Chapter Ten
The four of them met that evening in a tiny restaurant in Castello with just a few tables but the best seafood in Venice.
They drank deliciously cold negronis and feasted on grilled scallops on artichoke hearts and smoked burrata with Adriatic anchovies, then turbot stuffed with citrus and spices and herbs.
The conversation flowed as freely as the wine.
Lucia had an infectious zest for life, while Rebecca regaled them with stories of her father and his ‘fell off the back of a lorry’ lifestyle.
She sounded fond of him rather than disparaging.
‘Dad would totally be passing off Federico’s paintings as kosher, if he had the chance.’ She wagged a finger. ‘But he’d have bloody Marcus for breakfast.’
‘You’re a chip off the old block, then,’ Christopher laughed.
‘Well,’ said Rebecca, ‘I’m supposed to be reinventing myself. Leaving my murky past behind and turning over a new leaf. But old habits die hard.’ She shrugged, and took a sip of her wine.
It was so easy to be honest with these people, and she didn’t feel ashamed – of either her past or her aspirations.
She was relaxed, and able to hold her own over dinner.
Perhaps the Soave was helping, but she felt confident.
She wasn’t putting on an act, or wearing a disguise.
She was herself. And they admired her for what she had done. They didn’t judge.
Marcus stumbled bleary-eyed across the station concourse, dragging his suitcase behind him.
His eyes searched the information board for the platform.
The housekeeper’s voice was still ringing in his head from when she’d berated him that morning, screaming at him for the mess.
She was holding Indigo in her arms, shouting at Marcus to get his stuff out.
It had taken him a while to remember the night before, and to realise the painting was missing, but the housekeeper wasn’t interested in his protestations, and neither was her husband, who had been standing over Marcus with crossed arms, glowering, two steps behind him as he gathered up his things.
The husband had then frogmarched him down the stairs and out into the street, much to the amusement of the neighbours.
He hadn’t even had time to go to the toilet or brush his teeth, and he stood there, dishevelled in yesterday’s clothes, realising that the woman from the night before must have stolen it.
What a piece of work! He’d thought he’d got her bang to rights at first, as he looked through the booking system on his phone to find her name.
What was it? Rachel? He racked his brain.
He could track her down. Get the police involved if he had to – it wasn’t as if he’d done anything wrong. She was the thief.
But he couldn’t find a record of her anywhere, and eventually he realised she’d gatecrashed his tour. He was too hungover to deal with this. He skulked off to a café to lick his wounds, address his pounding head with coffee and sugar, and figure out his options.
Going to Berlin on the night train seemed the perfect answer. He’d fit right in there, he felt certain. It had an edgy glamour that would suit his mood. See you, Venice, he thought, as the train pulled out of the station. The city hadn’t been all that. Berlin would be much more his scene.
He got up to head to the buffet car for a glass of wine. Or maybe he’d get a bottle. He had a few hours before changing trains at Munich. He might as well enjoy himself.
Towards the end of the meal, Federico tumbled in, with slicked-back hair, a pencil moustache and wide trousers.
An extra chair was pulled up as they all shared chocolate mousse with boozy raisins and glasses of amaro.
It tasted sweet and bitter and salty, and they soon ordered more as Olivia lectured Federico on how talented he was.
‘You are wasted,’ she told him, and he rolled his laughing dark eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
‘It is easy for me this way,’ he said.
‘But don’t you want to make a name for yourself?’
‘No. With fame comes all the problems. I like to keep . . .’ He indicated under the radar with his hand.
Olivia sighed. ‘I hate to see you not make the most of your talent. I mean, I love your paintings. But I think you could have the world at your feet.’
‘I tell him all the time,’ said Lucia, throwing up her hands in exasperation. ‘He will not listen.’
Rebecca leaned forward. She’d been entranced by Federico since the moment he walked in. She loved his energy, the way he knew what he wanted and refused to compromise. But she couldn’t help agreeing with Olivia.
‘If you come to London,’ she said, ‘I could flog your paintings for a mint.’
‘London,’ said Federico, locking his gaze on to hers. ‘I’ve never been to London.’
Olivia and Lucia exchanged smiles. The electricity between Rebecca and Federico was tangible. Rebecca raised her glass to him.
‘Just say the word, Federico,’ she said. ‘I’ll set you up. I’ll get a little pop-up gallery somewhere; we’ll throw a launch party. We’ll serve Bellinis.’
She sounded like her dad, she realised. But she didn’t care. She just needed to channel what she’d learned from him into something she felt passionate about. She could picture it already.
Federico couldn’t take his eyes off her. He clinked his glass against hers.
‘It’s a deal.’
‘Get painting, then, boy,’ Rebecca laughed. London would love Federico: a bit of Italian glamour. She felt a tingle of excitement.
Information. Observation. Balls.
‘It really was the perfect honeymoon,’ sighed Olivia the next morning as they settled into their seats on the water bus, slightly the worse for wear, along with all the other travellers heading to the airport.
‘Yes. After all, no honeymoon is complete without an art heist,’ teased Christopher, and she punched him on the arm playfully.
‘I’m sorry if it took over somewhat.’
‘Don’t be sorry. It was highly entertaining. Mostly.’
‘But we didn’t get to see half the things you circled in your Baedeker.’
‘No,’ he said, taking it out of his coat pocket and flicking through it. ‘We never did get to Murano.’
‘We’ll just have to come back.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Federico and Rebecca, though.’ She smiled at the memory of the two of them leaving the restaurant last night, arm in arm, wrapped up in the fizzy glow of instant attraction.
‘I know. They make quite the couple.’
Olivia leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘Maybe, just maybe,’ she said dreamily, ‘there’ll be another honeymoon before long.’
Behind them, Venice receded into the background, a blur of pink and turquoise and gold dissolving into the water until it was a distant smudge on the horizon.