Chapter Four
That evening, they changed to go out for dinner and decided to browse the shops on the way, as they didn’t close until late.
‘Shopping’s not my thing,’ admitted Christopher. ‘But I don’t mind it as a spectator sport.’
‘I’ll try not to make it torture,’ teased Olivia. ‘But I want to do some early Christmas shopping and get something a bit different from the usual boring socks and books.’
She bought velvet slippers in bright blue and yellow for their fathers, soft leather purses for their mothers, notebooks covered in marbled paper and Murano shot glasses for their closest friends, boxes of thick cream parchment to write thank-you letters for their wedding presents, and bottles of truffle oil and Vin Santo for the larder.
‘You don’t have to buy everything you see,’ Christopher teased, as she was laden with carrier bags.
‘I absolutely do,’ she said, and arranged to have everything sent back to their hotel.
A tiny little voice in the back of her mind told her why she was doing it: to squash down the anxiety she was feeling after bumping into Marcus. Even though she had determined not to give him a second thought, she felt on edge, agitated, as if her blood were radioactive.
Once, she had mistaken that feeling for passion.
She had fancied herself in love. But it hadn’t been love at all.
It had been something dark, a kind of madness, almost an addiction.
Now she knew what love felt like. Slow, sleepy, dreamy, warm.
From the moment she met Christopher, she’d felt wrapped up in a comfort blanket that was endlessly reassuring, like scrambled eggs on a Sunday night, or freshly laundered sheets, or the first hot-water bottle of autumn.
The exact opposite of how Marcus had made her feel.
Meeting him again had made her jangly and unsettled. She was determined to smother her anxiety, and shopping was the perfect solution, giving her hit after hit of dopamine.
Time. All she needed was time. The memory of her encounter would start to fade soon. She could put it behind her. She didn’t want to wish away her honeymoon, though. Hence the distraction technique.
Their last port of call was a shop, tucked away in the corner of a square, that sold a mixture of antiques and homeware.
The window was so beautifully dressed that Olivia couldn’t resist: glittering pieces of glass and tiny ornaments and gilded picture frames.
Coffee cups in jewel colours, and salt and pepper shakers shaped like rabbits and onions and pomegranates.
The handwritten labels were tied on with lengths of dark-green velvet ribbon.
It was an absolute treasure trove, each piece more exquisite than the last, yet the prices weren’t ridiculous.
An elegant woman in a cream trouser suit greeted them with a smile. ‘I am here if you need me.’
‘I want everything!’ Olivia said. ‘Your shop is wonderful.’
She shrugged modestly. ‘I choose what I would like for my own house.’
‘I’m bracing myself,’ laughed Christopher.
At the very back of the shop, Olivia spied a painting. It was old; unframed and dusty. She picked it up, her heart pounding.
‘This looks like a Francesco Bertorelli,’ she whispered to Christopher. ‘But it can’t be. Not at that price.’
She peered more closely, examining the brushstrokes. It was a classic Venetian scene of a bridge over a canal at sunset, and a lone gondola, the colours striking in their boldness: scarlet and cobalt and regal purple.
‘Is he well known?’ Christopher asked.
She nodded. ‘He’s becoming very collectible. He was prolific in the 1920s and ’30s, and people are starting to appreciate his work, because it’s classic but not overpriced. If this is real, it could fetch five figures. I can’t quite make out the initials. It looks like F. B. but it needs cleaning.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Eighty euros.’
‘Well, buy it. It’s not a big risk and you never know.’
Olivia jumped as the shop owner appeared behind them. She nodded at the painting. ‘You have a good eye.’
‘It’s very lovely.’ Olivia was careful. She didn’t want to give too much away at this stage.
‘But it’s not what you think, I’m afraid.’ The woman’s eyes were knowing, but dancing with mischief. ‘It’s not a Francesco Bertorelli.’
‘Ah.’ Olivia blushed at being caught out. ‘I did wonder.’
