The Floating Venice Bookshop (The Floating Shop #2)

Chapter 1

The air in Venice was cold as it whipped around the Gothic buildings that looked like they belonged on a movie set.

The typical Venetian architecture, a mix of Byzantine and Renaissance with Islamic influence, appeared in the crowded streets, houses and shops all around her.

And everywhere there was the smell of the water: the deep salty sea of the lagoon and the winding rivers of the canals that snaked and wound through the city.

The bracing air bit at Beth’s cheeks as she moved through the empty streets towards work, contemplating not just her day, but her life.

She tucked her latest book underneath her arm and thrust her fingers deep into her pockets.

Some people hated the new year. The dull January weather, the winter stretching out before them, bringing what, at times, felt like never-ending cold.

That was certainly how it had felt in England, but Beth had always loved the new year.

It was a time for organising. For setting goals.

For deciding and planning how she would improve herself and her life.

What did she want to achieve in the year to come?

How would she get there? SMART goals. That old business acronym: Specific.

Measurable. Achievable. Relevant. Timebound.

She would beat her PB in rowing one thousand metres; she might even set a higher reading target.

This approach had served her well so far, getting her to exactly where she’d always wanted to be. Here. In Venice. Living her best life.

Venice had had some grey, rainy days, but today the sky was a bright, vibrant blue, the clouds pale and fluffy.

Nothing compared to the beauty of Venice.

Not in Beth’s mind, anyway. She walked into the Gallerie dell’Accademia and inhaled.

The air was different in here, softer somehow, and the quiet of the gallery wrapped around her like a blanket as soon as she turned off the increasingly busy Venice streets and in through the giant wooden door.

Even after almost a year’s secondment, she still couldn’t quite believe that she lived and worked in Venice.

That she got to walk the city streets and stay here like a local.

She loved the way the city smelled of salt water, sometimes even a little like seaweed, and of course, there were the scents of the gorgeous food and drink Italy was famous for.

But for Beth, nothing compared to the smell of centuries-old oil paintings and the slight dustiness that all museums and galleries seemed to have.

It was the air of history, and Venice was an art history lover’s dream.

Years of planning and determination had got her here: a degree, a master’s and then a doctorate landing her a job at the National Gallery in London and finally, her secondment here.

Her term was soon coming to an end but Signor Sanna, the gallery director, was confident it would be renewed.

There was no reason it shouldn’t be, and Beth had been more than a little relieved.

She didn’t want to return to England yet.

It wasn’t that she hated her home city. Not at all.

It was just that it had always felt like a stopgap to getting somewhere else.

England was full of history, but nothing had excited her more than Italy and particularly the island of Venice with its unique, interesting past. That was why she’d applied for as many secondments here as she could, and though she’d been so busy she’d barely seen all the beautiful city had to offer, it had already become more like home than her now rented-out two-bedroom house in a quiet London suburb ever had.

‘Buongiorno, Antonia,’ Beth said with a wave, greeting one of the visitor assistants who was readying the gallery for opening.

Beth was pretty much fluent now. She’d noticed on first arriving how quickly Italians spoke and had found the pace of speech somewhat challenging, but combining history of art with Italian back at university had been a genius move, and her language skills had improved to the point that she now spoke like a local.

‘Buongiorno, Beth,’ the older lady responded in a sing-song voice, and then practising her English: ‘What are you reading today?’

‘Another book on the de Medicis.’

‘I’m surprised you haven’t read them all! Oh, Signor Sanna wants to see you straight away. He said to ask you to go to his office.’

‘Oh! Sure, okay.’

Beth frowned a little. They’d only caught up the day before and he was aware of everything she was working on at the moment.

What could he need to see her about? Perhaps it was to do with moving one of the more important paintings.

She’d noted a couple of frames were needing repair and a few of the ridiculously precious paintings needed conservation.

Maybe he’d finally got around to checking for himself and agreed they should swap them with something from the stores and get the conservators in.

Her low heels echoed on the tiles as she walked the stairs to the first floor, savouring the brilliant works of art from the thirteenth to seventeenth centuries that adorned the walls: the rich reds and blues of Titian and the paler colours of Tiepolo.

The talent and skill that had gone into every painting made the hair on her arms stand up and goose bumps flush her skin, even though she was still wearing her coat.

She pulled it tighter around her, over her normal uniform of plain black or grey trousers and a smart jumper.

Old buildings like this were known for being draughty and the Gallerie dell’Accademia dated back to 1343, which meant there were numerous nooks and crannies the winter wind could sweep in, but it did mean it was nice and cool during the hot summer months when Venice was at its best and chock-a-block with tourists.

Beth knocked and opened Signor Sanna’s door, the heat from his small portable heater hitting her face. Finally feeling warm enough, she shrugged off her coat and hooked it over the back of the chair.

‘Signor,’ she said in Italian, with a smile. ‘Is everything okay?’

His shock of grey hair was even more unruly today, as if he hadn’t even bothered combing it, and the way his eyes darted to her face then back down to his papers told her things definitely were not okay.

He spoke in English, his thick salt and pepper eyebrows pulling together as he grimaced, and the lines on his face deepened.

He’d always enjoyed practising her native language and in turn he’d helped with her Italian pronunciation, the nuances and inflections that made her sound like she belonged there.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop despite the heater and his downturned mouth meant this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

She wondered again what could be wrong. She’d never seen him like this before.

He was always cheerful. He could be a little uptight sometimes, but lots of curators and academics were.

It was part of the laser focus required to study a subject to the depths they often did.

That was why the walls of his room were covered in shelves full of academic tomes and hefty reference books, spiral-bound papers covering every surface.

She resisted the urge to run her fingers over the solid leather bindings on the nearest bookshelf, open one to sniff its pages or simply hold it for comfort.

‘Please, sit down,’ he said kindly. ‘It is better that you sit.’

She did as he advised and dropped her book to the floor by the leg of her chair. Her stomach knotted uncomfortably, like her ribs were trying to push their way up and out of her body.

‘What’s going on?’ Beth asked nervously.

She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands, and her fingers felt too long as she clasped them together.

She pushed her long, plain brown hair back from her face.

She had a band on her wrist but had worn it down on her walk into work to keep her warm.

She wasn’t cold now though and wished it would stop tickling her cheek. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Me? Yes, yes, I’m all right. It’s just … oh, Beth, I’m so sorry.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead, settling his thumb and forefinger at each temple and squeezing. ‘The funding for your post … it’s … it’s not going to be renewed after all.’

She froze, a wave of icy panic washing over her. As it moved slowly downwards from the top of her head, she could feel the colour draining from her face. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears like a drum.

‘Wh – what? Sorry, I don’t understand.’ She squeezed her clasped hands even tighter. ‘You said you were sure – that there was no reason to think—’

‘I know.’ He shook his head as if he wished he’d never made such promises.

‘I had an email late last night.’ His fingers finally dropped from his forehead, and he looked her in the eye.

The sorrow there almost made her cry, but she bit the inside of her cheek to stop the tears forming.

She was at work. A professional. She wouldn’t cry in a work setting.

‘The society funding your position have said unfortunately they’re going to have to withdraw it for the coming year.

They’ve had unexpected costs and don’t have the money anymore. ’

‘But why? What costs?’

‘They haven’t specified but you know this job. This industry. It could be anything. Perhaps an important work needs renovation. Maybe a building needs repair. Funding is difficult at the best of times.’

‘But they can’t! That means …’

‘I know it’s a shock,’ he said gently. ‘It was a shock to me too.’

‘But without their funding my job’s …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘I wish there was something more I could do,’ he said quietly, in barely more than a whisper. ‘I really am so sorry.’