The Venice Hotel

Chapter 2 Sophie

S OPHIE

Sophie wonders if her guide is in training for a new season of The Amazing Race. The woman’s so far ahead, Sophie could easily lose her in the crowd. ‘Excuse me. Sorry,’ she mutters every few seconds at the growing number of annoyed strangers she inadvertently hip and shoulders, desperately trying to keep up.

The guide, a stick insect in white leather pants and stiletto heels who didn’t actually introduce herself when they met at Marco Polo Airport, reaches a set of stairs and mercifully stops to tap something into her phone. Sophie breaks into a jog to reach her. It’s the fifth lot of stairs she’s come up against since getting off the vaporetto. In her daydreams about the beautiful canals running through the city, she didn’t factor in the need to get across those canals on footbridges, with all these bloody stairs. She’s overheating even though it’s freezing, and a rubber wheel on her luggage is already wonky, on its maiden voyage.

Also on their maiden voyage are the hot-pink ankle boots that she clicked once on Instagram last month, so they kept coming up in her feed eight times a day until she relented and bought them. They’re now making both of her heels burn with what are sure to be blisters. They call it aggressive mimicry in the animal world, getting sucked in by a predator’s looks only to have them kill you. Predator/ankle boots, same-same.

She’s already walked past half-a-dozen boutiques in the last five minutes with loads of gorgeous boots in their windows that are most likely half the price of the death traps she has on. What idiot buys leather shoes before coming to Italy?

‘Follow me, please.’ The guide doesn’t look at Sophie before taking off again at land-speed record pace. Sophie may as well be chasing the road runner, all the while dragging the dodgy wheeled luggage behind her. ‘Here we are, signora.’ The guide comes to a sudden stop again and waves a piece of paper under Sophie’s nose. ‘We are arrived at Hotel Il Cuore. Now, if you will sign here. Prego.’

Sophie signs the yellow slip. ‘Thank you, I appreciate—’ But the woman’s already raced off, back towards the Grand Canal.

‘Meep meep,’ Sophie says under her breath. She should feel grateful that Foodie magazine arranged a guide to meet her at all. She would never in a million years have found the hotel on her own. They’d turned left and right more times than she could count to get to this street.

She takes a second to marvel at the frontage of the iconic Hotel Il Cuore, a three-storey building of bright blue stone that sparkles like a jewel among the red and cream buildings surrounding it, before she drags the luggage up the six steep steps to the entrance. She was shamed at Melbourne airport with a massive ‘ HEAVY’ sticker slapped onto the side of her case. When her shoulder almost dislocates lifting it onto the top step, she silently curses the Sophie of yesterday who packed just about everything she owns for this two-week trip because ‘options’.

Panting, she leans her weight against the glass door leading into the lobby. Inside, Il Cuore is just as it appeared online – small, dated, charming, with plush patterned carpet, thick white pillars with fake plants snaking up them, elaborate chandeliers hanging from the centre of ceiling roses, a front desk of dark mahogany and, in the middle of the lobby, a Christmas tree so huge it practically swallows up the place.

‘Buongiorno, signora. Merry Christmas! You are checking in?’ An employee rushes towards Sophie from the far end of the foyer.

Ooh, hello. What do we have here? Tall, tick. Dark, tick. Handsome, TICK.

She smiles at him like she isn’t a heaving sweaty mess. ‘Hi! Yes, I’m checking in. My name’s Sophie Black. The reservation might be under “Foodie Mag”, or maybe “Foodie Enterprises”? Actually they probably just booked it under “Sophie Black”. That’s what they usually do. Just me confusing myself. And you. Ha!’ Stop talking.

‘Ah, you are the food writer! Allow me to take your suitcase, please. Prego, prego. Come, follow me. I am Rocco Bianchi, the son of Loretta Bianchi!’ He walks with her to the reception desk, which has an elaborate garland sprinkled with fairy lights wrapped around it. ‘Marina. Marina! La signora from Australia has arrived. Marina! Dove? Wait here, please, signora. Sit, sit.’ He points to the velvet brocade couch near the desk. ‘One moment, please.’ He holds up a finger and runs off, disappearing beyond a swing door.

Do all Venetians run everywhere? Is that a thing here?

Sophie’s phone vibrates in her pocket. It’s a message from Bec.

You there yet?

How do you like bella Venezia?

Are you wading through water in gumboots?

Just got here!

No sign of the floods but it’s icier than Nicole Kidman.

