Chapter Three
Three
Venice is exactly how I imagined it.
Narrow streets with colourful, ancient, angular buildings, all crammed on top of one another in a majestic, medieval kind of way.
I can’t help the smile that works its way onto my lips as I finally come across the Piazza.
Pigeons cluster around tourists dropping breadcrumbs as they pose for selfies.
I decide to take one myself and send it to the girls.
Soon after I landed last night, my checked bag was collected from the airport by the cruise, who, apparently, even do some of the unpacking for you.
A detail I’d managed to forget in the chaos of throwing everything I own into my suitcase.
I’m yet to board the boat and be reunited with my belongings, but I’m sure whoever is looking after it will wonder what in the actual fuck is wrong with me.
But hey ho, at least I made it. And I only have to carry my hand luggage around, which I smartly packed with spare clothes and toiletries.
I spent the night in a quaint hotel overlooking the Ponte di Rialto, and in my post-breakup, pre-holiday mania, I treated myself to a bottle of wine and room service and set myself up by the window, soaking it all in.
I spent the early hours of the morning spiralling over the past five years, my relationship with Mike, how I’d consistently focused on everyone else around me rather than myself.
Then, I thought about how he changed for the worse and I can’t help wondering if I did something to make him that way.
Was it me? Was I too focused on my career? Did I not give him enough attention?
I wish I knew how to feel.
The next morning, with only a handful of hours to soak up the sights before I board, I shake off my hangover by strolling along the canals in the sunshine, don my dark sunglasses and pretty white sundress, and even talk myself into handing over silly money to ride in a gondola, only to feel supremely awkward the whole time and nearly topple into the canal as I climb out.
And sure, I’m surrounded by couples on their romantic getaways, and yes, I don’t see any other solo travellers, but I don’t let it bother me.
I’m in Venice! I’ve never been to Venice!
I’ve never been anywhere on my own for leisure, and, although I know this should empower me, in this particular moment, it’s completely destabilising.
Betrayal has made itself part of my DNA, and I hate it.
I want to cast it away, but it won’t leave.
Some part of me feels like it was my fault.
And with that comes intense guilt. As if, had I found out sooner by being more vigilant, there would’ve been less pain.
Bad runaway bride.
Despite knowing deep down I did the right thing, it doesn’t dispel the thoughts that I should’ve handled it differently.
I stop in front of Saint Mark’s Basilica and admire the detailed architecture, forcing the thought from my mind.
I need to be in the moment. I’m in one of the most beautiful, ancient cities in Europe, and the sun is shining.
If I can’t force myself to enjoy this, how am I going to get through the next fourteen days in the Mediterranean?
I snap a picture and take a deep breath. I’ve got this.
An hour before I’m due to board the cruise, I pop into a stylish bar with views of the busy port and order myself a spritz, since I’ve been told Venice are famous for them.
I step outside, hoping to find a seat at one of the tables when a massive oaf crashes into me.
The sheer force takes my breath away. My spritz explodes from its glass, spilling orange liquid all down the front of my pristine white dress.
Fuck! Are you kidding me!?
“Jeez. Watch where you’re going!” the oaf says.
Fight. I’m going to start a fight. I can feel my blood roiling. “Are you serious?! You crashed into me!”
“You stepped into my path.” He takes a step back, assessing the damage.
“Do you know how much this cocktail cost?” I spit. I can feel Aperol dripping down my cleavage.
“Look, I’m sorry but I’m in a hurry,” he says, his voice only partly apologetic. The rest of him seems weirdly anxious, like he’s running from someone.
He takes another anxious glance behind him before reaching into his pocket. “Here, buy yourself another one on me.”
“I don’t want your money!” I hiss, but it’s too late. He thrusts the cash into my hands and dashes off. “Prick!” I call after him, drawing the attention of several passers-by.
Perfect.
Now not only are the cruise staff going to think I’m a lunatic, thanks to my unhinged packing, but they’re going to take one look at my dress and think I’m an absolute liability. There’s no way I can remedy this in such a short space of time.
I avoid pitiful looks from a few women sipping their drinks canal-side before stepping back into the bar. I assess the full damage in the bathroom mirror. It’s almost comical. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should cut and run, right now, before it’s too late.
No! I can’t let the oaf ruin my day. I splash some water on my face (no point in trying to sort the dress), wipe off the sticky Aperol from my chest and arms, and take a deep breath.
