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Wentworth cleared his throat. “I mean, I hope they make it. Louisa is full of spirit and Benny is a stable counterpart, a kind soul. Though . . . I admit . . .”
“Admit what?”
“It’s only been a year since he lost his girlfriend. He’d had his heart almost broken. I struggle to imagine how he can be so happy. How do you stop loving the person who first stole your soul? You don’t. You can’t.”
Elliot’s heart pounded in his chest. The abrupt way Wentworth stopped, as if he’d realised he was speaking his innermost thoughts aloud. Rain drummed on the car roof, the distant sounds of horns blaring and doors slamming shut all faded as Elliot weighed every word.
He couldn’t respond.
Wentworth unclicked his belt and went to open the door.
Elliot needed to say something. Keep this conversation going. How much easier it was to guide others to open up, to be vulnerable. Elliot desperately wanted to, but the magnitude of his hope rippled through him like sunshine, melted him into a puddle, made it impossible to move.
Dazed, he said, “It was good of you to support them. Louisa and Benny. I like Benny a lot. You have good taste in friends.”
“Benny likes you too,” Wentworth said quietly. “I’m sure he’d like to know you better.”
Elliot’s heart couldn’t pound any faster. “I’d like to know him—all your friends—better.”
Wentworth’s head swivelled around, gaze big and dark on Elliot. “You would? I mean, getting to know them would mean luring them here.”
“I haven’t had much chance to travel. If I happened to be in Los Angeles and you were also there, you might introduce me?”
“We’d—I mean, you’d have to find someone who’d take care of Honey for a few weeks.”
“Of course. Not right away or anything. I don’t imagine travelling too much while he’s a pup—or, yes, I do intend to take some time off in the coming weeks, but I’ll take Honey with me.”
“Have you booked things?”
Elliot shook his head. “I want the feeling of being free. Spontaneous.”
“I was thinking of taking the boat up to Marlborough Sounds. I could take you and Honey there?”
“Would Honey be okay on a boat?”
“Dogs are on boats all the time. He’d have a life jacket when we’re sailing. And he’ll need training, but . . . he loves water, he’s naturally drawn to it. We could spend the next couple of weeks getting him familiar with my boat before we set off.”
Sounded like Wentworth had thought about this.
If only there wasn’t such an awkward break between Elliot finishing his contract and Wentworth . . . Unless . . .
A knock came at Elliot’s window and he turned to see Philip under an umbrella, waving for him to come out.
Wentworth made a tight sound in his throat. “Right. We’d better . . .”
Elliot got out of the car, opening his own umbrella rather than taking up Philip’s offer to share, but the symbolism was lost on Wentworth who strode ahead into the theatre.
Elliot and Philip found Cameron and Henry waiting for them in the lobby, but though Elliot searched the crowded area, Wentworth could not be seen. Was he already making his way to his seat?
His giddiness was checked by Wentworth’s disappearance; he only murmured polite conversation to the others, trailing behind them automatically, the whole time scanning for rust-coloured hair and an imposingly beautiful figure.
Where was he?
Elliot gave in and sent a text; only once he was firmly seated, Cameron on one side and Philip on the other, did he receive an answer.
Wentworth: Near the back. Enjoy the show.
As the house lights dimmed, he turned in his seat and scanned the back row on the opposite side of the aisle. There, at the end, sat Wentworth. Program rolled into his fist, bouncing on his knee. He was too far away to talk, but not so far away that they weren’t very visible to one another. Their eyes locked in the semi-darkness.
The rest of the theatre’s seats filled, involving a lot of standing to let people pass, and then the curtain lifted and Roberto Devereux, ossia Il conte di Essex began.
Elliot barely paid attention. He was flushed and his stomach felt like he was diving into the ocean over and over again. He was going over all the moments of the day. His mind analysed everything. Wentworth’s offer to travel with him, help train Honey on his boat. His abruptness when he mentioned arthritic kisses. All his glances, all his looks.
Wentworth had started a conversation, a real one, even if he couldn’t finish all his thoughts.
They were talking about the future.
They were making plans.
Almost half the opera, his thoughts spiralled around all this. Close to the interval, Philip leaned close—for a fifth time—and whispered, “Do you understand what this song is about? The one between the lovers?”
