Chapter 46 Sophie
S OPHIE
Sophie hoped Rocco might spend the afternoon with her again but he’s nowhere to be seen. He was quiet and distant after the drama with Elena this morning, and now he’s ghosted her. Is he really that annoyed that she pushed him to talk Christian into being part of the protest? Loretta barely spoke to her today after breakfast as well, and everyone was staring at their phones through a silent lunch. Do they all hate her now?
She messages Bec about it and laughs at her reply.
For the love of God, woman, stop overthinking it.
Go shopping!
Bec makes an excellent point, so Sophie drags herself off the bed, rugs up and steps out into the laneway. There’s nothing like retail therapy to soothe her rattled nerves.
Outside, San Marco is bustling. The tourists are everywhere and the sound of the gondoliers singing can be heard from the street. Sophie enters a tiny shop around the corner that sells handbags and is immediately accosted by a bony old woman who forcefully drags her by the elbow towards the foggy full-length mirror. Without asking, the woman pulls bag after bag off the shelves and drapes them over Sophie’s shoulder, one at a time, grunting her approval or shaking her head with a click of the tongue at each one. Sophie wants them all! So many bold colours and all in the softest leather. After only a few minutes, she’s the proud owner of three new handbags, of which she needs precisely none.
Next door to the bag shop is a fashion boutique with a twenty-something behind the counter wearing smudged black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick. She’s as friendly and welcoming as a rottweiler. It takes Sophie no more than a second to figure out that none of the clothes come in her size, so she hotfoots it out of there. She walks past a few busy souvenir shops and then stops at another small boutique.
An immaculately dressed middle-aged man with gelled dark hair and a perfectly manicured goatee steps out from behind the counter. His peach cashmere jumper is half tucked into ripped jeans and his shiny white shoes are pointy enough to take out an eye. ‘Happy Christmas, signora! Have you come to find a beautiful outfit to wear for your beloved?’
‘My beloved? No.’ She laughs. ‘Do you have anything in my size?’
‘Plenty! I have plenty.’ He pats a green velvet chair. ‘Come, sit, sit. Prego. Let me show you what I have.’ He disappears through a door leading to another room and emerges minutes later, almost toppling backwards under the mountain of clothes in his arms. ‘Stand up, signora. Take off your coat. If you come into the dressing room – this way, please – I will leave these pieces for you here. You must come out and show me what you try on.’
She holds up the first outfit on its hanger and looks it up and down, unconvinced. It’s a white polyester jumpsuit with flowy sleeves, wide pants and a plaited gold belt. Very ABBA, circa Eurovision Song Contest. She would never have given it a second glance back home, but it feels rude not to at least try it on. When she does, she’s amazed at how comfortable it is and how phenomenal she looks in it. She’s avoided wearing white for a decade – too unflattering for her figure, she was told by her mother a million times over. But the colour’s perfect on her. And she can pull off a jumpsuit! Who knew?
‘I love this!’ she calls out from the dressing room.
‘Show me, show me!’ her new shopping husband shouts.
She opens the door and gives him a twirl.
He lets out a low whistle. ‘ Wow, wow, wow! Now this one, you must have! What size shoe, signora?’
‘I’m a seven in Australia. What’s that, a thirty-eight?’
‘Let us try thirty-eight. I have just the shoe for this outfit. One second.’ He disappears out the back and returns carrying a pair of patent gold ballet flats. ‘Try on, please.’
Again, they’re not her usual style, but the shoes fit perfectly and are so incredibly soft it’s as if she’s in slippers.
The shopkeeper blows a chef’s kiss. ‘Bellissima! You are a goddess, signora, in this outfit with your golden hair. You are only missing the jewellery.’ He picks up a chunky red beaded-glass necklace from a jewellery rack on the counter and clasps it around her neck. ‘Please, signora, look in the mirror. You are beautiful. I do not lie when I say this.’
The necklace and shoes finish off the outfit perfectly. The whole look makes her feel a million dollars.
Sophie’s been wearing the same style of clothes since her university days: structured A-line dresses that fall below the knee, worn with light cardigans and Mary Janes in summer and belted trench coats and boots in winter. She’s embraced the quirky vintage look by curling her hair and wearing bright red lipstick and heavy eye make-up. She’s looked like this every day of her adult life. This outfit, though, has shown her she can be so much more than a plus-size throwback to the fifties.
She sends a photo of herself to Bec, who immediately replies with a string of fire emojis.
Look at you!
Never seen you in pants, I LOVE IT!
‘Try on the other pieces, signora.’ The man holds the dressing room door open and gestures for her to go back inside.
She points to a salmon pink wrap dress on the seat of a thousand dresses he’s brought for her to try on. ‘I like the look of this one. How much is it?’
‘Please, signora , it is impolite for us to discuss money. All the pieces are designed here in Venice. It is money well spent.’
Holy shit. This dude’s going to bankrupt me.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks him.
‘My name is Massimo.’
‘Signore Massimo, let’s do this!’ She pulls the pink dress off its hanger.
Anything to support the Venetians.