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She frowned, a little caught off guard. Had she shared too much at dinner? She hadn’t intended to be so honest with him, but it had felt so right to speak freely, to open up to Anastasios. She’d felt a connection building between them and had simply trusted him with her story.
Had she misplaced that trust? Or misread his interest?
“Anastasios?” She stopped walking, uncertainty reshaping her features, so he shook his head and offered a smile. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course.” He looked around the grand hall—wide with very high ceilings, chandeliers, cream walls and gold swirling details, then back to Phoebe. “I thought we should go to the opera together.”
Her lips parted, and she was so excited she didn’t hear the tension in his voice. “Ophelia Agnavadi?”
“You seemed impressed by her.”
“I was. Oh, she’s wonderful. You’re going to love her.”
Anastasios compressed his lips. “We’ll see.”
Phoebe suppressed a laugh. “If you don’t like the opera, why did you organize this?”
He didn’t answer, and a moment later, they were moving towards the wide doors at the end of the corridor. Only as they crossed the threshold did he lean close and say, “Because you do.”
Her heart practically skidded into the theater.
They were not seated with the general public; she couldn’t say why she’d expected they might be. Instead, an usher led them to a narrow stairwell which opened out onto a little balconette. They were alone in there.
The singing was every bit as beautiful as she remembered. Phoebe was moved to tears within minutes of the performance commencing. At one point, she looked over at Anastasios, to see his reaction, and she froze, because he looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He was transfixed, turned completely to stone. He stared at the beautiful soprano, his skin pale, and she wondered if that was simply how opera affected him? And then, she wondered if there was more to it?
Jealousy, unmistakable and fierce, burst through her, but she tamped down on it. Anastasios was simply caught up in the music. Besides, she had no right to feel jealous. A single kiss did not a commitment make.
Her heart stammered at the harsh reality of that, a heart that was beating, more and more, she feared for Anastasios.
His phone buzzed a little after intermission and he removed it from his pocket, shifting slightly so the light from the screen was visibly only to his eyes. It was a text from Tommy.
I have a photo of the love letter.
He’d forgotten, completely, about his friend’s supposed evidence of the affair, and being reminded now brought a complex tangle of emotions. He should have felt glad. To have proof, to know what he was dealing with, meant he could start planning for how to manage the situation. But only when confronted with the truth did he realise how badly he’d wanted Tommy to be wrong. He’d come to believe Phoebe, and the complication of her relationship with his father threatened to bring out the worst in him.
A moment later, an unsolicited and definitely unwanted photograph landed on his screen. Conscious of Phoebe, spellbound, at his side, he shifted a little more, ensuring his phone was private, then clicked it to large size and read it with a chest that was too full of anger to leave space for air.
Phoebe, A little something until we see one another again. Wear it and think of me, as I will be thinking of you. This weekend meant the world. You’re very special to me. K.
He read it again, trying to explain it, trying to rationalize it. He imagined any circumstances in which his father might have innocently penned the note. There were none. It was so intimate. So affectionate. He closed his eyes, picturing his father’s face. His father who had been made of iron, who was tough and demanding, and he knew that only the deepest love would have softened him to the extent that he would communicate like this. White hot rage barreled through him at the betrayal. He told himself he was angry on behalf of his mother, who’d loved Konstantinos for so many decades, only to be treated like this, but deep down, there was more. It was personal to Anastasios.
He was still processing the letter when another message came through. ‘Also, there’s this.’
Anastasios braced for what was to follow, then stared at his screen as a picture appeared. He recognized the interior of the restaurant instantly, and could tell the image had been snapped from behind the counter. It was a close up of Phoebe and Konstantinos, and seeing them together was so discombobulating, he felt as though the world was tipping sideways.
Kon was sitting at the table, and Phoebe stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, body angled towards his, and his father’s expression was so full of love, of lust, that Anastasios wanted to punch something. There was no mistaking their intimacy.
Something inside of him shattered at her deception, at the feeling of having been lied to by this woman, who he had come to—to what? To like? Care about? To trust? All such bland terms to describe the way she’d taken up sole occupancy of his mind.
But she’d lied. To his face, and all along. She’d drawn him in with her act, she’d been so goddamned insistent about her ‘friendship’ with Kon, that Anastasios had actually started to believe her.
And yet, he’d been right all along. What a hollow victory that was.
On went the show, so glorious, the other singers dwarfed by the brilliance of Ophelia, and when it ended, Phoebe stood spontaneously, tears in her eyes. She turned to enthuse with Anastasios, but he was staring straight ahead, brooding, as if he hadn’t even realized it was over.
Ophelia returned to curtsy; the applause was deafening. Anastasios finally stood, leaned close to Phoebe and said, “Excuse me a moment.”
He slipped out and away before she could stop him.