‘Here. The label has fallen off.’ She picked it up from underneath the table. ‘It explains that it’s by Federico Bertoluzzi. Federico is my nephew. It amuses him to paint like Bertorelli, as they have the same initials. But it is an homage, not a copy.’
‘Oh!’ said Olivia. ‘He’s very good. I honestly thought for a moment . . .’ She raked her eyes over the painting again, shaking her head in amazement.
‘He does them on old canvases. With vintage paint. Which is why they look so genuine. I tell him, I am not in the business of passing off. I will never let anyone think they have a genuine Bertorelli. But I sell very many of these.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s very gifted. And it’s stunning.’ Olivia frowned. ‘If he’s so good, he should be painting in his own right. His brushwork is magnificent. He doesn’t need to imitate.’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘You are an artist?’
‘No, I work for an English auction house. I’m their paintings specialist.’ She held out her hand. ‘Olivia. Olivia Lucas.’ She realised this was the first time she had introduced herself by her married name. ‘And this is my husband, Christopher. We’re here on our honeymoon.’
‘Ah, congratulations. I’m Lucia. Bertoluzzi, of course.
The thing is,’ Lucia went on, ‘Federico is only interested in making money. He can paint six of these in an afternoon. He wants cash, to spend on clothes and in bars and on girls. He does not want the pressure of finding his own style. Maybe one day he will grow up.’ She shrugged and shook her head in mock exasperation.
Olivia held the painting at arm’s length with her head to one side, considering it.
‘You know, I think this painting would be the perfect souvenir of our honeymoon. I love Federico’s story. What do you think, Christopher?’
‘I like it very much.’ Christopher nodded his approval.
Lucia smiled. ‘That makes me very happy.’
‘Would you keep it here for us?’ Olivia asked. ‘Until tomorrow?’
‘Of course. I will wrap it up for you. Come and collect it whenever you like.’
As they walked towards the restaurant, Christopher admitted he was puzzled.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d buy a fake. I’m not judging, by the way. I think it’s a lovely picture. But your entire job is about authenticity.’
‘Technically, it’s an homage, not a fake, and she was quite open about it. And I like to think of Federico spending his ill-gotten gains in a bar somewhere. Anyway, the whole art business is a racket. You know that.’
‘I’m learning,’ Christopher laughed. ‘Pity it wasn’t a real one, though.’
‘You could definitely pass it off as a real one, to the right person,’ said Olivia. ‘Someone who thinks they know about art but doesn’t really have a clue.’
‘I wonder if they’ve ever tried?’
‘I don’t think Lucia would jeopardise her business. But Federico – who knows?’
‘Well, we’ve got a souvenir with a story.’
‘We certainly have. And it’s a talking point, which is even more fun.’
They walked on to the restaurant, crossing over the Rialto Bridge – which was crammed with couples taking selfies against the romantic backdrop of Venice at night.
Olivia fell silent, turning over the discovery in her mind, wondering if perhaps it had happened for a reason.
Her thoughts wandered back to her earlier encounter with Marcus, lowering her mood a little.
‘Penny for them,’ said Christopher eventually, as they turned into a tiny backstreet.
‘Just trying to add up how much I’ve spent,’ she replied, a little too glib.
‘Three hundred and sixty-four euros.’
Her mouth dropped open in mock outrage. ‘You’re policing me!’
‘Not at all. It’s just how my brain works. It adds things up as I go along. I can’t help it.’
She held up her hands, laughing. ‘Okay. I’ll get a handle on it. But I have got loads of Christmas presents.’
‘Darling, it’s your money. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.’ He slung an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. ‘You will never have to explain yourself to me.’
A glass of sweet vermouth took the edge off her anxiety, and by the time she was tucking into tagliatelle with wild duck ragu and a glass of local Valpolicella, all the bad memories had floated away like a gondola.
After dinner, woozy with tiramisu and glasses of grappa, they wandered back to their hotel.
