I run my fingers over my mouth as if to say, My lips are zipped.
‘See, if you had trusted me with my matchmaking . . .’ she says, throwing a pointed look in my direction. ‘So where is Robyn? Is she coming to the apartment?’
‘Oh, no, she’s busy.’
‘Busy?’ Magda starts grabbing her plethora of bags and packages. ‘No, you have to wait. Mommy is busy,’ she instructs Valentino, who snaps around her heels, wanting to be picked up. She turns back to Daniel. ‘What is she doing?’
‘I . . . um . . .’ Daniel looks incredibly awkward. ‘Here, do you want me to help you?’ He reaches down, but Magda bats him away.
‘Not with your bad back, Daniel.’
‘Mom, I’m fine.’
‘Remember what Dr Goldstein said about your sciatica?’
Valentino is still jumping up and down trying to get attention. Daniel bends forward to grab a bag, and I’m not quite sure what happens, but suddenly there’s an ear-splitting howl and Daniel goes flying, along with the bags and Valentino, who shoots out from underneath him like a bullet, and Daniel lands in a tangled heap on the floor.
‘Oy!’ shrieks Magda, rushing to her son’s aid. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’m fine, Mom.’ Throwing Valentino a furious glare, Daniel starts scrambling to his feet and brushing himself down, while Magda fusses around him. ‘Seriously, I’m fine. Don’t worry—’ Suddenly he breaks off. ‘Oh shit.’
‘What is it?’ gasps Magda, her eyes wide with concern. ‘It is your back? Oy! I knew you would hurt your back, I knew it!’
‘No, Mom, it’s not my back.’
‘Then what is it?’ She’s almost shrieking. ‘Oh, no, is it your heart? It’s your heart, isn’t it? You’re going to take after your father.’
‘No, it’s the painting.’ His face is ashen.
Magda stops shrieking and frowns in confusion. ‘What painting?’
With a stricken expression Daniel points to the wrapped package that was leaning against the side, along with some of the bags. It’s the painting that Magda’s aunt left her. She’d obviously brought it out from the back office to take back to Daniel’s, but now the wrapping is all ripped off, and underneath the canvas is torn.
‘Jeez, Mom, I’m sorry. It must have been when I fell—’ he begins apologising, but she stops him.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ She quickly bats away his concerns. ‘It was terrible.’
‘What was it?’ I ask curiously. I’ve been watching this whole thing unfold, and now as Daniel picks up the painting, the wrapping paper in shreds, I look at it with interest.
‘Looks like a clown,’ says Daniel, peering at it.
‘I hate clowns.’ Magda gives a little shudder. ‘They are so creepy.’
‘Maybe you could fix it,’ I say, standing by Daniel’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure we could find a restorer.’ Reaching over carefully, I peel back the torn flap of canvas with my fingers.
‘No, I don’t care. Throw it away.’ Magda wrinkles her nose. ‘I never liked it.’
‘But it was from Great-Aunt Irena,’ Daniel protests. ‘She wanted you to have it.’
‘Hang on, wait a minute.’
They both stop squabbling and turn to me expectantly.
‘What?’ asks Magda. ‘What is it?’
‘Look, underneath,’ I say, feeling a beat of excitement. ‘There’s another canvas hidden beneath.’
‘Oh wow, yeah, you’re right,’ nods Daniel. ‘It’s another painting.’
‘Well, would you believe it,’ gapes Magda. ‘Aunt Irena always did say appearances could be deceptive.’
‘I wonder what it is,’ muses Daniel.
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’ I glance across at Magda. ‘May I?’
She throws her hands in the air as if to say, Sure, go ahead, and so, taking a deep breath, I tear back the tattered canvas of the clown, with its gaudy colours and amateurish brushstrokes, to reveal a whole new painting. A naked portrait of a woman, reclining on a cushion, while cherubic angels dance around her.
‘That’s kinda nice,’ murmurs Daniel with approval, but I can’t reply. My heart is thumping so loudly in my ears I feel dizzy.
The distinctive muted colours. The familiar religious subject. It can’t be. It just can’t be . . .With trembling fingers I turn it to the light and peer at the initials in the far corner. It is.
