Your Perfect Year(40)
Simon raised his glass. “So?” He smiled at last.
“To us!” Hannah said, touched her glass to his, raised the champagne flute to her lips, and savored the prickling sensation in her mouth.
Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, Dean Martin sang again. Ting-a-ling-a-ling echoed the butterflies in Hannah’s stomach.
They sat looking at one another in silence for a moment. Hannah imagined that she was glowing like a thousand-watt light bulb; they probably had no need at all of the candles. A pair of sunglasses each would have been more appropriate.
Hearts will play, tippy-tippy-tay . . .
“So, what’s the reason for this beautiful occasion?” she burst out when it became clear Simon was making no move to break the silence. As soon as the words left her, she was annoyed with herself. She hadn’t intended to initiate the proceedings or push things; she had firmly decided to leave it to Simon to guide them through the evening. His invitation, his pace!
But her mouth had acted independently, bypassing the synapses of her brain (no doubt causing a short circuit!) and simply blabbered on autopilot. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She would never ever manage to become a demure, patient, polite girl. Well, the time for the girl was long gone, but Hannah had little better expectations for the woman.
“There’s no hurry, darling!” Simon reached across the table, took her hand, and squeezed it. Surprised by how cold his fingers were, Hannah startled and looked back up at him. “First, I want to enjoy the evening and an excellent meal with you. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Yes, of course.” She felt like shouting out loud and stamping her foot. It was pure torture! How, exactly, was she supposed to enjoy the evening and the food, when the anticipation was not only giving her minor electric shocks, but bringing a lump to her throat?
She couldn’t even face a single one of the olives that had been placed in a little bowl on the table. She would have found it difficult to get a pea down; swallowing was nearly impossible! She picked up her champagne glass and emptied it in a single gulp. Ah, she could swallow, after all.
“To this evening!” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too anguished. She also hoped that Riccardo would reappear soon to refill her champagne glass. Grabbing the bottle herself would probably be her next big faux pas.
“Oh, darling!” Simon laughed. “I know I’m asking a lot of you.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
“I can assure you that it’s for the best if we just enjoy this evening.” He leaned across the table to her, lowered his voice, and narrowed his eyes. “Before things get serious.”
“Yes, okay.” She had to swallow again, this time without champagne. Good grief, Simon was making such a drama of the whole thing; until that moment she’d been unaware of his acting talents.
“Then first of all, let’s eat.” As if on cue, the curtain swished open and Riccardo appeared, heaving a blackboard with “Proposte del giorno” onto a stool he’d brought with him for the purpose. After studying the menu carefully, Simon picked mixed antipasti and grilled sea bream, while Hannah ordered vitello tonnato and a seafood pizza. They ordered a bottle of Gavi to go with it.
“Wonderful,” Riccardo said after writing it all down. He picked up the blackboard and was about to disappear.
“Scusi?” Hannah called him back and indicated her empty champagne glass. Whether this was the right way to do things or not, without it she would scarcely be able to contain her nerves. And besides, the bottle of bubbly must have been paid for and therefore needed finishing before the Gavi arrived, didn’t it?
“Certo!” Riccardo took the bottle and poured Hannah a generous measure. He started to do the same for Simon, who declined with a glance at his almost-full glass. Fine, Simon needed to keep a clear head. He had the major part to play, whereas all Hannah had to do was whisper “I will” at the right moment, and she could manage that regardless of her alcohol intake.
When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore . . .
“So, what did your doctor have to say to you?” Hannah changed the subject once they were alone.
“Nothing in particular,” Simon replied.
“Nothing?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He waved the question away. “I don’t think it’s the best subject for our romantic dinner.”
“Then tell me what subjects you feel comfortable with.”
“Hey, no need to take offense!”
“I’m not taking offense!” Hannah said, offended. “I just think you’re being a bit unfair to me.”
“Being unfair?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “You know perfectly well that patience isn’t one of my strengths.”
“‘Not one of your strengths’ is a gross understatement.”
“You see? You know it’s my greatest weakness, yet you’re torturing me with the suspense when there’s really no need.” She had never said it out loud, but she believed this was a symptom of the biggest problem in their relationship: Simon’s pace, or lack of it, often drove her to distraction. Now more than ever.
Her boyfriend laughed. “Please, Hannah, don’t spoil our evening.”
“Oh? So now I’m spoiling the evening?” She knew she was on the cusp of doing just that—and that it would be for the best if she changed tack as soon as possible. But her nerves were stretched to the breaking point; she could hardly bear it. A lump was already forming in her throat. It wouldn’t take much more for her to burst into tears.