘Ok, prove me wrong tonight.’
‘And we have the crucifix. The father and daughter symbols. “Matilde”. Pasta. Wine. Tennis ball. And potentially blue eyes.’ She dropped the list on her side table. ‘I’m not convinced by the eye situation.’
‘Just wait and see. And remember, you are in control tonight. Open-ended questions. No leading statements. It’s up tohimto prove himself.’
Lucia’s feet felt cold and uncomfortable in her boots. She made her way to the window and stared across at La Commedia. ‘You’re right. I’m in control now.’
‘Stop fidgeting.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Leave the glass alone. You look nervous.’
‘That’s because Iamnervous.’ The retort came out a little too loudly and caught the attention of someone at the table to the right of Lucia’s. ‘Scusami,’ she whispered in their direction, and then back to Francesco, ‘This is a lot.’
Speaking behind his wineglass, sitting as promised at the table to her left, was Francesco. He had his trusty pencil behind his right ear and a novel beside his phone. ‘I’m here. You want out, just say the word.’
‘What word? We never chose a safe word.’
Francesco’s lower lip puckered as he pondered. He scanned the bar, searching for inspiration, and finally, his gaze landed on a dated vintage print of Marco Polo over the rows of bottles behind the service counter. ‘Marco Polo.’
‘Sul serio?’
‘Sì. You need help, just say the name.’
Lucia shifted in her chair, and she too was now speaking behind her swiftly disappearing glass of red. ‘And what if he talks about Marco Polo?’
‘He won’t.’
‘Or has read a book about him. Or written a thesis.’
‘A thesis?’ Francesco worked hard not to laugh. ‘The man has a peach and eggplant emoji set in his bio. There won’t be a thesis here.’
‘Checco . . .’ But just as Lucia was about to offer another objection, they both noticed a tall and indeed very handsome man set foot in the bar. Lucia decided to ignore the fact that she had heard Francesco swallow his pride to her left.
The man shook off the light dusting of rain that had settled on his coat, and hung it on a free hook by the door. First he looked towards the people waiting by the bar, but then, turning to the right, he spotted Lucia.
His eyes were unforgivably blue. So intoxicatingly blue, in fact, that they forced Lucia to question if her kisser did indeed have brown eyes as she recalled, or if it had been a play of the light behind his mask.
