Chapter Three
The next morning, Rebecca escaped from her budget hotel room as early as she could.
It was utterly depressing, with its grey walls and murky carpet, and she longed for light and colour and buzz.
She emerged in a cloud of scent, her ballet flats tap-tapping on the pavement, a jaunty silk scarf at her neck.
She’d copied the knot Olivia had used, tied a little off-centre, and she thought she’d carried it off.
Her mood lifted as she wound her way through the tiny streets watching Venice come to life.
She feasted her eyes on all the architectural detail: no facade was the same shape or colour, with every surface rusting, crumbling or peeling.
Age had no shame here and was worn proudly.
The canals were bottle green today, still and serene, the surface bearing only the faintest ripple from a light breeze.
She heard birds, the distant sound of a siren, excited Italian chatter and the clang from a church bell striking the hour, the sound as rich and pure as dark chocolate.
She chose the grandest hotel she could find and sailed up the steps as if she’d had a lifetime of five stars, waltzed into the dining room and up to the lectern, where a waiter greeted her with a smile.
‘Oh,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m such an airhead.’ She didn’t even attempt to speak Italian. ‘I’ve forgotten my room number and my husband’s just gone out to get a newspaper.’
‘No problem,’ said the waiter. ‘I will find you a table.’
‘By the window?’ she asked. ‘He’d love a nice view.’
‘Of course.’
She settled herself down. Outside, the sun was sparkling on the canal.
She watched all the other guests – well heeled, well dressed – and tried to swallow down that familiar envy.
Why did they have the means to come here when she could only dream of a room at a place like this?
Was she condemned to shoddy, shabby cheap hotels for the rest of her life, or could some of their luck rub off on her?
She ordered coffee, and piled her plate high with as much as she could from the sumptuous breakfast buffet.
She ate greedily, for she’d had nothing to eat the night before.
When she finished, she crumpled up her napkin and put it on the table, then glided back through the dining room, slipping past the waiter while he was busy serving someone else.
Of course, her husband had never turned up to join her for breakfast, because he didn’t exist. But she’d eaten enough to keep her going for the rest of the day.
She wasn’t going to waste her money on food, and she’d trained herself to go without for long periods of time when necessary.
‘Live life like the person you want to become’ was her favourite mantra.
She wasn’t sure that meant stealing a hotel breakfast. Her conscience nipped at her as she headed out of the revolving door at the entrance, but she reminded herself that extricating herself from her past was a long-term project.
She was still going to need the resourcefulness she’d grown up with.
She’d learned a lot from her dad, after all, but now it was about using that knowledge to repackage herself.
Keeping that sharp eye for opportunity, and that confidence, that ability to blag, and making it more refined.
She wasn’t ashamed of her background, but she wanted something more.
She held her head high as she walked on through tiny alleys that opened into wide squares.
The shops were throwing open their doors and shutters, the windows bulging with Murano glass, silk scarves and leather gloves; truffles and bottles of wine and biscotti.
She did not stop. Her budget would not stretch to even the tiniest glass animal, and she didn’t need to bring anything back for anyone. She was here to feed her soul.
Olivia and Christopher ate breakfast on their balcony: dark bitter coffee, and pastries filled with pistachio cream. Olivia fed her crumbs to the tiny sparrows.
‘I’d like to go to the Guggenheim first,’ she said. ‘Peggy Guggenheim was such an inspiration. All that glamour, all those lovers, all that incredible art.’
‘All that money . . .’ Christopher grinned. ‘It’s easy to be a success with a start like that in life.’
‘Yes, but she knew her stuff, and she believed in people. She took risks.’ Olivia’s defence of her idol was staunch.
‘Then let’s go.’ He grabbed his jacket and his guidebook.
The museum was in a wide, low palazzo made of white Istrian stone, tucked into the final curve of the Grand Canal leading down to the Basilica.
Olivia imagined Peggy sweeping up in a speedboat, trailing a lover and her gaggle of Lhasa Apsos.
Inside, it was small and intimate, with an air of hushed reverence for the work.
Christopher listened intently to Olivia as they took in the paintings – Picasso, Rothko, Magritte, Jackson Pollock.
