“Had a three-year-old daughter. Yes.”
“And her mum never visits?”
I shake my head. “No. She didn’t want to stay, and she’s never come back, so I can only assume she still feels that way. I don’t know where she is now, and quite honestly, I’m not sure I care anymore.”
Diana gapes at me. “And there’s never been… a stepmother?”
“No.” I pause, and Diana continues to watch me closely. Is she invested in this answer? Does she care whether or not I’m seeing someone? “They’re always evil. Didn’t you know?”
She breaks into a smile that takes my breath away. “You’re right. In books and movies. But not in real life.”
“Maybe not,” I say quietly. “But I haven’t found a good one.”
A tense silence swallows us.
“I’m so sorry,” Diana says. “That sounds really hard. I can’t imagine being left alone to raise a child.” She glances at the great domed roof over our heads before returning her gaze to mine, holding it a moment too long, and adding, “But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to leave you, either.”
I blink, my chest pinching. The words sound like a confession, but she hardly even knows me. How could they be anything more than a platitude? They can’t, I’m sure of it. But nonetheless, her soft, whispered words have me longing for something I can’t quite pinpoint.
“My parents stepped in,” I clarify. “We moved here when I was twelve, and I think they would have gone back to the States if Lizzie hadn’t been born, but they stayed and helped me raise her. I was never entirely alone.”
I don’t know how much more to share. It was difficult after Evangeline walked out, even when my mother was there almost every day to help. My father too, when his work allowed. I dread to think how I would have coped without them, or what the impact on Lizzie might have been if they hadn’t been there.
I rarely allow myself to think about those days. I prefer to focus on the present than wallow in the past, but for some reason, perhaps because Diana is listening so attentively, I let it spill out.
“I don’t regret any of it. Lizzie changed my life for the better in every way. I didn’t know what it was like to love someone with my whole being until I had a child. I would do anything for her, just as my parents would have done anything for me. I always had their support. I’m not sure I could have done it without them.”
I know instantly that I’ve taken it too far; shared too much and spoken too candidly on a topic Diana can’t relate to. She withdraws, staring at the bubbles popping in her drink, hervoice ringing with a subtle melancholy when she says, “That’s wonderful. Truly.”
An impulse to put my arms around her, draw her close, kiss the top of her head, and tell her I’ll support her, flits through my mind.
I do none of those things.
During the entire third act of the opera, Diana’s proximity elicits a strange array of sensations in me. My body is alert in ways it hasn’t been since I met the woman at Delirium. Every nerve ending has been brushed raw, and no matter how much I try to keep my focus on the stage, Diana absorbs most of it without even trying. It doesn’t help that we’re the only people in the box, alone in a shadowed space, which only accentuates my discomfort.
As Madame Butterfly approaches the end, and the great climactic rendition ofUn bel bi, vedremoresounds through the opera hall, she shifts beside me. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking.
I offer her my handkerchief, which she takes with a whispered thanks, dabbing her eyes and leaving black mascara smudges on the white fabric.
Most operas are tragic, but this isn’t a woman who’s slightly moved; this is one who’s having an emotional breakdown, and, if my assumption is correct, whose tears aren’t solely about the performance. Lizzie’s told me enough about her to know she didn’t grow up in a happy home, and I can’t help but imagine Diana finding all her clothes destroyed; her books torn apart.
Her father must be a monster. The low ebb of anger thrums in my gut.
Frustrated, I adjust my position, and my hand brushes against her dress.
Before I can move away, she slides her fingers between my much larger ones.
I hadn’t intended to offer her my hand, but now that she’s holding it, I let her. She gives my palm a gentle squeeze, like she’s thanking me for the touch. With her other hand, she presses my handkerchief to her streaming eyes.
A strange heat flows through me, expanding internally like the filling of a balloon. I can’t explain it. Her pulse beats against mine and, as seconds turn to minutes, some inexplicable magic flows between us and her tears come under control.
When the performance finally ends, my handkerchief is a crumpled ball, and Diana’s cheeks are blotchy. I extricate my hand from hers, resisting the urge to shake it out and rid myself of whatever her touch has done to me.
Placing my hands on my thighs, I turn in my seat to speak to her. “Are you all right?”
She dabs her eyes again. “I’m so sorry. I was completely overwhelmed.” She bites down on her lip, which is trembling ever so slightly, and I wish I could put my arms around her and comfort her.
“Too much champagne at the interval?” I ask in an attempt to lighten the mood.