‘Oh my God,’ I gasp, my voice barely a whisper.
‘What is it?’ asks Magda.
‘Your aunt was right, appearances can be deceptive.’ Turning to her, I can barely say the words. ‘It’s a Titian.’
After that it’s bedlam. Daniel’s straight on the phone to a renowned art expert at an auction house, Magda has to sit down before she falls down, and I just stare dumbfounded at a priceless masterpiece. I can’t believe that it’s been here all this time, propped up in the back office, being completely ignored, and would have probably remained stuffed somewhere out of sight for years unless Daniel had fallen against it.
It’s like finding you’ve got the winning lottery ticket. If it’s genuine, it will be worth millions. I mean, just imagine. It will be the answers to all Magda’s prayers. It will change everything!
With all the excitement at the gallery, I lose track of time and it’s only at the last minute I remember that the play Robyn gave me the tickets for is tonight. I’d almost forgotten. Reminded, I leave work and head to the theatre.
Despite everything, I’m actually quite looking forward to it. I managed to sell the spare ticket yesterday for a whopping hundred and fifty dollars, as it’s supposed to be a really good play and all the tickets are sold out, so it will be a good distraction from everything. It will be nice to lose myself for a couple of hours in a totally different world.
One that doesn’t involve Nathaniel Kennedy, I muse, glancing at my phone and toying with the idea of giving it one more try. I check my watch. I’ve got a few minutes before the play starts. It’s worth a shot. Dialling his number, I wait for it to connect. He probably won’t pick up, I tell myself, listening to it ringing. He’s probably screening his calls.
‘If this is to ask me to go to Venice again, the answer is still no,’ barks Nate, picking up.
We dispensed with the ‘hello’s and the ‘how are you’s quite some time ago.
‘Nate, please, just listen—’ I try persuading, but he cuts me off.
‘Lucy, how many more times?’
I heave a sigh, struggling to remain calm. ‘Look, I know you think this is a bad idea.’
‘I think it’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had,’ he huffs down the phone, ‘and that’s saying something.’
I feel a twinge of annoyance crank up a notch. ‘I really think you should think about it,’ I reason.
‘I have thought about it and the answer is no.’
I check my watch. Damn, the play’s about to start. I need to go in.
‘Hang on,’ I hiss into my phone, and hiding it under my jacket, I give my ticket to the usher and walk inside the theatre. I’m momentarily taken aback. Wow, it’s impressive. I feel a buzz. A real Broadway play. How exciting. ‘Sorry, where was I?’ I say, retrieving my phone.
‘You were hanging up,’ deadpans Nate.
‘And that’s it? You’re not going to change your mind?’ I begin walking down the aisle, checking the letters on each row.
‘What part of “I’m not going to Venice” do you not understand?’
Finding my row, I start shuffling down it towards my seat number. I’ve got to get him to change his mind, but how? How?
‘Anyway, I’ve got to go,’ he snaps.
‘No, wait. What about the cab the other day?’ Excusing myself to the people already sitting down, I head towards the middle, where I can see two empty seats.
‘What about it?’
‘We’ve got to make it stop, once and for all, otherwise you and Beth—’
‘Lucy, stop this. You’ve got to g
et a grip.’
‘I have got a grip,’ I retort, peering at the numbers on the back of the seats. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . It’s silent on the other end of the phone. ‘Nate, are you there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here.’
Gosh, how weird. For a moment his voice sounded like it wasn’t coming from my phone, but right next to me. Bingo. There’s my seat. I glance up, and come face to face with someone who’s been working their way down the row from the opposite direction.
‘Nate!’ I stare at him in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’
You’d think by now I would have got past the surprised bit, wouldn’t you? But no, here I am, staring at him, open-mouthed.
‘What?’ Still on the phone, he looks up at me in bewilderment. ‘I’ve come to see the play. That’s my seat.’ He points to the empty seat next to mine.
I glance at it in astonishment, then back at him, as suddenly it registers. ‘You were the person who bought my spare ticket on eBay?’
‘It was your spare ticket?’ He looks at me aghast.
