Chapter 2
Beth thought about going home, but unable to think straight, she simply followed Signor Sanna’s instruction and made her way to Giambattista’s, the café they regularly visited for mid-morning takeaways and after-work debriefs.
Her brain was frazzled and though her pulse was no longer thudding in her ears, it had been replaced by a sort of buzzing, like a bee had taken up residence in her head.
She approached the canal-side café, her legs still shaking, and suddenly noticed all the things she’d missed before, too busy with life and rushing to and from work to have taken them in.
The green awning that ran the length of the building was the same colour as the algae just visible above the waterline on the houses opposite.
The shutters on the higher windows needed a lick of paint and the pale greyish-cream Istrian stone was darker in some places due to damp or water damage.
But still, even on this wintry day, the café was bright and cheerful, the fake flowers on the tables welcoming and adding even more colour.
They’d be changed for real flowers when the tourist season started, but she wouldn’t be here for that now.
Even though it was cold enough to see her breath, she chose to sit outside.
She needed the icy, fresh air on her cheeks to get her brain moving again.
She had to find a way to process what had just happened, what it meant, and what her next steps were.
She’d loved the challenges of a new year but this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind.
Evalina, a waitress, came over and greeted Beth by name. Thankfully, the chill breeze always turned Beth’s nose and cheeks pink, and now it hid the fact she’d been crying.
‘Are you sure you’d like to sit outside?’ the waitress asked in Italian.
With her brain in such a muddle, Beth replied in English. ‘Definitely. I need some air.’
Evalina nodded, clearly thinking it was odd, and waited. After a second, Beth realised she hadn’t actually asked for anything to drink. ‘Oh, sorry. Can I have a large latte, please?’
Really, she should have ordered an espresso or caffe, but she just couldn’t manage such a strong flavour right now.
Evalina clearly recognised how much she needed the comfort of the more milky coffee as she frowned and said: ‘Of course. It is not traditional, but I will let you have it as you look so stressed.’
Beth managed a weak smile, but Evalina couldn’t help her brows pulling together as Beth acted so differently to usual.
She hesitated as if she was about to say something but then thought better of it.
Beth tried to flash her a smile, but from the narrowing of her eyes, it didn’t convince her, and she moved away slowly, glancing back as she went.
The outside wooden tables sat right next to the canal bank with a straight drop into the water.
It lapped gently against the side, making a gentle splashing sound.
Beth’s eyes wandered to a small iron bridge at the end of the road that linked two streets.
She’d been here a year, and she hadn’t taken the time to go in either direction to see where they led.
She hadn’t explored the city at all. Not properly.
She’d never just taken a coffee and wandered through the alleyways, soaking up the vibes.
Of course she’d visited St Mark’s Square, the famous main public square, and she’d taken in the beauty of the Doge’s Palace and St Mark’s Basilica.
But she’d never explored the nooks and crannies and funny little side streets of the famous floating city.
There were so many restaurants she’d never eaten at, bars she’d never visited, cafés she’d never drunk at.
Not to mention shops and markets she’d never seen.
The thought of the bookshops she was yet to visit almost made her cry again.
Seeing a gondola tied to a set of steps further down the canal, she realised she’d never even had a gondola ride.
She hadn’t wanted to do it alone, as un-feminist as that was.
It was such an iconic romantic gesture. Her dating history was nowhere near as impressive as her résumé.
Dates were few and far between, and despite setting a goal when she moved here to find a tall, dark and handsome Italian to enjoy the city with, it hadn’t happened.
She’d been consumed by her job and the beautiful artwork at the galleria, and now it was all too late.
It was Giambattista himself who brought out the coffee, pulling her out of her thoughts.
He placed it on the table along with a small plate piled high with baicoli, a hard but delicious biscuit, and a small dish of zabaglione, a sweet cream she could dip them into.
She’d never been more grateful in her life.
‘I didn’t order these,’ Beth said, looking up into his kind face.
