Chapter Twenty-Four
Tanned, manicured and exquisitely dressed (even though I do say so myself), I flew into Marco Polo airport alone.
First of all, because I didn’t want anyone to see me if I had some kind of panic attack during the flight (I didn’t, as it happens, and I kindly request ten out of ten for not screaming during a short bout of savage turbulence).
Secondly, because Esme and Ajax had decreed that Olly and I should travel separately, as they did, in case one of the planes crashed.
‘Apparently,’ I said to Sasha, as she gave me the travel documents the day before, ‘we are the royal family of the business world.’
‘I’m so excited!’ she shrieked, and did a little bounce up and down on the spot.
Which was touching, but made me glad that I wasn’t travelling with her, either.
At least she had returned to her normal cheerful self.
I’d spoken to her about her no-show at the Open Day and received a tearful apology.
She’d said she had a migraine and, in her agony, forgotten to text an apology.
It didn’t quite add up to me, but with everything else that was going on, I was prepared to let it go.
The airport was busy, but not as busy as I’d thought, and I found my way to the Alilaguna readily enough.
As the boat ploughed its way through the greeny-blue water of the Grand Canal, I put aside my thoughts of work and let myself take a deep breath.
As a whole, I was suspicious when people talked in hyperbole about places they’d been on holiday, but Venice did something to my heart that no other place had ever done.
I was glad to be alone for the first few hours that I returned to it.
Arriving at San Marco, I stepped up onto the cobbles and took a deep breath of the sharp, canal-scented air.
I’d spent two days in Venice at the end of my liaison with Jack, utterly miserable, but insulated from that misery by the beauty of the place.
It was where everything with him had ended, so in a way, it was the place I’d got my freedom.
Somehow, despite the pain, happiness had found me, and it was all because of this ancient city and its mysterious, heart-swelling beauty.
There was the complete absence of traffic, other than on the water.
Walking along the cobbled streets there was no chance of being mown down by a speeding van.
Turning into a deserted courtyard or an alleyway lit by historic lamps, you might think you had gone back in time several centuries.
There was the city’s extraordinary beauty; the pastel colours of the palazzos, the glass glittering in shop windows, the lines of black gondolas with their lapis-blue covers, bobbing in the water.
And the light, of course there was the light.
Limpid, crystalline, art-inspiring. Even in the cold of late winter the reflection of sky on water took my breath away.
The sweet sharpness of the air made me huddle into my coat.
As I walked down the narrow streets, I felt glad that I’d turned down the opportunity to stay at the same hotel as Esme and Ajax, opting instead to stay in one of the more reasonable hotels.
Their choice was world famous and eye-wateringly expensive (of course), but I didn’t feel comfortable in its baroque, perfumed atmosphere.
It wasn’t the hotel’s fault, I just wasn’t the kind of person who enjoyed seven-star comfort – I didn’t want someone else placing my napkin on my lap for me – and I also felt as though their love affair had cost the company enough.
Jacob’s increasing pallor in meetings made me wary.
I was shaving several thousand off the bill for the trip by choosing to stay somewhere else.
He could thank me later. The truth was, my unease at the whole situation had increased, not least because of Olly’s foray into my bubble.
My hotel was a long, thin building, 15th century, overlooking the Grand Canal.
It looked like a warm column of light with its weathered pale yellow stucco, its long, arched windows accented by dark wooden shutters.
It may have been the light, but there seemed to be no sharpness in its outline, and it was softly age-worn like so many buildings in Venice.
As I walked into the reception and up to the polished wood reception desk, the scent of jasmine hit me and sent me back in time three years.
I’d asked for somewhere central but reasonable in price, and I couldn’t fault Sasha’s choice.
But she had also, inadvertently, picked the hotel where Jack and I had taken that minibreak, and where our tattered relationship had finally dissolved like mist over the lagoon.
Coincidences happened, but I could have done without this one.
When she’d handed me the documents and I’d realised, my paranoia had kicked in for a moment. Did she know what she had done? Then I thought about just how crazy that sounded. Nor was there any sign on her face that the hotel choice was loaded: she wore her same open, innocent expression.
So here I was again, in this wonderful place, swallowing back some difficult memories.
Of course, there was no sense of recognition on the receptionist’s face – I was just another tourist, offering up my work credit card and thanking her in hesitant Italian.
There was no need to worry that the past was going to intrude on the present, other than in my own mind.
Once I got to my room, and looked out of the tall windows onto the water, I started to relax.
I had a small sitting room and a bedroom, both decorated with ornate damask wallpaper, with large Venetian mirrors, marble side tables and a draped bed.
A neat pile of fluffy white towels lay on the bed, embossed with the hotel’s coat of arms. I ran myself a bath, relaxed, and didn’t even look at the branding briefing I’d been planning to refresh my knowledge on or the strategy document I’d been sent.
But I knew, in the pit of my stomach, that I had to earn this trip.
Show my worth, again and again, as Ajax and Esme hurled themselves at investors with a breathless account of their love story.
After my bath, I went down for a quiet dinner, alone in the corner of the dining room, which was lit by candles.
The food was simple but extraordinary, like the best Italian fare.
I ate cacio e pepe, which was so good I was pretty sure I was going to dream about it that night, and a scoop of gelato (I knew from previous experience to ease myself into my ice cream diet gradually).
As I drank an espresso from a white and gold cup, and padded up to bed, I could have fooled myself that I was on holiday.
Getting here early had been an excellent idea.
Being quiet and calm was good for another reason as well.
Sitting in my robe, looking out over the water, my usual mental armour set aside, I opened my phone and looked at a picture I kept in the album.
A picture of a photo: me, Dad, Mum and Alex, twenty years ago.
I felt tenderised, allowing emotion in in a way that was rare and unexpected.
I could feel the warmth of my little brother, leaning against me; the touch of my dad’s hand on my shoulder as he drew us all together, Mum laughing as my aunt took the photo.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ I said softly.
I slept deeply and only woke at 9am the following day when my phone vibrated on the bedside table. I picked it up.
JACOB: There’s trouble in paradise.