on, you’re coming with me … Excuse me, guys, got a bit of a damsel/distress/shining-armour situation brewing here. Mind if I abandon you to the hordes? Cheers. Right, let’s go upstairs.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Yup, VIP suite. Got air conditioning, lots of space, and some great big sofas.’
‘Em … the VIP suite?’
‘For you to recover. Oh, don’t worry; I’ll kick Bono off the sofa. That got you smiling! Must be a good sign.’
‘You’re being very kind, thank you … ?’
‘Justin.’
‘Thank you, Justin.’
‘You’re welcome … ?’
‘Amy.’
Now, glancing at her watch, it was touch and go whether she’d make it on time. Amy closed her eyes as the taxi pushed its way towards Covent Garden. She hated lying to Justin.
At last, the taxi drew up outside the Royal Opera House. Amy searched the sea of beautiful faces, trying to pick him out, as a doorman bustled forwards to open the cab door for her.
Stepping out, Amy felt like a movie star. She forgot all about Justin.
The foyer was filled with flowers and chatter.
And there, there he was.
Sergei.
‘Well, what do you think so far?’ Sergei asked as he led her out of the auditorium during the interval. Americanised, his voice still carried the richness and depth of his beloved Russia. They hadn’t had time to talk properly since dashing in to catch the first act.
‘Oh, I can hardly speak!’ Amy breathed. ‘It’s so perfect! Those costumes! The music, it’s so full of joy, don’t you think? And isn’t Darcey Bussell just a genius? She makes it look as though she isn’t really trying; she just dances, doesn’t she?’ Then, catching herself, she glanced up at Sergei. ‘I mean, that’s what it looks like to me – I forgot I was talking to a mega-genius world-famous choreographer for a moment. What’s your verdict, Sergei? Thumbs up or down?’ Finally she stopped and bit her lip. For someone who could hardly speak, she seemed to have just had something of a breakthrough.
Sergei waved away the compliment, then thrust his arms out and planted both thumbs firmly up.
‘I think it is an extremely good production so far,’ he replied. ‘Excellent, in fact. I am so glad you think so too. Shall we have a drink?’
The bar was already crowded, noisy, hot and swimming with a potent mix of expensive perfumes, and a heady theatrical buzz. Beautiful, confident people mingled with even more beautiful, even more confident people, and Amy shrank back a little as she moved towards the bar, clutching Sergei’s arm. It felt firm and strong under her hand. When would she ever feel that she belonged at places like this, as these people obviously did? So sure of themselves – so ‘solid in their shoes’, as her mother used to say.
Sergei always seemed to cause a stir at the ballet, Amy mused, as all around them people nodded greetings in his direction and hustled out of their path. He was still very handsome, with his strong ex-dancer’s body, and his dark hair only lightly flecked with silver, and more than once Amy had to stifle an immature giggle as the words ‘Baron’, ‘Von’ and ‘Trapp’ swam in and out of her brain when she looked up at him. She reckoned he was about forty-four, and he had gorgeous, twinkly eyes and a special brand of transatlantic exuberance that was hard to describe but delicious to experience.
And his effect on women was nothing short of remarkable. Most of the females in the place seemed to greet him with such full-on, kissy-kissy enthusiasm that in a strange way Amy quite enjoyed the cold looks they bestowed upon her moments later.
‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the glass of cool white wine.
‘So,’ Sergei began, ‘how have you been? I have missed you.’
‘Great, thanks,’ Amy replied. ‘Bit of a nightmare getting out of the flat tonight …’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, it was nothing, really, just a bit of a disaster with the washing machine, nothing important.’ She could have kicked herself. Here she was, standing in the Royal Opera House with the most distinguished-looking man in the place, whom she hadn’t seen for ages, talking about her sodding washing machine! She shot a glance round the room. Honestly, why am I such a moron?
But Sergei, ever the gentleman, replied, ‘Oh dear, how inconvenient for you. But I am so glad you are here.’
Amy felt the beginnings of a blush creeping around her hairline. ‘So, how long are you in London for?’ she asked quickly.
‘Not so long, I am afraid,’ he replied as they ascended the stairs. ‘I go to China tomorrow. Just for a short while and then I return to the States in a few weeks.’
Amy nodded. ‘Well, it’s lovely of you to make time to see me,’ she said, giving his arm a squeeze.
He gave her a strange look. ‘How could I not?’ he asked, his eyes flashing, before covering the look with a smile of heart-melting warmth.
A pause followed, and Amy took a large gulp from her wine glass. She was grateful for the extra height afforded by her shoes, knowing from past experience that flat shoes in a noisy crowded room, for a small person, meant only two things: instant deafness, and a sore neck from craning upwards all the time. Plus, as ever, her beloved heels imparted an injection of confidence that just might get her through the evening without her making a complete idiot of herself.
‘I’m off to the Isle of Wight Festival at the weekend,’ she announced, suddenly inspired with the thought that she could ratchet up her self-esteem by nailing ‘music’ and ‘travel’ in a single sentence.
‘Really?’ Sergei replied. ‘With whom?’
Is that a slight edge to his voice? Amy wondered, before immediately dismissing the thought.
‘Oh, with my two best mates, Debbie and Jes – should be brilliant!’
‘Any chance that I might know any of the bands that will be there?’ he asked.
Amy bit her lip. ‘Um, well, I’m not sure – how about Foo Fighters?’
Sergei shook his head.
‘Coldplay?’
‘Is that a name, or are you asking me a question?’
‘The Kooks?’
‘Kooks? With a K? As in, David Bowie?’ He seemed chuffed to have made a connection.
Amy frowned. ‘David Bowie? Not sure, could be – I think they named themselves after