There’s a pause as we stare at each other, frozen, until the lights go down and we’re forced to take our seats. The audience falls silent, waiting for the curtain to rise and the play to begin.
It’s then that I hear a whisper in my ear.
‘So when do we leave for Venice?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Venice, Italy, 2009
Nothing has changed. The summer heat creates a shimmering haze, through which Venice appears like a Canaletto brought to life. The dome of St Mark’s Cathedral rises above the pastel-coloured buildings, with their peeling paint and time-weary elegance. Vaporetti buzz. Tourists throng. Among the crowds, children run in the square scattering pigeons; men in sharp suits and designer shades sit smoking cigarettes; a guide with his umbrella talks history to a group of German tourists.
And down a maze of alleyways, tucked away in a tiny old pensione, in a room with a pink frilly bedspread and a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary, are two people. A stressed-out American in a suit mopping his brow, and an English girl trying to stay calm.
That’s me and Nate. Back in Venice, ten years later.
And this time around, everything has changed.
‘OK, so what’s the plan?’ Nate is saying briskly.
Having put down his suitcase and hung his jacket over the rickety wooden chair, he turns to me. Sweat and stress are oozing from his pores. He might as well have ‘I don’t want to be here’ written across his forehead in thick black marker pen.
‘Um, that’s the thing . . .’ I walk over to the window and open the shutters. Light floods in, sending dust particles swirling, and I pause to lean out and survey the tiny slice of Venetian life in the narrow alleyway below.
It’s also quite a good delaying tactic.
Because you see, the thing is, I’m not quite sure how to break this to Nate, but I haven’t finished formulating my plan yet. It’s nearly there. It’s just . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? There is no plan. The truth is, I haven’t a clue what on earth to do next.
‘Lucy?’
I turn round to find Nate is still looking at me, only now his face has set harder, rather like when food starts to go cold and congeals on a plate.
‘Please tell me you have a plan.’
His voice is steely and impatient, but I can detect a twinge of worry.
‘Well, not exactly a plan as such.’ I stumble through my excuses while Nate’s eyes are boring into me like lasers. ‘OK, I don’t have a plan,’ I confess.
‘You don’t have a plan?’ repeats Nate calmly.
As in eerily calm. As in the kind of foreboding calm you get as you’re opening your credit-card statement, slowly unfolding it, before the inevitable ‘Oh my God, how much?’ hits you like a ten-ton truck.
It’s that kind of calm.
‘Yet,’ I add, forcing a positive tone. ‘I don’t have a plan yet.’
Nate erupts in fury. ‘What the fuck?’ he cries angrily, throwing his arms in the air. ‘You got me all the way here, to Venice, Italy, and you don’t have a plan?’
‘OK, OK, I think we both get it. I don’t have a plan!’ I snap impatiently. ‘What are you going to do? Shoot me?’
Heaving a sigh, Nate sits down on the edge of the pink frilly bedspread and presses his temples. ‘Well, that would be a plan at least,’ he mutters under his breath.
I shoot him a furious look. Death in Venice is not what I had in mind. ‘Look . . .’ Taking a deep breath, I try to focus. What was it Robyn said? Ah, yes, something about the scene of the crime. ‘Just meet me at the Bridge of Sighs at sunset,’ I say on a whim.
‘And then what?’
‘Wait and see,’ I say, with as much confidence as I can muster. ‘I’ll come up with something.’
Rolling up his sleeves, Nate dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘You better do, ’cos I’m going to be on the first plane out of here tomorrow morning.’
I grab my sunglasses and throw my bag over my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry.’ I reach for the door. ‘I’ve got it all under control.’
Except, of course, I haven’t.
I stumble outside into the bright Italian sunshine, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind is racing. Fuck. Bloody fuck. What on earth am I supposed to do now? I haven’t the faintest clue. Anxiety grabs at my stomach like a pickpocket snatching at my purse. Under control indeed. What am I talking about? Everything is completely out of control. My life is spinning off its axis. I’m falling off gym machines and nearly breaking my ankle, performing magic spells and getting arrested, nearly killing myself in a car crash and doing karaoke.
And now I’m here, in Venice, with Nate.