Off to Piazza San Marco for a proper sticky beak soon.

How’s Christmas going?

Post-apocalyptic. Everyone’s passed out in a food coma.

Let me know how you go tomorrow.

Can’t wait to hear what you think of Signora Bianchi!

I just met her son.

Not too shabby!

Ooh, but does the man cook?

Rocco reappears with a woman trailing behind him who surely has to be his twin. Both tall and lanky, with huge brown eyes, high cheek bones and messy black curls – his short, hers falling over her shoulders. Both of them are bespectacled, Rocco in John Lennon–style wire frames and Marina in oversized, plastic red ones. They’re both intimidatingly good-looking.

Rocco gestures at Marina with a flourish. ‘Here she is. My sister!’ It’s as if he’s presenting Sophie with a senior royal. Bless.

‘Merry Christmas, signora. Has Rocco explained the situation to you?’ Marina sits behind the desk. She’s a significantly less hyped-up version of her brother.

Before Sophie can reply, Rocco says, ‘A very small inconvenience only, signora.’ He holds his thumb and index finger close together to show her just how small the inconvenience is. ‘You see, today, our papà, he had a very small heart attack.’

What in the actual ...? ‘A heart attack? Oh my God! Is he okay?’

‘Yes, grazie a Dio he was saved and now he is at the hospital,’ Rocco replies. ‘Everything is fine.’

‘Everything is not fine .’ Marina gives him a filthy look. ‘Our father almost died today. He is stable for now , but he is in intensive care and the doctors say he needs an operation. We don’t know what the next few days – or even weeks or months – will be like. Our mother is with him at the hospital, of course. She may not be able to work for some time. I am sorry, signora, but we must cancel your assignment.’

The air leaves Sophie’s lungs. ‘I see.’

‘But Papà will be home soon and everything will be back to norm—’ Rocco says.

‘Everything will not be back to normal for a long time,’ Marina interrupts. ‘It is terrible timing, I know, but we cannot have a food writer in the kitchen when all this is happening . ’

Fuck.

Rocco stares at the ground, his jaw set.

Marina sighs. ‘My apologies, signora.’

Sophie quickly collects herself. ‘Please don’t worry, it’s not a problem.’

‘Thank you for understanding,’ Marina says. ‘Can I help you with flight arrangements back to Australia?’

Far out, lady, give me a minute. ‘No, no, you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll sort myself out in the morning and be out of your hair as soon as I can, I promise.’

‘You must be very tired after your long day of travel.’ Marina smiles, liking Sophie more, it seems, now that she’s agreed to bugger off home. ‘Let us arrange a slice of fruitcake and a cup of tea to be brought up to you. Rocco will show you to your suite. Again, my apologies, signora.’ Marina hands her a key card.

Rocco leads Sophie across the lobby, insisting on taking her luggage. Sophie hobbles behind him. The second she’s alone, the predator boots are being kicked straight into the bin. Or maybe not – they’re so pretty.

As soon as they’re out of Marina’s earshot, Rocco leans his head closer to Sophie’s. ‘Ignore what my sister said. Don’t leave. Marina thinks she can convince our mamma not to work, but that will never happen. Stay and wait for Mamma to come back. She was looking forward to working with you.’

‘Are you sure? I’m only supposed to be here for two weeks.’

‘I spoke to her on the phone only a few minutes before you arrived, and she was trying to convince me to go to the hospital in her place so she can work this evening. Papà is driving her crazy there.’ Rocco lets out a small laugh. ‘It will not be long before she is back, I promise you.’

‘Heart surgery’s a big deal though. You might be underestimating things.’

‘I know my parents. Papà will want to leave the hospital as soon as he can, and all Mamma will be thinking about is the restaurant. Our apartment is here inside the hotel, so we can all look after him. Please don’t leave, signora. Stay.’

He smiles at her and she immediately decides to stay, because even if Signora Bianchi doesn’t come back to work in time, who could say no to an Italian this cute who’s asking this nicely?

‘I guess I can wait it out for a bit, if my boss agrees, and see how things go with your parents.’

‘Excellent! So you will not leave and you will stay, and when Mamma comes back, she will show you the best Venetian recipes for your magazine. Mamma is a wonderful cook. And she is the most wonderful person in the world. You will see!’

‘I can’t wait to meet her.’ Sophie’s thoughts flash quickly to her own mother and the four calls from her today she’s let slide through to voicemail. She knows she should ring her back. If you don’t return your mother’s calls at Christmas, when do you?