I’ve got this. Nothing is going to derail this trip.
Nothing.
*
I saved ruthlessly after Mike proposed, going above and beyond at work, securing new clients and working my arse off to hit targets to pay for this.
Despite where I’m at emotionally, I’m now able to remember why.
With five floors above deck, the superyacht is luxury on water.
Even the gangway is carpeted. Next to other cruise ships, the Adriatic Angel is a beauty, exactly how it looked in the pictures: sleek, majestic and expensive.
Because it is. I’m immediately greeted with champagne, a map of the ship detailing all the facilities and a detailed itinerary that includes the entertainment, restaurant times and port dockings.
I’m then escorted by an immaculate attendant to my stateroom.
It’s not even close to the nicest room on the yacht and yet it’s beautiful.
Varnished mahogany walls, spotless finishings, a large white bed with red petals sprinkled over it (I’ll deal with them and the heart-shaped towels later), watertight glass doors that let in an immense amount of light from the private balcony, and current views of the gorgeous harbour.
I immediately head outside and stare out at the busy port, listening to the seabirds and chop of waves against the steely sides. Occasionally there’s the blare of a ship’s horn.
I take out my phone and snap a picture for Dad.
He immediately replies with a thumbs up emoji which makes me laugh.
I could tell him I won the lottery and he would reply the same way.
He called me that night after I’d absconded and I’d put on a brave face to apologise.
It’s not even that he’d spent much on the wedding, Mike and I paid for most of it ourselves, but I felt guilty nonetheless.
He’d been so excited to walk me down the aisle.
That night he’d said, “Don’t you be worrying about me, darling.
I’d much rather you ran and caused a bit of a ruckus than stayed and made yourself miserable.
” I wasn’t ready to tell him what happened and I’m not sure I ever will.
It’s not who we are. I used to think our family relationship was surface level but more recently, I think we’re so entrenched in each other’s feelings that we don’t need to talk about them at all.
I could stand here, leaning against the railings for hours.
Although, I don’t, since a fancy all-inclusive bar awaits me.
Stepping out of my ruined sundress, I make myself presentable, in a smart jumpsuit and heels, before heading upstairs.
I realise the error in my ways the second I step out of the lift. Ah crap. Two waiters, dressed in tailored uniforms with smart red waistcoats, hold out trays with flutes of champagne on them. “Welcome to the Adriatic Angel, Mrs Locke,” the taller one says.
Married-name jump scare!
“Oh no. I’m not…” And will never be… Mrs Locke. “Sara will be fine. Thanks.”
His cheeks redden and I realise he’s done very well to recognise my face. Even if he is wrong. I guess I could’ve changed the name on the booking. It irks me that when I booked this originally, almost a year ago, I honestly thought I would be Sara Locke by now.
“My apologies, ma’am. The Welcome Mingle is just through there.”
I force a smile and nod despite my heart sinking in my chest. Even though I am single, I am not ready to mingle.
In fact, I do not “mingle” unless paid to at networking events.
I am decidedly too unsociable for this. Of course, I’ve managed to surround myself with extroverts in my friendship group – but alone? Not for me.
“Kill me now,” I mutter, as I step cautiously into the main area with warm lighting and a spotless, glimmering bar one full side of the room.
I just wanted a quiet drink on my own.
I wonder if there is a way out the opposite direction. Or maybe I can buy a drink then vanish outside. I glance around only to see a sign that says no glass on the deck.
If I want a drink, I’m stuck. I can hardly stay in my room on the first night of the cruise, what a sorry tale that would be. My sisters would never let me live it down.
I’m having fun. This is fun. I need to relax.
I take a barstool and make myself small. It’s clear this cruise is mostly older couples who I would guess to be in their late fifties, early sixties. And, from the way they’re interacting, I assume a few of them know each other too.
It’s like I’m in some kind of fancy country club.
I suddenly feel quite isolated. I down the flute of champagne before one of the waitstaff spots me and brings me a glass of wine he recommends from my preferred tastes. He’s good. It’s delicious, fruity and fresh.
Another guest comes to the bar, a stool scraping across the marble floors a few feet to my right. The barman is quick to greet them, quicker than he was with me.
“Just a beer please, bud,” he says. I recognise the accent, the gentle twang. He must be from Bristol or the Southwest of England. A relatively normal accent compared to the poshies chatting behind me.
