CHAPTER 16
Joanna
Venice
It was Joanna’s last day in Venice and she decided to take the vaporetto from the Lido down the Grand Canal, past all the palaces to the Piazzale Roma.
Emmy had described the palaces in her letter and it was the kind of tour that Emmy and her father would have taken back in their day.
The Grand Canal travelled in an S shape between the two islands on which Venice was built.
Two islands, but at least four footbridges to join them together.
The sky was a deep and vibrant blue and only the light autumn breeze reminded her that even the Mediterranean summer was slipping away, as they chugged towards the lush greenery of Giardini.
The sunlight rippled on the water and the distant buildings had moved into a hazy silhouette.
Joanna held her breath. The shimmering city of Venice still seemed not quite real.
It was fragile – how could these buildings continue to survive with so much water around them?
She could imagine the city becoming some sort of Atlantis, lost under the sea.
And yet underneath it all, she’d glimpsed enough of La Serenissima to be sure it was strong.
And she felt strong too – a new kind of strength running through her veins that came, perhaps, from being here alone, from taking the time to come to a decision about her marriage.
She put her hands on the rail of the vaporetto and braced herself as the side of the boat barged into the floating pontoon that was the disembarkation point for the garden of Venice.
She had thought it would be difficult – coming back here to a romantic city that held so many memories.
Joanna looked out into the distance. And she’d had her moments .
. . But overall, it hadn’t turned out that way.
Because this was a reflective city too, and that was what Joanna had done: allowed herself to reflect upon Martin, their marriage and also Emmy – this woman from the past who might or might not be an ancestor of Joanna’s, who seemed to have crept inside her head.
She thought of the vision she’d seen – the girl in the blue dress with the golden ribbon in her hair.
Had she been only a figment of Joanna’s imagination, conjured by the sunlight, the rippling water, the magic of Venice?
Perhaps. She’d been there only for seconds, and yet in those seconds she’d seemed so real – Joanna had almost thought she could turn and touch the hem of her dress, hold out a hand to her.
And had she ever actually been real . . .
? If so, who was she and to whom or what was she running?
She had looked so happy and excited, her eyes bright, her smile warm and wide.
Perhaps to her lover then? Perhaps to some young man who had found a way to her heart?
Joanna watched the people getting on and off the boat.
Dark-eyed young men in leather jackets, girls in skinny blue jeans and high heels, an old man smoking a pipe, a woman with a poodle in her shopping bag .
. . Venice was the perfect place for people-watching.
She had come here undecided what to do about her marriage.
But Emmy and this magical city had helped her see – the heart of it was long gone, and the sad thing was that she had hardly noticed its passing.
Perhaps she should shoulder some of the blame; perhaps there had been a point in time when she could have rescued it and stopped herself and Martin from growing so far apart.
But lovers grew apart for a reason – often because they had fallen out of love.
As they veered away from the water bus stop, the driver hooted loudly at a varnished wooden speedboat, a Riva, and received a V sign in return, along with a torrent of abuse.
If only she understood more Italian . . .
Joanna watched, fascinated. It was a miracle there were so few collisions, what with Italian volatility and all the traffic on the canal.
It was a crazy place all right – the dominance of the waterways prevailed, but however mad it got, it seemed the Venetians were adept at finding ways around it.
She moved aside to let an Italian woman – dressed in black coat and boots as if it were the dead of winter – pass by. Plenty of couples fell out of love. It happened. And Martin seemed to have recognised it too – despite all those texts of his desperately trying to hang on to what they had lost.
Joanna craned forwards as they reached the famous Bridge of Sighs.
She felt the brush of the breeze on her face as the water bus turned to come in at the next stop.
She understood why Emmy had been captivated by these bridges.
Bridges provided a path forward or back, a connection, a way of avoiding the troubled waters below.
For Joanna, Venice had been a turning point. What is next for us? Emmy had written. So, had it been like that for Emmy too?
