Chapter Thirty-Two
Just as they had across the centuries, the masks worn at this particular masked ball provided cover for bad behaviour.
I don’t know if it was the setting, the anonymity, or the spectacular punch which melted everyone’s inhibitions so effectively, but before long unidentifiable incarnations of various characters were snogging in dark corners and (so I heard later) doing far more than that outside in whatever nearby atmospheric alleyway people could find.
Venice was built for romance but, above all, it was built for intrigue, fantasy and deception.
‘This party is plain seedy,’ said Jacob to me, his eyes icy behind his harlequin mask, when the clock hit eleven. ‘I am out of here.’
I blew a kiss and watch him stomp out through the crowd to get a water taxi, removing his mask as he did so and texting his husband with stabby digits.
A moment later I heard the DJ begin his set, the bass thudding through the historic building.
A drunken cheer went up, and people started making their way through to the ballroom, snatching at each other’s hands, laughing and already dancing.
I downed my last mouthful of champagne, put the glass carefully on a marble side table, and traipsed after them. I vowed to myself I would have one look around, show my face (or mask), then say goodnight to Olly and go.
I pinpointed the host: a diamond-studded medico della peste or plague doctor, sinister but pleasingly dramatic, dancing with a stunning woman who I was pretty sure was a world famous model and who saw no need for a mask.
People were keeping a deferential margin of space around them on the dance floor.
Esme and Ajax were dancing, too, intimately entwined.
Esme whirled expansively in her red splendour, diamond necklace and earrings glittering in the gloom; I don’t know which masquerade character Ajax was trying to be, but he was definitely dressed as a king, an actual gilt metal crown perched on his head above a gold mask.
I was pretty sure there wasn’t such a thing as a king in the Commedia dell’arte, possibly he’d just gone ahead and made the character up.
I hadn’t been consciously keeping track of Olly – that’s what I told myself – but I saw him now, at the side of the dance floor, arms folded across his chest, looking on as Amber whispered into his ear.
The stab of jealousy I felt proved to me that one, I was possibly losing my mind, and two, two glasses of champagne were two glasses too many.
But rather than departing as I’d intended, I allowed myself to move onto the dancefloor with the others, not wanting to leave Olly quite yet, even if he was on the other side of the room.
Meanwhile, the enormous punchbowls were being carried into the ballroom, their contents newly refreshed.
Somehow the DJ had managed to combine elements of Renaissance music with dance tracks, and the effect was both disorientating and heady. Caught in the crowd, I found myself dancing enthusiastically, wondering whether there was something else in that champagne.
As I whirled and twirled, I was joined by a man in a black cloak, wearing the beaked mask of the plague doctor: a more muted version of the costume worn by the host. Whoever this person was, they were out of breath and were trying to echo my movements with their own.
At a slight slowing of the beat, they leaned sweatily close and said, in an approximation of an Italian accent, ‘You are really moving like a goddess on the dancefloor, beautiful lady.’
I leaned back, frowning behind my mask as my mind tried to identify the voice. ‘Neil?’ I shouted incredulously above the newly resurgent beat. ‘Is that you?’
The way he reared back told me that yes, quiet Neil from IT was having the time of his life. He did a few half-hearted hip bumps.
‘I’m almost old enough to be your mamma, Neil,’ I said in his ear. He’d just joined fresh from uni.
‘But age is just a—’
I danced away from him, holding my hands in a thumbs up, then a thumbs down. He shrugged, spun dramatically around and focused on a different person.
As I danced on, I caught sight of Olly. He was dancing, too, and Amber was going nowhere, her body swaying suggestively near his.
Amber, the excellent dancer with the strong thighs that allowed her to ace slutdrops.
Amber, who looked ridiculously good next to Olly.
As I looked, watching her move around him, my reaction was bone deep, visceral.
He’s not yours, he’s mine. At the exact moment I thought it, I saw him glance over her head and at me.
We locked eyes, the music fading even as I felt the vibration of it in my body.
We were both just about still dancing; our gentle movements echoing each other in the perfumed room; glittering colours in the darkness as everyone else moved around us, Amber dancing seductively, the people around me frenetic, their hands in the air.
Full volume was restored when a body slammed against me from behind.
It was Neil again, punch-drunk (although not in the traditional way) and ready for a second try.
I simultaneously tossed my head with annoyance and saw Olly carving his way across the dancefloor, a certain grim determination in his eyes that made me slightly fear for Neil’s safety and my heartbeat rise to triple time.
‘Leave it, Neil,’ I said sharply in his ear, and physically shoved him in the opposite direction.
Before Olly could reach me, I tipped my head in the direction of the door.
He nodded, and we made our way in parallel across the polished wood floor, already sticky with spilt drinks, far enough apart not to cause comment.
But as we entered the dark doorway, we were beside each other, and he reached out and slipped a piece of paper into my hand. I looked at him questioningly.
