Mario's. Why had she mentioned Mario's? It wasn't bad, but it was hardly first date territory. Everything on the menu came with half a ton of cheese. Somehow the piped-in Italian duets were even cheesier, and a sixteen-strong party of students - even worse, a sixteen-strong party of first-years - were joining in with gusto. Sophia knew why. She lifted the glass to her lips. The house white went down tremendously easily.
At least Alexander seemed to be enjoying himself. Besides, he had leapt at the idea when she had mentioned Mario's and had fully tackled it to the floor when she tried to persuade him out of it.
"I haven't been to a place like this in years," he said, taking a bite of what was presumably foccaccia. "There's something charming about the laziness of it all."
"That's a relief."
Alexander stopped chewing, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Don't worry about it. They could spill a case of wine over me and I wouldn't care. It's fantastically real."
"The stains in your jacket would be real."
"They would be." Alexander raised his glass of red to his eye, swirling it with his wrist. "I suspect this would burn right through."
Sophia laughed, brushing away her long swept-back hair and nudging one of her moon-and-star earrings in the process. It jangled. Loudly. No changing them now, she thought. She wore a blue knee-length dress, a braided brown waist belt and high black boots. Her eyeliner matched her dress. She had only realised as she was applying it. It hadn't seemed like an extra effort.
Alexander, meanwhile, wore a red cardigan beneath a dark gray jacket, with a white pocket square peeping out. Sophia suspected he had thousands of pocket squares. Probably a few hundred pairs of burgundy chinos for the summer, and a waistcoat or ten.
"What sort of restaurants do you normally go to, then?" she asked.
Alexander thought for a moment. "Uptight ones. Ones where the waiters are all one and the same man. Where you suspect a junior chef is being berated in the kitchen for getting the sauce almost exactly the right taste. Sometimes there's a delightful one, though, and the poor ones make them seem all the more so."
"And where does Mario's rank?"
"As of the starter, near the top. It couldn't be a more stereotyped Italian if it tried. It's fantastic. I almost hope a violinist comes out to serenade us."
"Oh god, no." Sophia laughed into her hands. "I'd run out on you. Sorry, you're a nice guy, but not enough to stop that."
She caught his eye. When she realised she was holding his gaze, she looked away.
It was only when their main courses arrived that they turned to what should have been the first topics of their conversation.
"So what do you study here?" asked Alexander, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
"Chemistry."
"Chemistry?" Alexander raised his eyebrows. A forkful of pasta had stopped halfway from his plate to his mouth.
"Yep, chemistry," said Sophia, enjoying his reaction. "Why are you so surprised?"
Alexander squirmed. "Well, I'd thought...I'm not certain."
"Is it because of the play? What, did you think I was going to be doing English, or studying the finer points of art history?"
"I must admit I did." Alexander had stopped eating. "I hope I didn't do you a disservice thinking so."
"No," said Sophia. "But scientists get to do art sometimes, you know."
"Oh, I know. On that you can trust me."
What was it about the way he talked? It seemed so out of place, given his surroundings, and yet so perfectly judged to the situation. It was as if he inhabited his own social space, shielding him from any of the expectations of behaviour in a raucous student bar or lackadaisical Italian restaurant. The room seemed to adapt to him, not the other way around.
"And what brought you here?" asked Sophia. "It can't just have been the local theatre scene."
Alexander's wine glass hovered near his lips. He thought a moment, and stared at her. "No. I'm here for research."
"So are you an academic?"
"You could say that."
Sophia shifted in her seat. She'd known some tutors to hit on their students, and there were no rules in place to stop them, but it seemed inappropriate nonetheless. "You don't work here though, right?"
"No."
"That's a relief."
"Why's that?"
How to put this tactfully? "It would be strange," said Sophia. A thought struck her. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'd better get this out of the way. How old are you?"
"That's a cruel question." But Alexander was smiling. It made little creases in his cheeks, but there was nothing in it to betray his age. Between his hair and complexion, he looked to Sophia to be in his late twenties, but something in the beard and dress sense could have carried that number anywhere up to forty. It was a disorientating effect.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I feel like I need to ask, rather than wait for a clue. Besides, my friend Julie is definitely going to ask me when I get back tonight."
"I'm thirty-one. What's the rule these days, half your age plus seven?" Alexander smiled devilishly. "Am I breaking that rule?"
"Just. I was twenty-two last month."
"Oh come now, that's not breaking it. That's giving it a nudge and seeing if it holds."
'Come now'? He didn't sound like he was just past thirty. Maybe if he was just past thirty in 1933. Still, thought Sophia, she could manage thirty-one. Julie had gone out with a thirty-eight year old once, and that was three years ago, when she was only just out of her teens. Besides, she could walk away from Alexander tonight and never see him again. She told herself this more than once.
"So where do you work?" she asked.
"No one place. I travel."
"To many places?"
"Everywhere."
He looked at her unwaveringly. Candlelight flickered in his pupils. Sophia's lips parted, ever so slightly. The room seemed to have become silent.
A fumble, a slip of glass; stains bloomed from the tablecloth.