I allow myself a quick glance and find a tall, handsome man with swept-back, light brown curls. He’s in a light blue shirt and loose denim shorts. He catches me looking and smiles politely. I half-expect a pretty woman to be flanking his side, maybe she’s still getting ready.
His smile lingers.
Wait.
What the fuck?!
It’s the guy from earlier. The oaf! “You!” I hiss.
He raises his left brow. I don’t think he recognises me – yet.
Of course he doesn’t, because that’s so on brand for a rude knob who spills a lady’s drink and ruins her dress.
He’s about to say something but I’m not interested, I’m on holiday, I’m not getting into something with some random idiot in this gorgeous, peaceful bar, so I shake my head and look away, feigning interest in the cocktail menu.
“Excuse me?” A soft hand touches my shoulder.
I spin to find a tiny old lady who must be in her eighties glancing up at me with polite curiosity.
She’s dressed in a lilac skirt and long-sleeved white blouse.
I open my mouth to say hello but she’s already talking again, “Are you and your husband planning on joining us? You’re very welcome to. ”
“My…?” I nearly spit my drink out. I have to cover my mouth to right myself.
“Your husband!” she says, pointing to the rude, unsuspecting man beside me.
Annoyingly, he seems to find this amusing. “How kind,” he says in return. There’s something about his voice now I come to think about it, something rich, like he’s used to using it. “What a lovely offer,” he adds. Instead of, “This isn’t my wife.”
What the hell?!
It takes a second for my brain to catch up. “I’m sorry, we’re not…” I signal between us. Surely he recognises me too? I did have my hair up earlier, with sunglasses on and a different outfit – but still.
There’s a twinkle in his eyes that tells me he finds this whole situation highly amusing, or that I’m missing something. Or worse: I’m embarrassing myself. And, well, maybe I am. But right now, I need to set things straight. “I’m here alone.”
Oh well. Cat’s out the bag, I guess. Unfortunately, saying it out loud sounds even worse than it does in my head. The man watches me, an intrigued look on his face. He’s trying to read me. I see this look all the time at work. He’s intrigued, compelled to work out what my motivations are.
Well, tough shit, sir. All I’m giving off right now is nervous and jittery.
I need more wine.
“Are you single?” the lady asks, her excited pitch sending shivers down my spine. I have never been subjected to elderly matchmaking schemes and I would like it to remain that way. I can see where this is going, it’s like watching a car crash happen in slow motion.
I cringe. “Mmhmm,” I offer half-heartedly.
“And you?” she asks the man.
He’s still looking at me; I can see him in my peripheral vision. Heat warms my cheeks. Millie was wrong. I should’ve stayed home. I am not enjoying myself!
I think the man nods but I’m trying not to give him any attention and I don’t want him to think I’m interested.
“Excellent. What luck! You look the same age too. You’ll be able to spend so much time together on this cruise.
Come, come. Join our group,” she demands.
“Roger over there, the man in the green shirt with the birthmark on his neck, is a pilot. He used to fly Concorde back in the day.” Then in a quieter voice she mumbles, “He married a trolley dolly.”
“Oh…” Is that bad? “Thanks so much,” I say, carefully removing my hand from hers. “How incredibly interesting but you know, I was actually just…” I point towards the doors to the deck. “Fresh air.”
She nods. “Next time,” she says, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.
Time to run again, I guess. I’m not ready to talk to strangers. In fact, I’m not ready for this cruise.
Hot panic lurches through my limbs making me unsteady as I finish off my glass of wine, and head out to the top deck.
It’s quieter out here, the wind and the sea air calming.
What are the chances that that guy is on this cruise?
I don’t allow myself to consider this to be yet another sign from the universe and its endless vendetta against me.
I switch to aggressively sweet, but strong cocktails before dinner, soaking in the gorgeous sunset before heading to my table, properly tipsy.
I’m relieved when I peek around the room and can’t see the curly-haired oaf.
But the elderly woman from earlier offers me an enthusiastic wave.
I raise my now empty cocktail glass in her general direction.
“Good evening, Mrs Locke.” A cheerful waitress hands me the night’s menu. “Is Mr Locke joining you this evening?” I look up to meet her warm smile.
“Just me,” I sing. She doesn’t catch my tone. “Can I trouble you for another drink?”