A Honeymoon in Venice

Chapter One

People were always surprised that Olivia had never been to Venice, especially given her profession. But she had made a pact with herself never to go there alone, after what had happened in Paris.

Her biggest fear had been ending up like Katharine Hepburn in Summertime – a lonely spinster, surrounded by everyone else’s love stories, convinced she was being laughed at, only to fall prey to the first person to show her interest. Once bitten, twice shy, after all.

No. That was not going to happen. When and if she finally got there, she’d decided, she wanted to drift alongside the glittering canals hand in hand with her lover, float over bridges, wander in and out of churches and art galleries and linger over lunch, sipping wine, before meandering back to a hotel to lie wrapped in each other’s arms, heads spinning with the glory of it all.

Venice was a place to be shared, not visited alone.

Venice was for romance, for lovers. Or newlyweds. The ultimate honeymoon destination.

And now, joy of joys, here she was, sitting on the plane, and next to her, his nose buried in the tattered second-hand Baedeker he’d bought in Charing Cross Road, was her husband of less than twenty-four hours.

‘It’s terribly out of date,’ she’d protested when he produced the book from the inside pocket of his overcoat.

Christopher had smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter. Everything I want to see has been there hundreds of years and hasn’t moved.’

He had a point. You didn’t go to Venice for shiny and modern.

You went there for ancient and crumbling.

She sighed with happiness as the pilot announced they would be coming in to land in fifteen minutes.

She’d waited a long, long time, but she’d finally done it.

Found the perfect man, trotting up the aisle at thirty-seven, and the great thing was he’d never been to Venice either.

‘My holidays tend to involve stout walking boots and binoculars,’ he’d told her. ‘But Venice seems like the perfect place for a honeymoon. I think it will do us very well.’

‘Look,’ she breathed now, clutching Christopher’s arm and pointing out of the window. ‘Oh, look at it.’

Her left hand, with its still-unfamiliar gold ring, found his right one and he squeezed her fingers as they gazed down at the green – or was it blue?

– lagoon and the tiny city floating in the middle of it, with hundreds and hundreds of rose-gold rooftops, the verdigris of the Grand Canal threading through them.

‘Goodness,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s even more spectacular than I imagined.’

Christopher wasn’t given to effusiveness, but he was impressed.

‘Imagine,’ Olivia said, eyes round with horror at the very thought, ‘if we hadn’t been at the same table that night. We have whoever did the seating plan to thank for the rest of our lives.’

‘I’ve got a confession,’ he said with a grin. ‘As soon as you picked up the gavel and started the opening bid, I knew you were the one for me. I swapped the place cards around so you’d be next to me at dinner.’

‘You didn’t!’ She stared at him in astonishment.

‘I certainly did. I wasn’t going to let you slip through my fingers.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I don’t know. It was the first time I’d ever done anything like that. I’ve never been a rule-breaker.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s very . . .’ She pondered her choice of word. ‘That’s very sexy, actually.’

‘Oh.’ He looked pleasantly surprised. ‘I’m not sure anyone’s ever called me that before.’

She laughed. ‘It’s made me love you even more and I didn’t think that was possible.’

His eyes twinkled behind his spectacles.

She supposed he wasn’t everyone’s idea of sexy, but to her, his mad-professor dishevelment was wildly attractive, because he simply didn’t care – about clothes or haircuts or what sort of watch he had.

He wore his father’s old Timex, pointing out that it still kept perfect time.

His logic and his refusal to follow the pack were her favourite things about him, moth-eaten jumpers and all.

The woman in the aisle seat next to them smiled at their exchange.

She had spent most of the flight observing them intently, for Olivia – she had gleaned her name early on – was just the kind of person she aspired to be.

She still had a long way to go, but she scrutinised Olivia for details.

It was, after all, the little things that gave you away, and there was always something more you could learn.

She looked at Olivia’s nails – a simple French manicure – and examined her make-up: a very light tinted moisturiser, a sweep of mascara (it did help that her lashes were like a doll’s) and lip gloss that added a mere touch of shine. Less is more, she reminded herself.

None of her own family would recognise her now.

Gone were the pointy gel nails and the lash and hair extensions.

Gone were the contouring and the lip fillers.

Gone were the flashy fake labels that she and her dad had flogged on the market stall every Saturday.

It was goodbye, brazen Bex. In her place was Rebecca.

She ran through her new guise.

Burberry mac she’d found in a charity shop – check.

Hair smoothed back into a Grace Kelly chignon – check.

Discreet pearl earrings (very good fakes; she defied anyone to know they weren’t real without biting them) – check.

Chanel ballet flats (eBay; quite an investment but worth it) – check.

She’d spritzed herself with expensive perfume in the duty-free shop, then slipped the tester into her bag. No one had noticed.

She whispered old money: polished, discreet, expensive.

You had to dress the part when you were travelling if you wanted things to happen.

But there were still things to learn if she was to come across as authentic.

She’d listened to audiobooks to modify her speech, imitating the actors’ accents to lose all traces of the East End of London.

She wasn’t quite there yet. Someone like Olivia would be able to spot she wasn’t the real deal.

Rebecca leaned forward to glimpse the view out of the window. Her heart gave a little leap. This was the next leg of her self-improvement tour. She’d seen all the art she could in London. Venice was next, and she could barely contain her excitement.

‘Darling, let someone else have a look-in.’ Olivia’s chivalrous husband had noticed Rebecca peering.

‘Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry.’ Olivia sat back in her seat to allow Rebecca a better view.

‘Don’t worry at all,’ said Rebecca with a gracious smile, hoping she sounded more Emilia Fox than Samantha Fox.

Manners, she reminded herself. Where she came from, no one had any consideration for anyone else. You had to put yourself first if you were going to survive.

Later, she watched as Christopher and Olivia headed for a private water taxi at the docks behind the airport.

Olivia was wrapped in a red velvet coat, a silk scarf around her head and huge sunglasses to protect her eyes from the reflection of the bright winter sun on the water.

Christopher held her elbow as she stepped on board.

Rebecca watched them with envy for a moment, then walked on to join the queue for the water bus.

One day, she promised herself, she would glide on board a water taxi without a care in the world.

Fifteen minutes later, she forgot her dissatisfaction as the water bus sliced its way across the lagoon, the pale-pink outline of the city shimmering in the distance. It didn’t matter how you arrived there; Venice was breathtaking.