‘How beautiful.’
‘The scenery is stunning, yes, but compared to her nothing is beautiful.’
It was as if every member of the audience sighed. Cesca found herself joining in.
‘He’s totally talking about you, right?’ Kitty shouted. ‘I mean, you’re a writer and you were in Italy. Oh my God, Cesca, this is so exciting. I live in LA and I meet actors all the time, but even I’m fangirling a bit right now.’
Cesca didn’t know how to feel. She’d walked away from him in Italy, after all. To hear him say on national television that she was special to him made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
So she did. ‘Oh God, Kitty. What does this mean?’
‘It means you need to call him, you idiot.’
‘I don’t have his number.’
‘You don’t?’
Cesca shrugged. ‘No. I didn’t have a mobile over there, and his didn’t work. We communicated the old-fashioned way.’
‘Oh I bet you did. The universal language of love.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Make me.’
It was like they were twelve again. Bitching at each other, in a good-humoured way. Cesca welcomed the break from her emotional turmoil.
‘Oh for goodness sake, do I have to do everything?’ Kitty asked. ‘I’ll find his number for you and message it over, OK? But only if you promise to actually call him.’
‘How are you going to find his number?’ Cesca asked.
Kitty tapped her nose with the tip of her finger. ‘Contacts, of course. I know people who know people. Or at least I know nannies who know people. Leave it to me, I’ll sort your love life out for you.’ With that, Kitty ended the Skype call, no doubt to get a head start on her search. Cesca watched the clip at least five more times before she closed the laptop down and popped her head around the door of the living room to tell her father she was going to bed.
It was midnight by the time Kitty sent a text, with Sam’s phone number included. Cesca lay in her bed, surrounded by darkness, staring at the lit screen of her own, cheap, phone.
When she’d left Italy she’d thought her heart was breaking. By the time she landed in London she was sure it had. And for the past two weeks, no matter where she went, he was always the first thought in her mind. She’d serve a customer and wonder what Sam was doing then. She’d walk past an Italian restaurant and remember Sam’s obsession with pasta. She’d walk into a newspaper shop and see Sam’s face staring out of a magazine.
Her Sam.
That was who he was. Not Sam the boy who ruined her play, or Sam the actor who spoke to her so callously. No, he was Sam, the guy who edited her words, who teased her mercilessly, who kissed her until her lips swelled up. The golden boy who spoke perfect Italian with the sexiest accent, who could seduce her with his words.
Definitely her Sam.
Cesca sat up in bed, grabbing her phone, tapping on the number her sister had texted over. A green phone symbol came up and she clicked it, waiting breathlessly as the call tried to connect. It was going to cost her a fortune, one she definitely didn’t have, but right at that moment she couldn’t care less.
Then there was a click, and the call was diverted straight to voicemail.
Disappointed didn’t cover it. She left a stuttered message, telling him she’d seen the show, that she wanted to talk to him, and could he please call her back. Reluctantly she hung up, putting the phone on the table beside her bed, leaving it on in case he called back soon. It was only four in the afternoon in LA, he could call her at any time.
Except he didn’t. And as Cesca
lay in her bed, watching the hours tick over on her alarm clock, she could feel sadness suffuse her. When morning came, and there was still no call, she was more disappointed than ever.
31
What a pretty thing man is, when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit
– Much Ado About Nothing