‘For you,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the courtyard in five minutes, by the second doorway to the left’.
And he was gone, arcing off to another corner of the room.
I walked into the darkness of the cold Venetian night, taking shelter in the doorway he’d mentioned.
The firebreather and juggler were gone, the only light from the flaming torches set at various points around the courtyard.
The quietness was a relief. I opened the piece of paper Olly had pressed into my hands.
I was shaking, but it was the cold; yes, it was definitely that.
Lizzy,
You say you don’t know me. So I thought I’d tell you ten things you don’t know about me.
I’m the original bookish guy who stammered and no one wanted. You didn’t believe me when I told you (yes, I saw the look on your face) but it’s true.
Yes, I work hard to fit in around people, but I refer you to the above.
You make me laugh more than any person I’ve ever met.
My tour of Afghanistan was a brutal experience, and my nightmares are so bad it takes me a long time to let people in. Including people who want me to go to parties all the time (did you google me?! Is that how you know I went out with a model?).
I went out with a model. She was also a person. And we weren’t compatible.
I typed this love letter because my handwriting is so bad, I don’t want you to be put off by it.
The first time you kissed me, you ruined me for anyone else. I want you so badly I can hardly breathe.
I’m crap at talking about myself which is how I only got to seven things (eight if you count this).
So,
let me show you who I am.
Olly.
‘Still reading?’
I spun round to find Olly standing there, mask still on.
‘Hey,’ I managed. I took a deep breath of his scent: musky, slightly spicy. Ridiculously expensive. I had tasted that scent on his skin. It made my mouth water.
He gestured to his outfit. ‘I didn’t get the chance to ask, what d’you think?’
I tilted my head, looked at the too-short trousers. ‘I mean, I wish I could say you look good.’
His laugh was low, honey-sweet. ‘What can I say? It was the last Arlecchino in the shop. Good news: Arlecchino is Colombina’s sweetheart. Bad news: almost every man here dressed as him, and every woman dressed as Colombina, so it doesn’t have quite the romantic impact I’d hoped.’
I laughed, too. ‘Not quite.’ I waved the piece of paper at him. ‘This did, though.’
The amusement faded from his eyes. ‘When I try to explain things to you, I get tongue-tied, sometimes. Thought it was safer to write things down.’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘But you always seem so confident.’
‘We aren’t always exactly what we seem, though, are we?
’ he said, looking at me knowingly. ‘I was pretty sure you’d clocked the hesitation in my speech sometimes.
It can be quite obvious, but I always act as if it’s fine, keep ploughing on.
That’s the trick, I’ve found. If you believe you’re confident, other people will believe it, too. ’
I nodded, fighting the urge to press myself against his torso and wrap my arms around him. I had noticed it: the occasional falter, or repetition. But I’d also noticed how he’d never displayed any reaction to it, never stopped, never lowered his voice.
‘Did I tell you that you look fucking amazing?’ There was no hesitation when he said that.
My breath caught in my throat. I shook my head.
‘Eighteenth century you is just as hot as twenty-first century you.’ He put his hand in his pocket, produced a small diamante keyring in the shape of a heart. ‘They’re handing these out. They’re not tacky at all.’
‘Grazie, bello,’ I said.
‘Lizzy Brinks,’ he teased, ‘did you just speak Italian to me?’
‘Si.’
‘Please, please do not do that to anyone else. I’ll have to fight a hundred men to keep you. And I’m a lover, not a fighter.’ He dropped a light kiss on my lips, and I felt a tingle run straight down my spine.
‘How did you shake off Amber?’ I said.
He held me back from him; I had the delicious sensation of his strong hands holding my arms, gently but firmly. His eyes were bright, curious. ‘You’re not… jealous? Are you?’
‘No,’ I said.
He dropped his lips to mine, firmly this time. As we kissed, I caught the scent of the Venetian breeze, knife sharp, the goose pimples running across my skin. We broke apart. ‘Okay, so what if I am jealous?’
His eyes kindled. ‘Then that would be very, very sexy,’ he said.
‘Hmmmph,’ I snipped, wriggling as a token of protest but definitely not protesting when he kissed me again, deeply, hungrily, and my knees threatened to give way as I gripped onto him. When we broke apart his eyes were serious.
‘And what if I said to you that the sight of whoever that beaky guy was making a move, made me want to remove him permanently from this occasion,’ he said in my ear.
‘I mean, that’s a little heavy,’ I murmured.
‘Consider it unsaid,’ he said grittily, ‘but also, not.’
‘Olly?’ I fitted my head into the crook of his neck, kissed his throat, felt him swallow.
‘Mmm?’
I felt no need to lie; no need to be anything other than honest. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He silently watched as I put the mask over my face, standing close to me. We each put our hoods up, and feeling safely anonymous, held hands, walking together over the cobbles in the direction of the water.