"So sorry, signorina!" cried the careless waiter, whirling away from the table and back again with a cloth in one fluid motion.
"No no, that's fine," said Sophia, suddenly laughing, covering her face, as the music from the speakers assailed her ears once more. The waiter furiously dabbed the tablecloth, whisking the fallen glass out of the way. "Please, it's fine!"
"Apologies, apologies. Another glass on the house, signorina. Un momento!"
With balletic grace the waiter swirled away, bumping into Alexander's chair leg and another table nearby, and making both actions seem quite deliberate. Sophia peeped out from her fingers to see Alexander shaking his head, beaming.
"This place can't get any better," he said, wiping at his mouth once more.
When the complimentary glass of wine arrived, Sophia threw a large amount straight down her throat, but she still smiled afterward. "So - what were we talking about?"
"My work, I believe. Not that I'm desirous to speak about myself all evening. That's considered bad form, isn't it?"
"Ok, one more question then. What are you researching?"
"My research?" Alexander sat up straight, carefully laying his cutlery before him. "I'll warn you now, I'm about to sound tremendously pretentious."
You already do, sound a voice in Sophia's head. "Bring it on."
"I'm writing a book on aesthetics. Art, comedy, tragedy, whether through words, music, architecture, the mere chance of history - whatever gives people joy and pleasure and makes them see beauty, I want to understand it, I want to understand why it does so, and I will go anywhere to understand why it does so."
"Right. Including coming to a small university town and seeing a shoddy student play."
"Yes. And it wasn't shoddy in the slightest. It was like this place. It was real."
Sophia narrowed her gaze. "Real. You keep saying real. I don't know what you mean by that. Is there something false about other places?"
"Not false. But without passion. It's the difference between artifice and magic." Alexander's eyes seemed brighter than before, and he gestured broadly with his hands. "If you want beauty, you can't simply combine a script and an actor, or a painter and a subject, and expect beauty as a result. The only thing that makes it is chance. And the only way to increase that chance, is with passion. To do everything as fully and as completely as you can. To throw yourself, all your being, at whatever life might bring."
There was a burst of loud laughter from the party of other students nearby. One of them had somehow thrown their tiramisu on the floor.
"So Mario's is beautiful to you, is it?" said Sophia, tilting her head towards the giggles.
"Well, I concede. Maybe beauty isn't the right word." Alexander leant forward. "But I can tell you truthfully, at this moment, I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world but here."
As she stared into his eyes, Sophia realised that she hadn't eaten for several minutes. She quickly took her knife and fork, breaking eye contact with effort. "And how about the play the other evening? Was that beautiful?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Good, because we could do a lot better."
"Not for me. It was perfection. You were perfection."
Sophia looked away. Compliments she could take, but this? "I think you mean Julie. The girl playing Beatrice?"
"Beatrice? Oh, Beatrice is fabulous, but she's fabulous when played by any competent actress. All the best lines, all the wit and the verve. But Hero? Hero's a vessel waiting to be filled, waiting to be interpreted any one of a thousand ways. The emphasis is on the actress, not the lines. And you made the best Hero I've ever had the pleasure to see. You gave her meaning, substance. You made life out of words. That is alchemy. That is beauty."
Sophia couldn't respond. When she said 'Thank you', she wasn't sure if she had made a sound. Look anywhere but his eyes; those eyes.
"Is something wrong?"
"I...no. Not at all. Shall we have dessert?"
"I think so. I'll try not to throw mine on the floor."
Sophia laughed, finally finding herself able to look at Alexander again. After their desserts had arrived, he smiled in a challenging way.
"You said when we met that I was being very bold asking you here."
Sophia took a bite of cheesecake, trying to outstare him as she chewed. A distracting lemon tang lost her the match. "I did."
"Well, I'm going to be bold again. I've enjoyed myself immensely tonight, and I'd very much like to see you again. And this time I'll decide where to take you, if you'll give me a few notes."
"Such as?"
"Pick a place."
"A place?"
"I'm sorry, that's far too vague. Pick a city. Any city."
Sophia bit her lip. The closest city to here was Newcastle. Regrettably, she didn't consider it romantic territory. "When you say any city, what do you mean?"
"Any city. England, Europe, the world." The corners of Alexander's mouth twitched upward.
I'll play, though Sophia. "Prague. I was talking about going to Prague with Julie. Take me to Prague!"
"Very good. Pick a century."
"Oh, a century? You are flash. No one's ever offered to take me anywhere but the 21st before. I only ever get the lazy guys." She drank from her glass, rolling her eyes. "Fine. Eighteenth."
Alexander sat back. "Eighteenth century Prague it is. And I have the perfect night in mind."
"You do?"
"I do."
A second later, Sophia laughed. It was only when she had said goodnight half an hour later that she realised that he had not done the same. He had only smiled, joyously, and stared.
*
The temperature might just be turning up. What do you think of Alexander? Is he too much of a charmer, hiding some other intentions? Do you think Sophia will be able to resist him, even if he remains a mystery to her? If you have any thoughts leave them in the comments and please vote if you enjoyed the chapter.
The music is that most cheesy stereotyped Italian tune, That's Amore. They play it every half hour at Mario's.