Adele sighed. Yet again, it was all so simple for Jack. ‘Because it’s not fair. Because it’s not real. We’re stealing our happiness from other people.’
Jack took a swig of his brandy. He was frowning. ‘I like it like this,’ he said stubbornly.
‘But don’t you see? This has been perfect. It’s never going to get any better. So we should walk away. We can’t walk out on our marriages. Neither of us wants that.’
She knew this was true. Even if she was the love of Jack’s life, Adele knew he would never leave his wife. Rosamund provided him with security. It was her money that allowed him to lead the life he did. Every risk he took, Rosamund soaked up the mistakes. She gave him the respectability he craved. And his family. His children.
And she couldn’t deny it was the same for her. William provided her with security and respectability. And her wonderful boys. The life that she enjoyed ninety-nine per cent of the time, except for the stolen moments.
‘But I love you,’ said Jack. ‘And I need you.’
The words she would once have given her life for.
‘You know I’m right,’ she whispered.
He swirled the brandy in his glass, his face dark, his brows knitted. Jack had never liked being told the truth. He only ever liked his version of events.
‘This trip has been magical,’ persisted Adele. ‘Nothing could ever be as wonderful. Not as long as we live. We should both find the courage to walk away, and treasure the memory.’
He looked out of the window. Outside, the black sea was turbulent and threatening, the waves throwing themselves around carelessly.
‘You’ve always been so much braver than I have,’ he told her.
Adele took the glass from him and put it on the table. Then she took his hand.
‘This is our last night together,’ she said. ‘I want to remember it forever.’
They went to bed, and Adele’s tears fell on him as they made love, each one diamond bright. Once he was asleep, she lay awake all night watching him. When dawn came, she ran her fingers over his skin one last time. Then she dressed, quickly and quietly. She flung her things back into her case. She held her breath as the metal locks clicked, but he didn’t even stir.
She didn’t hover over him, or go to give him one last kiss. She didn’t even look back. She couldn’t bear to say goodbye. She knew if he looked at her, smiled at her, spoke to her, she would be lost. She picked up her case and her bag and opened the door. As she shut it behind her she closed her eyes and breathed in. She felt as if she had been turned inside out, her heart pulsing red and raw. She wasn’t sure her legs had the strength to carry her. All she wanted to do was sink back into his arms but she knew she had to leave.
She ran down the stairs, out of the door, through the gardens, eerie in the half-light of dawn, and into reception where she found the night porter. He got her a boat without question. Perhaps they were used to heartbroken women fleeing the hotel at peculiar hours? The boatman loaded her case and took her hand to help her on board. The water was grey and choppy, the air dank. She was glad Venice was looking at its worst. She knew she would never come here again as long as she lived. Its blues and corals and silvers would remain locked in her mind, just a memory.
As the boat ploughed through the water, she wondered if Jack had woken yet; if the bed was still warm from where she had lain; if he would roll over into the ghost of her and breathe in her lingering scent. And what would happen when he realised she had gone?
She arrived at the station. She had hours to wait before there was any train suitable for her escape, but eventually she boarded one bound for Paris. She couldn’t face food, or even coffee. Intermittent sleep brought no respite, only vivid nightmares in which she lost everything, not just Jack.
Forty-eight hours later, she stepped back into the house at Shallowford with a determined tread. William was delighted to see her, but concerned by her appearance. She was wan and gaunt with her secret grief, but it was only too easy to blame a rogue oyster.
‘Poor Adele,’ he fussed, removing her coat and steering her towards the fireside. ‘I prescribe tea and crumpets immediately.’
She sat by the warmth of the flames. Five minutes later, William returned with a tray bearing a silver tea-pot, two china cups and a plate full of buttered crumpets. She had thought she was never going to be able to face food again, that her torpor had taken away her appetite forever, but as soon as she began to eat she realised how starving she was.
As she began her third crumpet, she looked up to see William watching her.
In that split second she knew that he knew. Yet his look didn’t challenge her. He wasn’t inviting a confrontation. His eyes were kind and concerned. He sensed her suffering and didn’t want to compound it.
How much he knew she had no idea; whether he had proof or if it was just a husband’s instinct. For a moment she felt a little sick – the tea, the heat of the fire, the devouring of the crumpets. She had the urge to dash from the room. Yet she realised that would be as good as a confession. She breathed in deeply to quash her panic, looking around her, reminding herself that she was safe here. She was in her own home, with the curtains drawn, the fire blazing in the grate, the dog dozing at her feet. Tomorrow she would wake and she would know exactly where she was. Where she should be: with William. Jack would always be there, in the back of her mind. She would always have the memory of Venice. But William was her husband. He was good and kind and he would look after her. Soon, her boys would be home again for the holidays and they would be a family. That was all she should want. That should be enough for her.
William stood up to put another log on the fire. As he passed the back of her chair, he put out a hand to stroke her head gently. It was a fleeting moment, but the comfort and reassurance, the understanding implicit in that tiny gesture made her realise: it was going to be all right. Life without Jack was going to be all right.
C
oming out of the rather prosaic Santa Lucia train station and into the bright sunlight of Venice was rather like stepping through the wardrobe and into Narnia, only with water, not snow. Emmie blinked in astonishment at the expanse of jade green shimmering in front of her, and the crumbling buildings that bestrode the canal, and the hundreds of vessels jostling for position.