‘I’ve never really been into modern art,’ he said. ‘I guess the charms of Titian and Canaletto are more obvious to the casual onlooker. But I’m starting to get it.’
‘Oh, you have to think a bit more, certainly,’ Olivia told him. ‘But that’s the fun of it.’
He tipped his head to one side as he looked at a Salvador Dalí.
‘Birth of Liquid Desires,’ he read. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Shall we move on to the next gallery?’ Olivia asked, looking at her watch. ‘Or do you need coffee?’
‘Lead on, Macduff,’ Christopher said cheerfully.
‘I was worried you might be bored.’
‘Darling, I could never be bored with you. It’s simply not possible. And I’m learning a lot.’
In the next art gallery, Olivia heard Marcus Tremlett before she saw him.
The sound of his voice, trickling like honey – that carelessly cut-glass accent, that husky conspiratorial laugh that made you feel like the most fascinating creature in the world – sent a shiver down her spine.
It took her back in an instant. To Paris.
To a twenty-one-year-old ingénue, completely dazzled by the city. And him.
A toxic thrill corkscrewed its way deep inside her, triggered by the memory, but at the same time she was filled with a cold rage, as dark and dank and icy as the canal outside, as she remembered what he had done to her.
She knew what she should do. Turn on her heel and leave.
Revisiting the past would be dangerous, and she didn’t want Christopher anywhere near the man who had once destroyed her confidence and her belief in love.
But curiosity got the better of her, and she wanted to see if his behaviour had left a mark on him – if he still had that Dorian Gray allure, or if time and karma had turned him into the portrait in the attic.
She hoped he would be wizened and grey of pallor, perhaps bald as well – she estimated he must be nearly fifty – and he would hate being bald.
His hair had been one of his greatest weapons, thick and lustrous.
She had a split second to decide what to do.
And, of course, she couldn’t resist. Christopher was still in the hallway, a few steps behind, so she had a chance to take just one quick look.
She kept herself out of sight, lingering behind another couple to shield herself, and glanced across to where he was holding forth in front of a huge red canvas.
From fifteen feet away, he hadn’t changed.
The cheekbones were still there, and the all-seeing hazel eyes that had once danced with hers; the sweep of hair – he wasn’t bald, annoyingly, just a little grey, the blond faded to a distinguished salt-and-pepper – and that willowy figure.
He was dressed in a fine wool Nehru jacket, a paisley scarf flung around his neck: silk, with long tassels.
Exactly what you would expect an art expert to wear.
Surrounding him was a group of women of a certain age, listening intently, nodding and smiling and hanging on his every word.
He was in full flow, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at his schtick.
It would all be regurgitated – he had a photographic memory, enabling him to pass the exam to become a guide, but he didn’t have an original thought in his head.
She remembered being completely drawn in by him the first time she saw him, for his voice was like treacle: rich, mellifluous, irresistible.
She watched as he worked his audience. There was one woman standing slightly apart from the others, a little younger.
Olivia frowned. She recognised her from somewhere, but wasn’t sure where.
She was dressed in quiet luxury: an immaculate trench coat, prestige ballet flats, discreet pearls, but there was an air of vulnerability about her, a hesitancy that made her seem detached.
She would be the one.
Sure enough, Olivia watched as Marcus made eye contact with the woman.
His gilded smiles were directed at her – to start with, anyway.
He would wait until she returned his smile then move his gaze away to someone else, leaving her unsure.
But he would come back to her eventually, then hold eye contact for a little longer until she regained her confidence.
As his talk came to an end, the woman raised her hand and asked a question. He gave a slow nod of his head, beaming with approval.
‘That is an excellent question,’ he said, and the woman glowed.
Olivia knew full well he would be raking through the database in his head for a reply.
And out it came, a jumble of pretentious words and phrases that might impress someone who didn’t know any better, but which held no real understanding of the question or went any way to answering it with any depth.
But, of course, the delivery was so smooth, so confident, no one would dare to press him further.
It made her feel sick to watch his technique, the one that had once had her eating out of his hand.
Olivia didn’t want this woman to be his next victim. And she remembered now where she recognised her from – she’d been sitting next to them on the plane.