They passed the big white dome of Salute and the Gritti Palace, constructed from tiny, narrow bricks.
Joanna had been part of a couple with Martin for a long time.
But that didn’t mean she had lost her independent spirit, or that she couldn’t live alone.
She usually travelled solo for work and this had never been a problem – in fact, she was rather good at it.
It would be nice to have someone to share Venice with, but she would do that with the piece she was writing; she would share it with so many visitors to the city – all being well.
Once again, they arrived at Rialto. Joanna took a few more photos of the famous bridge as they slowed pace.
More shabby white palaces, Gothic windows and stone balustrades.
Little waterways forking off from the main canal, a gondolier singing lustily, black eyes glittering.
With its wonderful, misty sense of Italian tragedy, the city was irresistible.
Joanna watched as the sun sent a rope of undulating light onto the water of the canal.
The gondolier paused in his singing; the note seemed to hang in the air, in time.
Then, as she watched, a cloud feathered across the sun and the light dimmed, the moment was gone.
Joanna knew what she had to do. She took her mobile from her bag and called Martin.
He answered quickly as if he thought she might ring off any second. ‘Jo. At last. How are you?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Oh . . .’ She heard his hesitation. ‘Missing you. It’s been a long time.’
Had it been so long? Not really. Less than two weeks, she reckoned. Not so long to make a decision that would affect her whole life.
‘When are you coming home, Jo?’
She took a deep breath. ‘That’s why I’m phoning, Martin. I’ve thought about it a lot.’ She really had. ‘And I’m . . . I’m not coming home.’
Silence.
Joanna gazed out at the still canal. This was harder than she’d thought it would be.
‘Jo—’
‘I’ve made up my mind. I want us to separate.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘But it’s still raw. Maybe in a month or two—’
‘Martin . . .’
He laughed. ‘When your mother and your sister have driven you completely crazy.’
Joanna didn’t appreciate his tone. And she liked to think that she was re-establishing a long overdue bond with her mother and sister in Dorset. It was still pretty hard going with Harriet at times, but . . . ‘I’m in Venice,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be back at Mulberry Farm Cottage tomorrow.’
‘Venice,’ he said.
She knew exactly what he was thinking. But that was a long time ago.
‘And if you leave me, where will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ She hadn’t got that far, not yet.
‘Won’t you at least come back to talk about things first, Jo?’ he asked. ‘There’s no need to make any hasty decisions. I was an idiot and I’m sorry. But this is our life together we’re talking about. One stupid mistake doesn’t mean we have to throw everything away.’
Joanna sighed. ‘It’s not what you did,’ she tried to explain. ‘It’s how distant we’ve become, Martin. You said it yourself that day. What happened with Hilary made me see it too. You were right. We never grew closer, we just grew apart.’
‘But we can get closer again. Please let me try to make it up to you,’ he begged.
‘I don’t think we can.’ Joanna was close to tears now. Why was he making this difficult?
‘You’ll have to come back to collect some of your stuff at least,’ he said and she heard in his voice that he thought he could persuade her to reconsider.
‘I know. I will.’ She struggled to keep her voice level and her mind clear. ‘But I can’t come yet. I’m really busy and after this, I’m going to Lisbon.’ She thought of what she’d seen in Venice. What would Emmy have in store for her in Lisbon?
He whistled. ‘Nice one, Jo. Venice and then Lisbon, you’re really getting around.’
Already, their conversation seemed dangerously like old times. ‘I’ll ring you to fix a date,’ she told him.
‘All right. But, Jo?’
‘Yes?’
‘I still love you,’ he said. ‘So, don’t think I’m giving up.’
Joanna ended the call, took a deep breath and let her eyes fix on the mauve horizon.
Did Martin still love her? She really didn’t think so.
And did she still love Martin? No. She’d already acknowledged the truth.
She was sad for the end of her marriage, but now it was time to let go.
She was stepping forwards, not back. It was time to face up to the challenge of the new.