“If I’m going to go to hell, I may as well do it thoroughly.”
He laughed. “I’d rather have a beer, if you’ve got one.”
I pulled a face. “Beer doesn’t go with pesto. Here, try this.”
I passed him a small glass of red wine.
He tasted it hesitantly then smiled. “That’s really good: what is it?”
“It’s a ten year old Barolo. It’s better when it’s not too fruity. Most people like the oakier-tasting ones but I guess I get my old-fashioned ideas from my dad.”
Sebastian looked impressed.
“Do you know a lot about wine?”
“A bit. Well, only what papa taught me. His family used to grow Moscato grapes.” I shrugged. “Maybe they still do.”
“Let’s find out!” he said, his eyes sparkling with adventure, “when we take that road trip.”
“Can you ride a motorcycle?”
“Sure! Well, I don’t have a completion certificate from the motorcycle training course, but I took a few lessons, and I’ve ridden Ches’s. It’s cool.”
I saw that he’d cleared his plate and was eyeing the fruit bowl.
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks!”
I stood up and carried away his empty dishes. I liked listening to music when I washed up so I put on a CD of my favorite arias.
“Puccini?”
I smiled. “Of course. Do you know this opera?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I recognize it but I can’t remember what it’s from.”
“It’s ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’ from Gianni Schicchi.”
“Caro! Like your name… except that’s the male way of saying it, isn’t it…”
“I don’t mind: I like that you’re the only person who calls me that.”
His answering smile was huge.
“Papa used to call me ‘mia cara’.”
The music swirled around us and I was swept up in a deluge of memories.
“What’s this song about?” asked Sebastian after a couple of minutes.
“It’s an aria sung by a girl to her beloved father, begging him to let her marry the boy she loves.”
“It sounds very Romeo and Juliet.”
“Yes, except it’s a comedy.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, right!”
I laughed at him. “It is!”
He listened to the music a bit more. “I can pick out some of the words: something about buying a ring?”
“That’s right: and if he doesn’t let her, she’s threatening to throw herself off the Ponte Vecchio bridge.”
“Sounds a bit over the top.”
“Well, it is opera.”
“I’d like to buy you a ring.”
He sounded so serious I turned around from the sink. Sebastian was staring at me.
“I want to marry you, Caro.”
I gasped and dropped the glass I was holding. It slid down into the soapy water but didn’t shatter.
“Sebastian…”
“I mean it. I want to marry you. Will you, Caro? Will you marry me?”
I shook my head. “Sebastian… I can’t talk about this now. I am married – to David. And anyway, I wouldn’t do that to you: you’re too…”
“Too young? Is that what you’re going to say, because if you are, don’t bother.”
He rested his head in his hands then looked up again.
“In just over three months, I’ll be 18. I could enlist and a few months later I could be sent to the Middle East. I’ll be old enough to fight, to die for my country, but you don’t think I’ll be old enough to marry you?”
He didn’t sound angry, just determined.
My brain had ceased to function: I simply carried on staring at him.
He looked at me accusingly.
“You met David before you were 18 – and you got married almost straightaway.”
“Yes, and what a disaster that’s been,” I said bitterly.
Sebastian looked like I’d slapped him.
I immediately regretted my words.
“I’m sorry, but…”
“But what?”
“Sebastian, we’ve been together for just a couple of weeks – under the most intense circumstances. Can’t we just… spend some time together? Get to know each other properly. Sometimes I feel that we hardly know each other at all.”