They stop at the lift. She’s only seen lifts like this, with an iron gate surrounding the door, in old movies. Rocco motions for her to step into it and then he follows her with the luggage, reaching across to manually close the gate and door.

‘Your suite is on the first floor. We have given you our best room.’ He smiles at her and her belly gives a little flip. ‘Another reason you must stay is for the Venice Rising exhibition that started today,’ he continues. ‘There is art here from all over the world for twelve days until the festival for the Epiphany. It is a very important exhibition for climate action.’ He swoops his arms in and out while he talks, like he’s playing a piano accordion.

‘Is that right? I’ll have to look it up.’

They stand close enough to each other that she can smell the coffee on his breath. The lift rattles and shakes as it ascends for way longer than she imagines it could ever take to go up one floor. She studies Rocco’s face the way she watches flight attendants during turbulence. He seems completely unfazed. By the time the lift finally stops with a thud, it might as well have reached the top floor of the Empire State Building.

‘Prego.’ He gestures for her to step out into a hallway, which is lined with pastel pink doors along both sides. Facing the lift at the end of a long-carpeted corridor, in a gilded gold frame, hangs an enormous portrait of the Pope.

‘Pope!’ she shouts, pointing, like she does when she sees cows from the car.

‘Yes. Il Papa. You like him?’

‘Ah, I’m not very religious.’

‘You are the same as me. But my mamma’—he lets out a low whistle—‘is very, very, very religious.’

Good to know. No Jesus jokes.

He unlocks the door to the furthest suite on the right and holds it wide open. ‘This is your room. Welcome, signora.’

‘Sophie.’

‘Okay. I hope you enjoy your stay in this suite, Sophie.’

She takes in the pink and white vertical-striped wallpaper, the embroidered linen quilt on the brass bed, a cosy armchair in the corner and a white wooden chest, on which stands a vase of fresh pastel roses. It’s the room of her childhood dreams. If it wasn’t for the searing pain in her feet, she’d be tempted to give a little jump for joy.

Rocco walks to the window and pushes open the red shutters. The sheer curtains blow as a cool breeze sweeps in. ‘It’s cold, but come for just one second, Sophie. Come and listen.’

The booming operatic voices of the gondoliers singing in unison rise up from below. She crosses the room and leans over, looking down at the narrow canal. Two gondolas float by, one after the other. The gondoliers duck their heads as they pass under a footbridge. A little girl riding with her parents spots Sophie and Rocco and waves. Sophie waves back and Rocco blows the child a kiss, which makes her cover her smile with her hand before the gondola disappears around the corner.

Church bells begin to ring, loud and melodic.

‘The bells from the tower in Piazza San Marco,’ he explains. ‘It is only now between Christmas and the Epiphany when the bells ring every hour. Usually it is only twice a day.’

‘What a gorgeous noise!’ Sophie exclaims.

The chiming bells sound like they’re coming from next door, rather than blocks away.

He closes the shutters once the ringing stops. ‘I will come back with a nice snack in two minutes, okay? I will knock on the door. When you hear the knock, you will know it’s me, Rocco.’ He adjusts his glasses on his nose.

Sophie looks at this sweet, sexy man with his black curls sticking out every which way, who carried her bags, led her to this little slice of heaven and is about to bring her treats to eat and drink, and she thinks she might have just fallen a smidgeon in love with him.

As soon as he leaves, her phone vibrates with an incoming call. Seeing that it’s Penelope again, she lets it ring out. The Venice trip got her out of spending Christmas Day in her mother’s depressing townhouse, eating Woolworths pudding, but she’s going to have to talk to her eventually.

There’s a knock at her door. It’s Rocco, carrying a silver tray with a floral ceramic teapot and matching cup and saucer, and a side plate with two generous slices of a rich-looking fruit cake.

‘Mamma’s special marantega cake,’ he announces proudly, as he walks inside and carefully lowers the tray onto the dresser. ‘Mamma bakes a fresh marantega cake every day for the twelve days of Christmas. So today we enjoyed this first one. I hope you enjoy it too, Sophie.’

She breaks off a big piece with her fingers. It crumbles on her tongue, the flavours of fennel and apricot and raisins competing with each other. ‘Mmm. Delicious.’

‘You see? It’s good, eh? Buon appetito.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I will see you in the restaurant at six for dinner, yes?’

‘Will you be all right without Signora Bianchi?’