‘I could tell you needed them. Free, of course.’ Giambattista grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth.
He was pushing eighty now, though following the Mediterranean diet he didn’t look it.
His face was tanned and wrinkled from the long, hot Venetian summers and his hair looked dark grey where the once black met the encroaching white.
He’d been handsome in his youth; she could tell that from his bone structure.
He slipped into the seat opposite her, speaking in Italian. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
Beth’s lip began to wobble and through sheer willpower alone she managed to hold back the tears. ‘I’ve just found out my job’s over,’ she replied, and he immediately broke into English.
‘You’ve been fired?’
‘No!’ She hadn’t meant to shout but the idea was preposterous. She was barely ever told off. Her best friends still called her a goody two-shoes sometimes when they were teasing her, and they weren’t wrong. ‘The funding’s been removed. It’s just a whole thing in academia.’
‘So what does that mean?’ he asked gently.
‘It means I don’t have a job anymore and I have to go home in four weeks’ time. Maybe even earlier.’
The tears threatened once more, and she grabbed a baicoli, dipping it into the cream and ramming it into her mouth, partly to stop the tears falling and partly to try and cheer herself up.
Nothing did that like delicious Italian treats.
The hit of sugar made her feel slightly better for a moment.
If only she could eat them continually, or at least until this initial hurt faded.
‘Slow down,’ Giambattista said gently, smiling, as she tucked into another. ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’
‘I can’t help it. They’re delicious.’
‘Grazie. Now, do you want to go home?’
She shook her head, another baicoli heading into her mouth.
She wouldn’t have got the words out anyway.
She liked her life here. She should have done more by now, but really she felt like she was only just getting started.
She looked up at the bright blue sky. It was probably raining again in the UK, the sky dense with dark grey cloud.
Even those sorts of days hadn’t seemed so bad here.
She loved the sound of the rain on the gallery windows, on the apartment roof as she slept.
And Venice was as beautiful in the winter as in summer.
Better even, as it felt like it belonged to the locals, the tourists departed until the sun brought them back again.
Giambattista stood up. ‘It’s too cold out here for my old bones. Let’s go inside.’
Her fingers were like ice and the warmth of the coffee cup wasn’t doing anything to help.
Still eating a baicoli, she stood up and he carried the plate of biscuits as they headed inside.
The change in temperature brought a flush to her skin, turning her cheeks even pinker.
He placed the plate down on a small table and she settled on the large deep red bench next to him.
The walls were adorned with traditional frescoes, most of them religious – replicas or takes on the religious art Venice was famous for.
She sent a silent prayer to heaven that some sort of answer would present itself to her soon, though she didn’t have much hope it actually would.
‘So,’ Giambattista said, helping himself to a biscuit but not bothering with the zabaglione. ‘What will you do, if you don’t want to go home?’
‘I don’t know. All I’ve ever done is work in museums and galleries. It took me so long to train for, I’ve never had time for anything else.’
‘Forget all that.’ He waved his hand dramatically, brushing her worries aside as though she were concentrating on the wrong thing. ‘What would you do if you could? Your dream job. And I don’t mean eating baicoli all day.’
A hint of a smile played on her lips but was soon replaced with a frown. She didn’t quite understand his question. ‘What do you mean? I am doing my dream job.’
‘Are you? Or are you doing something you like? Maybe even love. They’re two different things, you know.’
It was true she loved her job but was it her dream job?
She’d never thought they could be two different things.
She’d always focused on the next step on the career path she’d chosen at twelve years old when she’d visited the British Museum and the National Gallery on the same day.
Her mind had been made up then and with parents who’d drifted from job to job, causing money worries and giving her more responsibility than a child that age should have taken on, her mind had never had the chance to wander from that path.
She felt like the earth was shifting under her feet again, just like it had in Signor Sanna’s office, and the biscuits threatened to rise up. She could feel them churning in her stomach amongst bitter bile, fear and panic.
‘So you’re not sure what job you would like to do next, but you know it is here?’
‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly certain of that one thing. ‘I do know that. Maybe I can see if any other museums are hiring. There are one or two here,’ she said with a smile. A historic city like Venice had them everywhere.
Giambattista chuckled. ‘Yes, we have a few you could try. But … is this not a chance to do something else? Something you would love even more? I know you love your job, but do you not get lonely working all by yourself all the time? You could turn this into an opportunity. It doesn’t have to mean the end.
When you come in, you aren’t always smiling.
Only when you are reading do you smile.’
She hadn’t thought of it like that. To be honest, at this moment she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to think of it like that.
The pain was too raw, and she was too angry.
She’d worked so hard to get where she was.
She couldn’t just throw all that away, could she?
What would she even do? Nothing particular came to mind, though, if this was make-believe, she’d probably want to do something with books or reading. Could she switch to being a librarian?
A few more customers came in. Regulars, old friends of Giambattista’s, and as they settled at their usual table, Giambattista placed his large, warm hands over hers.
‘I’ll leave you to think, but try to think …’ He searched for the word, his English failing him. ‘Wider,’ he said eventually, his hands a foot apart as though he were showing her the dimensions of a box.
Beth settled into the seat, warm enough now to remove her coat.
There were two baicoli left but only half a coffee.
She ordered another one and got to work on her phone, searching for any job opportunities in Venice that would suit her and her training.
As she selected filters and amended searches, the opportunities dwindled in front of her eyes.
Maybe she should be thinking wider. Giambattista’s advice rang in her ears but with no idea what she’d ever dream of doing, she couldn’t search for anything in particular.
Unfortunately, by the time she’d drained her second coffee and finished the sweet treats, she hadn’t found anything suitable and her shoulders were slumped, her spirits lower than the Venice waterline.
She knew from experience there might be some visitor assistant posts available nearer the summer, but right now there was nothing.
She was just about to leave when Giambattista rushed to the door excitedly, opening it widely, and in came an army of young men carrying tables.
‘Mi scusi, signora,’ one of them said, trying to remove her table while a colleague replaced it with the one he was holding.
‘Oh, what—’ She turned to Giambattista, picking up her cup and plate. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m changing the tables. These are too boring.’ He patted the top of the plain wooden table in front of him. ‘The same as every other café and restaurant in Venezia. But look at these; aren’t they beautiful?’
‘Gorgeous!’ She put her plate and cup back down, admiring the unusual design.
The base was made of a stack of old books that reminded her of the academic tomes in Signor Sanna’s office.
They were set in a spiral and varnished so they had a slight sheen and were firm enough not to buckle under the weight of the tabletop which was reinforced glass so you could see the cover of the topmost book. She tilted her head to read it.
‘L’Arte Di Venezia. The Art of Venice. Where did these come from?’
‘You remember my friend who owns the book barge?’
She nodded. She’d visited it a few times, loving all bookshops. It had stocked mostly non-fiction, which she herself enjoyed, but recently she’d found her tastes wandering more to novels. She loved the escapism they provided, particularly if she could find something set in Renaissance Venice.
‘I had the brilliant idea to turn some of his stock into table bases – I saw it on Pinterest.’
For the first time since her meeting with Signor Sanna that morning, Beth chuckled, knowing Giambattista wasn’t exactly tech savvy, and at the image of him on his phone, flicking through Pinterest for inspiration.
‘An artist friend I know offered to do it. I am so pleased with them!’ He stood back admiring the new tables the small army of men were still putting in place. ‘Do you like them?’
‘I do. Very much.’
‘Stay and see once they’re all in.’
Feeling in the way, and with her mind so full of the day’s events, Beth gave her apologies. ‘I’ll come and see them tomorrow. I just … I think I better go. I’m not very good company right now.’
‘Think about what I said,’ Giambattista added and Beth nodded.
What would she do for the rest of the day? Where would she go? Before she reached the door, she knew there was only one thing to do: go to her happy place.