Chapter 72 Sophie
S OPHIE
When the last guest has left and the restaurant and kitchen are spotless, Rocco takes Sophie by the hand. ‘I have a surprise for you. Get your coat.’
He’s waiting in the lobby for her when she comes back downstairs. He’s particularly debonair tonight in his grey tweed coat and bowler hat.
She points to the picnic basket in his arms. ‘What’s all this about, Signore Bianchi?’
‘You have been in Venice over a week and not taken a gondola ride. It is time we fix this problem, no?’
‘It’s nine-thirty. Do they do them this late?’
‘For tourists, no. For me, yes.’ He grins.
‘But it’s still raining out.’
‘Even better. Venice is the most beautiful in the rain. You remember the basilica?’
She smiles. ‘Kinda hard to forget.’
‘Andiamo, bella.’
For the first time since she arrived, Rocco leads Sophie to the red door at the rear of the hotel that backs onto the canal, instead of the street. Shielding her from the rain with his umbrella, he holds her hand as she steps down to where a lone gondola awaits them. The gondolier, a youngish man dressed in black pants, a red striped top and the iconic straw boater, helps Sophie onto the gondola, where a bigger umbrella is positioned over the seats.
Rocco introduces him as his old friend Sergio.
‘Is there anyone in Venice who isn’t an old friend of yours?’ She laughs.
As they float away from the bank, Rocco pulls her in close to him. It’s cold on the black water, even huddled together under a heavy woollen blanket. Standing behind them, and seemingly not bothered by the rain, Sergio wordlessly steers the gondola around the corner.
‘Guarda.’ Rocco points up. ‘Your window, Sophie.’
She looks up at the red shutters and remembers him opening them for her that first night, letting the sights and sounds of San Marco into her room. The bright blue stone of the hotel, its cream balconies and colourful planter boxes along the arched windows appear even more beautiful from the water than they do from the street. Then the gondola narrowly passes under a footbridge, and the hotel disappears into the dark behind them.
Sergio weaves them through the maze of canals that they have completely to themselves. The only sound is that of the soft waves. Venice is sleeping.
Rocco opens the picnic basket and produces small glass containers of roasted chestnuts and thinly sliced pears and pecorino. If someone had asked Sophie what the ultimate food for a night-time picnic on a gondola would be, she couldn’t have dreamed up a better combination than chestnuts, fruit and cheese.
Rocco pours her a glass of rosé from a leftover bottle from dinner and serves himself sparkling water.
Stop thinking about his addiction. Live in the moment!
He catches the look in her eye. ‘I promise you, cara, my sobriety is the number one priority in my life. Please believe me.’
He’s so darned earnest, she can’t not believe him. She nuzzles into his shoulder.
‘Rest now, bella,’ he says softly. ‘Because I am going to do some very bad things to you when we get home. You will need your energy.’
‘Your sex voice is so husky.’ She smiles at him.
‘What sex voice?’
‘You know, the voice you get when you’re thinking about sex.’
He snorts. ‘Bella, if I have a voice for when I am thinking about sex, then that is the only voice I have every second I am with you.’
She’s already imagining Bec’s reaction when she tells her that line. Only an Italian could get away with it.
Half an hour later, they’re back at the lagoon where all the other gondolas rock in the water, covered by blue tarps. Sergio helps them step out onto the pier as the rain comes down harder. Rocco grabs her arm and starts walking along the abandoned lit-up piazza like he’s late for the bus.
‘Slow down!’ She laughs. ‘I can’t keep up.’
‘I am walking fast to get you out of the rain.’
‘Liar, you’re just trying to get me to bed faster.’
‘This is true. Andiamo!’ With that he takes her hand and starts jogging in earnest, dragging her behind him. It’s hard to run when she’s laughing this much.
Her laughter abruptly stops when they approach Il Cuore.
Standing under a spotlight on the front steps of the hotel, a suitcase beside her, is the unmistakable figure of Penelope Black in a long yellow raincoat.
Ice runs through Sophie’s veins.
Penelope’s hair is sopping wet and her mascara’s running down her cheeks in black streaks. She’s madly typing on her phone with thumbs poking out of fingerless gloves, swaying as she texts.
‘Mum?’
‘Fee!’ Penelope cries. ‘Surprise! It’s meee ! Gosh, this place was hard to find. I got myself thoroughly lost with all the narrow lanes and bridges. It’s not for the faint of heart, Venice, is it? Honestly, I thought I’d never make it here. The rain! And they confiscated my umbrella at check-in, would you believe? Anyhow, I finally found this place and it was locked! I tried calling you, but it went to your voicemail like it always does. You really do need to record a new message, darling. You sound awfully nasal. Anyway, I thought I’d try messaging you instead and then you showed up. Isn’t that amazing?’
Sophie’s dizzy, trying to keep up. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Darling, I simply couldn’t bear the way things ended in our last call. It left the most bitter taste in my mouth.’ Penelope’s voice echoes down the street. ‘I had to make things right. And you said I should come to Venice, didn’t you? You said that on the phone. So, tada ! Here I am!’ She waves an arm in the air and almost loses her balance. It’s only Rocco quickly steadying Penelope that prevents her from falling face first down the stairs.