‘Ah, so-so.’ He talks with his hands. ‘Our papà is also missing from the kitchen, of course. Our cousins Chiara and Salvatore have come from Padua to help us. They work here but today they were supposed to be on a break for Christmas.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, now it is not so bad. Mamma prepared everything already this morning before poor Papà ...’ He stops and sighs. ‘But tomorrow will be a different story. The tourists only come here to see Mamma and eat her food. I hope they are not very disappointed when Signora Bianchi is not there, and it is only her idioto son doing the cooking.’

‘I’d be happy to help out,’ Sophie says. ‘I know my way around a kitchen.’

‘That is very kind. But you are here to write a story about Mamma, not to be a kitchen worker.’ He checks his watch again. ‘Now, you rest. You have your nice tea before it gets cold, you eat some cake and at six o’clock come to the restaurant. I will save the best table for you.’

When he leaves, she opens the shutters once more and sits by the window with the steaming cup of tea warming her hands.

Alone with her thoughts, the sadness immediately swamps her. For the last month, ever since Sophie learned the truth about her mother, Penelope’s words keep rushing back to torture her.

‘It wasn’t a heart attack, you know. It was me.’

Penelope had been drunk when she’d confessed after one of their regular mother–daughter Thursday night dinners. So drunk, in fact, that Sophie isn’t sure her mother has any recollection of the words she’d spoken as she’d served up overcooked silverside and runny mashed potatoes. Penelope used to be a good cook once, the best cook. But those days are long gone.

The next afternoon Penelope had called her as though nothing had happened, as though she hadn’t blown up Sophie’s entire world with her revelation.

Sophie shakes her head as she remembers Penelope talking the next day about a new recipe she’d been testing out in the Thermomix. ‘It even chops the onions for me, darl. Honestly, do get yourself one if you can.’

Stop talking about your Thermomix, you cold-blooded murderer! Sophie had wanted to scream down the phone.

The music from the gondoliers fills the air and Sophie sips her tea. She won’t be able to avoid Penelope forever, but for now she’s here, in this beautiful new city, far away from her.

She finishes the cake and then unpacks her bag. When the bells ring through the air signalling five o’clock, she slips her stockinged feet into less evil shoes, ties her hair up in a ponytail, grabs her key card and walks out of the suite.

In the hallway, she comes face to face once again with the freakishly large portrait of Pope Francis. He looks like he’s hiding something.

Downstairs, at the end of the lobby, the concertina doors leading to the restaurant are wide open. Entering the restaurant is like stepping into a garden wonderland. The high glass ceiling gives the space an alfresco feel, but the strategically placed gas heaters keep the air toasty warm. More than a dozen clay pots that reach Sophie’s hips hold six-foot-high ferns, which are lit up by thousands of fairy lights threaded through them. The ferns are interspersed among the twenty or so square tables that are topped with pink and white gingham tablecloths and vases of brightly coloured roses. It’s no wonder this place is famous.

Sophie takes a moment to draw in all the beauty, then she exhales and pushes through the swing door labelled ‘ Staff Only ’.

The atmosphere in the expansive all-white kitchen is chaotic. Rocco and Marina, along with another man and woman who are also tall, lean, curly haired and insanely good-looking – who Sophie assumes are the cousins Rocco told her about – are all talking over each other, while a row of giant stainless steel pots bubble away on the stove. The massive marble island bench in the centre of the room is a crowded mess of cookware, tea towels, vegetables on chopping boards and dozens of palm-sized raw ravioli spread out over baking paper.

Nobody notices Sophie there.

‘Hi!’ she calls out.

They continue to talk in Italian with raised voices, all playing pretend piano accordions at each other.

‘Hi there!’ she says, louder this time, and everyone immediately stops and turns to stare at her.

‘Signora, hello.’ Marina frowns. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m here to say the same thing to you.’ Sophie smiles. ‘How can I help?’

‘Sophie.’ Rocco steps towards her, lifting his arms in greeting. His black shirt has large sweat patches in the armpits. ‘You are too kind. I told you not to worry about us.’

‘And I chose to ignore you. You’ve had an absolutely horrific day. I’ve had a rest and a delicious afternoon tea – thank you very much for that by the way – and I’m feeling totally rejuvenated.’ She spots an apron hanging by the door. ‘Now.’ She slips the apron over her head and ties it around her waist. ‘What can I do first?’

The smile that explodes on Rocco’s gorgeous face melts her heart into a puddle.