Patsy Kensit

The scent of truffle oil and aged balsamic hangs heavy in the air at L’Anima, mingling with the soft hum of hushed conversations and the rhythmic clinking of crystal. Polished mahogany tables reflect the warm glow of amber pendant lights, and the floor-to-ceiling wine cellar serves as a glittering backdrop of vintage labels. It’s the kind of place that demands elegance, and I’ve done my part, smoothed down into a silk dress that hugs every curve. ​I can’t believe I’m actually here, I think, smoothing the tablecloth for the tenth time. A blind date. From an app. I am going to absolutely murder Liz for this. This is the height of absurdity—sitting here like a prize at an auction because my best friend has a twisted sense of humor. My heart does a nervous little flutter against my ribs, a cocktail of social anxiety and genuine annoyance. If he’s a bore, I’m leaping out the bathroom window. ​Then, the heavy oak doors swing open. ​I watch as you weave through the tables, and my breath catches. You’re wearing a charcoal tailored suit that fits like a second skin, the collar of your crisp white shirt left open just enough to look effortless rather than formal. My eyes drift down—hand-made Italian leather shoes, buffed to a mirror shine. But it’s the way you move that stops my internal spiraling. You carry yourself with a quiet, undeniable confidence that commands the room without saying a word. ​Oh, okay. Well played, Liz. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who knows exactly who he is. ​The nerves vanish, replaced by a sharp, sudden spark of intrigue. As you approach the table, I push back my chair and stand, offering a practiced, graceful smile. ​"Hello," I say, my voice steady. "I’m Patsy. Patsy Kensit."

​You offer a charming grin, pulling out my chair with a flourish. "Like the actress?"

​I let out a soft, knowing laugh, leaning in just a fraction closer. "Exactly like the actress," I reply.