‘We’re not allowed to use our phones,’ said Christopher. ‘We have to use our powers of observation.’
Soon they were weak with laughter as they took endless wrong turns into dead ends and had to retrace their steps.
As they headed over yet another tiny bridge, Christopher grabbed Olivia’s hand and spun her around, pushing her gently back against the cold stone.
He held her hand tightly in both of his, clasping it against his heart.
‘I just want to tell you,’ he said, ‘I never thought I’d be a honeymoon-in-Venice kind of person. I never thought it could be so magical. I’ve never been so happy, Livingston.’
‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘That’s the loveliest thing to say.’
‘I wish I could ask you to marry me again. This would be the perfect place for a proposal.’
The moon was peeping over the tops of the roofs, throwing a silver-blue light on to the canal running silent beneath them, threading its way between the ancient buildings.
The pinky-gold globes of lantern light were reflected in the water and the night air was still, the bridge a stage on which they were the only players.
‘Just kiss me instead,’ she said, and wound her arm around his neck, pulling his lips towards hers. She still couldn’t get used to the idea that he was hers, and she was his.
On her way back to her hotel, Rebecca took the side streets through Cannaregio, the old Jewish quarter.
Here, the pavements seemed wider, and the little bars and restaurants lining the canal were full of locals.
She had fallen under the spell of the city at night, loved the eerie atmosphere of the undiscovered corners and the thrill of not knowing quite what you might find.
The night colours appealed to her darker side: midnight blue and pewter and charcoal, backlit by the milky glow of the stars, the lanterns swinging gently in the faintest of breezes, and windows spilling out a rosy glow.
Turning a corner, she saw Olivia and Christopher up ahead on a bridge, silhouetted like something from the cover of a romantic novel.
She slipped into a doorway so as not to be seen, not wanting to break the spell.
As they kissed under the moonlight, she felt relieved that Olivia’s interlude with Marcus didn’t seem to have dimmed her passion for her husband.
Far from it. As they carried on kissing with a fervour Rebecca had never experienced for herself, she felt her heart crumple. She could hardly breathe, she was so eaten up by longing. She would never be whisked away on a honeymoon to Venice. She just wasn’t that sort of person.
As the couple broke apart and carried on walking, hand in hand, she stumbled away in the opposite direction, tears blurring the path ahead.
She simply wasn’t enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough.
Successful enough. Interesting enough. She could put on a costume, she could fake it, but she could never quite make it.
It was a year since she’d stopped working for her dad and left home.
She could have made as much in a weekend on the market stall as she did in a week at the upmarket travel agent in Mayfair.
By the time she’d paid her rent and her Tube fare, there was little left over.
She’d been so determined to make it work, but she felt as if the person she wanted to be was moving further and further away.
She was destined to organise the trips of a lifetime for other people.
She might be an expert on cities around the world, adept at timetabling the perfect tour so her clients could move seamlessly from the first-class lounge to five-star hotels to Michelin-starred tables in a blur of limos, fine wines and cigar smoke, but she was never going to experience it for herself.
She could only peer into the hotels she had booked so many times, and read the menus of the restaurants where she had made reservations for others.
She constantly felt on the edge, an outsider looking in.
She was only worthy of two-star hotels and cheap restaurants, as that was all she could afford.
To console herself, she immersed herself in art.
She didn’t have to be rich or a VIP to visit the Accademia or the Guggenheim.
She had spent the afternoon wallowing in everything from Titian to Tintoretto, with their rich colours and intricate detail and powerful imagery.
The paintings were an escape, and had gone some way towards comforting her.
But on her return home, there would be no one to talk to about her experience.
Her colleagues would glaze over if she began to describe what she had seen; her friends would be too wrapped up in their husbands’ wants and their children’s needs; her uncultured family wouldn’t even pretend to be anything other than bored.
She was lonely. She was angry. She was sad.
Above all, she was trapped.
She was determined, on this trip, to find a way out.