Penelope eyes Rocco up and down. ‘Well, well. And who do we have here?’
Rocco gives her his big smile. ‘I am Rocco Bianchi, son of Loretta Bianchi. It is an honour to meet Sophie’s mother.’
‘Goodness me,’ Penelope squeals. ‘Aren’t you just delicious?’
Sophie struggles to speak. ‘Are you staying here?’
Penelope tilts her head. ‘Well, I mean, I haven’t had time to book anything yet. I assumed I could stay with you, dear.’
Is she serious?
‘Some mother–daughter bonding time. Wouldn’t that be lovely?’ Penelope slurs.
Oh God, she’s serious. Sophie stares at her, unable to reply.
‘You are in luck, signora.’ Rocco fills the silence. ‘We have a room that became vacant this afternoon. You are welcome to stay.’
‘How marvellous. What a delight you are.’ Penelope flirtatiously touches his chest.
Rocco unlocks the glass door and takes hold of Penelope’s luggage. Sophie follows her mother’s unsteady steps inside.
‘What a splendid Christmas tree!’ Penelope shouts.
‘Cara, it will be okay,’ Rocco whispers to her. ‘At least we have a room, so you don’t share.’
‘Nothing’s okay,’ she whispers back.
Penelope staggers towards her and Sophie recoils at her stale breath. ‘Come on, sweetie. How about a hug for your old lady?’ Penelope’s arms drag on Sophie’s neck. ‘It’s always been you and me against the world, hasn’t it, darling?’
Sophie disentangles herself from her mother’s arms. ‘It’s never been like that.’
It’s over, it’s all over. She has to leave this city, this hotel, this man, all of whom she adores, as fast as she possibly can. Penelope has reminded her that she only has room for one alcoholic in her life, and that position’s already been filled.
Sophie leaves Rocco with her mother and bolts up the stairs to her room.
‘It’s always been you and me against the world’ rings in her ears as she locks the door.
When Sophie’s father was alive, the only place Penelope could escape from him was the toilet, the one room in their house that had a lock. So whenever Martin turned violent, if she was quick enough, Penelope would run and lock herself in there until it was safe to come out.
But Martin Black had stamina. He could go on for hour after hour, ranting and swearing and smoking and pacing and punching the walls before he ran out of steam.
The house only had one toilet. When David or Sophie needed to go while Penelope was locked up in there, they had to do it in the back garden. There were times they needed to do more than pee. When that happened, they knocked on the toilet door and told Penelope about it in urgent voices. She never answered. When she locked herself in there, she was gone from them.
So the children walked to the neighbours’ houses and begged to use their toilets. They knocked on a different door each time, so as not to arouse suspicion.
The neighbours must have known, surely. Martin’s shouting must have easily been heard all the way up the street, and Penelope’s screams were ear splitting. But no one ever said a word. They let Sophie and David use their toilets, and then the children went home and hoped they wouldn’t need to go again until Penelope let herself out.
Sometimes lunch, then dinner passed by and still she stayed locked away. Neither Sophie nor David knew how to cook. They were still young enough to have missing front teeth. They weren’t allowed to use the oven or the stove, in any case. So they dragged stools to the pantry and fossicked for food. Sophie did the best she could to bring together something that resembled a meal – a tin of peas or Spam, some sliced bread, a tomato.
Martin sometimes watched them while he smoked. Other times it was as if they weren’t there as he paced lap after lap of the carpeted hallway, yelling and cursing and making all kinds of threats.
‘Let’s have a packet of chips for lunch,’ David sometimes suggested.
But Sophie felt responsible for his wellbeing. ‘No, eat your sandwich.’
‘I don’t like tuna.’
‘Shh, just eat it. You can have a cream biscuit after.’
Of course it was a terrible situation for Penelope. She’d married young, in love and swept up in a daring romance with a much older man, who was all the more alluring to her because her parents disapproved of him. Nobody could have predicted what he’d become. It wasn’t her fault.
After Martin died, Penelope turned to the church for comfort, and she turned to alcohol. She became unreliable, forgetful, often neglectful. She was more of a liability than a mother. Sophie did everything she could to keep her safe and functioning. Even then, Sophie didn’t resent her, she pitied her.
But from the day Sophie left home, once she finally had space, that’s when the resentment began. Over the years, that resentment blossomed and grew so large that its branches covered her entire relationship with her mother, throwing it into shade and locking out any possible light.
She went to counselling. It didn’t work. She tried forgiveness – she really, honestly tried. That didn’t work either. It’s almost impossible to forgive someone who isn’t sorry they hurt you, and Penelope was doing too much praying and drinking to be sorry about anything.
So Sophie made more room for the resentment to bury its roots so deep inside her that it became rather impossible to dig it out.
When Penelope locked that toilet door, she abandoned her children. And to Sophie, that was unforgivable.