And I’m still going to be with him in a hundred years’ time if I don’t think of something, and fast! A bolt of fear zips right through me, as I set off through the cobbled backstreets. I’m going to be tied to my ex-boyfriend for eternity. I’m going to die a shrivelled-up old maid who on her deathbed will still be trying to lose her ex.
A sudden vision of me croaking, ‘You’re chucked!’ and Nate as a wizened-up old bachelor with no teeth, bald as a coot, in novelty boxer shorts, croaking back, ‘No, you’re chucked!’ flashes through my brain.
Shuddering, I try blocking it out. I mean, at this rate he’s going to sabotage my life for ever, I think with panic. A memory of Adam’s face pops into my mind – how excited he’d looked that night in the cinema, rapidly followed by how hurt he’d looked later, in my kitchen, when Nate had stormed in. I’m going to sabotage Nate’s life too, I sigh, thinking back to my phone call with Beth, his ex-wife. Nate’s never going to be able to try again, because she’s never going to take him back.
Because I’ll still have him.
A cold chill grips my heart. We’re going to be locked together like conjoined twins.
I won’t be able to go anywhere without him. He won’t be able to do anything without me. ‘You complete me’ will stop being the most romantic line in a movie and will become the most sinister. We’ll be like those couples you read about who have been together for sixty years and have never spent a night apart and make you go, ‘Aw, what an amazing love story.’
Yet no one will know the truth.
That it’s not a love story; it’s a horror story.
Maybe it’s the same for those other couples too, I think with alarm. Maybe those couples we all read about have spent the last sixty years desperately trying to spend a night apart and dreaming of one day having the duvet to themselves. Maybe those couples kissed under a bridge in Venice and have been trying to lose each other for their entire lives.
OK, now stop, Lucy. You’re getting paranoid.
Turning a corner, I find myself plunged into a mass of tourists. Abruptly I realise I’m in St Mark’s Square. I pause to glance around me, my mind suddenly emptying of everything but the sheer beauty and majesty that is Venice. The way the sunlight is bouncing off the cobblestones, a
gap in the crowds revealing glittering water, the rich scents of espresso, aftershave and cigarette smoke, the passionate scramble of Italian that always sounds to my non-Italian-speaking ears like someone playing scales on a piano.
God, I love Venice. I’d forgotten how much because it’s been so long. Like an old photograph, faded by time, my memories of the city have dulled. Over the years it’s become simply a backdrop, against which the more important story of me and Nate and how we first met was set. The moment we left, it was as if Venice stopped, ceased to exist. As if it was just there for us, until we went back to college, when it folded itself back up and was packed away.
I smile fondly at my foolish arrogance. In my teenage mind I was the first person to discover Venice, and Nate and I were the only two people to have ever fallen in love in among its canals, intertwined piazzas and maze of backstreets. No one had ever, and could ever, feel like us.
How wrong I was, I realise, walking across the square. Venice has a life of its own, a sense of history that overshadows anything that Nate and I created, a magic that draws lovers to it, I muse, watching the dozens of couples strolling by, hand in hand, no doubt feeling exactly the same way Nate and I once did. Like the only two people in the whole world. That’s the magic of Venice – it makes everyone feel special.
Turning another corner, I head into the labyrinth of alleyways. This is the first time I’ve been back in ten years, and although I’ve changed, the city hasn’t. I start wandering in no particular direction, enjoying the sensation of rediscovering the maze of canals, shadowy piazzas and sounds and smells that are Venice.
I’ve been so focused on Nate, on getting him here, on getting both of us here, that I’ve never stopped to think about actually being back here. In my head it was simply the scene of the crime, the baddy, the cause of this whole mess, but now I can’t help falling in love all over again.
Only this time it’s not with Nate; it’s with Venice itself, I muse, glancing up at yet another beautiful building. I don’t know the name of it, but a whole bunch of paparazzi are crowded outside. It’s the film festival and everywhere the banners are flying, posters are advertising films, tourists have their cameras at the ready, hoping to spot a movie star. Apparently Penélope Cruz was spotted earlier on the Rialto Bridge, and the man checking us in at the hotel swore blind Tom and Katie were staying in room twelve.
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