She had no idea what they were supposed to do next. It was chaos.
‘I think we should get a vaporetto, and not a water-taxi,’ Archie told her. He’d been assiduously studying his guide book over lunch. ‘It’s much more fun going native, and we don’t want to be ripped off.’
‘OK,’ said Emmie, but she was a little bewildered. How on earth were you supposed to navigate your way amongst all this? There were crowds of people everywhere: tourists, students, travellers, all with baggage, maps, cameras, crowding round the vaporetto stop, waiting for the next waterbus to transport them along the Grand Canal and further into fairyland.
Everything looked so soft. There were no hard colours or surfaces, just corals and ochres and turquoise with a touch of grey. The walls looked as if they would crumble into dust at the slightest touch. The street signs seemed to hang precariously on the sides of buildings; gothic arched windows with stone mullions hinted at the mystery that lay behind them.
Archie grappled with his tourist guide.
‘We need to get the number one. It’ll take us right down the Grand Canal. Let me take those.’
He took her hat boxes from her, juggling them with his own bag. Emmie picked up her case and followed him over to the bus stop. The vaporetto swayed in the water next to the landing stage as they jostled on board with the rest of the hordes. The water slapped the sides of the boat and they were off, the prow pushing through the glassy surface of the canal, rays of afternoon sunshine bouncing off it.
Emmie’s head swivelled from side to side as the journey progressed. She glimpsed bridges and balconies and balustrades; distressed wooden shutters and wrought-iron lamps and arched windows; mullions and exposed brick. Uneven, crumbling foundations surrounded doorways almost completely submerged in water. Gargoyles and lions’ heads leered at her from their buttresses; flowers tumbled from window boxes; faded signs made promises, but of what she had no idea. When she saw a black gondola nonchalantly making its way up the canal in front of them, she nearly swooned.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed to Archie. ‘The gondolier’s wearing a striped shirt and everything. It looks so
real
. . .’
Archie was beaming from ear to ear. He felt genuinely excited. After the stress of the past few weeks, it was such a relief to feel positive again. He slid an arm round Emmie’s shoulders.
‘Bloody amazing,’ he shouted over all the noise.
They passed familiar landmarks, so famous from school-books and films: the Rialto Bridge, the Accademia, the church of Santa Maria della Salute, the Doge’s Palace . . . Palazzi vied for supremacy with their rococo splendour, some almost ridiculously elaborate.
Eventually they alighted at the bottom of the Grand Canal by the Piazza San Marco, and quickly got swept up in the late-afternoon crowds as they tried to navigate their way past stalls selling Venetian masks and Pinocchio puppets and ice-cream. There was a frenetic urgency in the air that could have been alarming, had they not taken the time to slow down and remember they were in control of their destination.
Not On The Shelf had booked them in for two nights at a tiny hotel down a narrow street not far from the piazza. As soon as they walked in between the buildings off the main drag, there was an air of gracious calm. The hotel was family-run, with just a few bedrooms, but it was utterly charming. A courtyard at the back was filled with greenery spilling from terracotta pots, centred round a crumbling fountain topped with a naked cherub. Inside, the look was faded grandeur meets Venetian glamour: ornate mirrors and picture frames, plump sofas, marble floors and a sweeping staircase.
Archie’s bedroom was ludicrously over-the-top. The bed was a profusion of dark-pink velvet with a gilded headboard and over it hung a chandelier that looked as if it might pull the ceiling down. As soon as the porter shut the door, he looked round, slightly flummoxed yet wanting to laugh at its unashamed opulence. He pulled a pair of jeans and a shirt out of his bag and got changed. They only had tonight and tomorrow in this extraordinary city, and he was determined to make the next twenty-four hours as unforgettable as he could for Emmie. He got the sense that her life was a lot tougher than she made out. That she struggled to survive financially while doing the thing she loved best. He admired her hugely for it. And he would quite cheerfully have strangled the swindling Charlie if he ever had the misfortune to meet him.
They met in the foyer. Emmie was dressed in black Capri pants and a red shirt knotted at the waist, a beret at a jaunty angle on her head. She looked like a different person in every outfit she wore, yet underneath she was resolutely Emmie, thought Archie. He had never met another girl who was quite so sure of who she was.
Simon had ordered a private water-taxi from the station. Their boat zipped past all the other water traffic and made its way across the wide lagoon with determination. As they approached the island of Giudecca, they went past the huge Molino Stucky mill, past the long parade of houses, shops and restaurants, then finally the classical Chiesa del Redentore, resplendent in white, its wide stone steps ready to welcome worshippers.
Just after that, the boat pulled alongside a landing stage, marked out with gold and black poles, and there in front of them was the Hotel Cipriani, painted its trademark pink. Simon took Stephanie’s arm as they stepped onto dry land and into the lush gardens, filled with espaliered lemon trees and scented jasmine. They were greeted by uniformed staff, and their luggage was whisked away while they walked up the brick path to the reception area. There the manager greeted them warmly, then escorted them to Beth’s and Jamie’s rooms, in the main part of the hotel.
Stephanie gave Beth a hug.
‘I’ll come and see you later.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Beth. ‘I’m going to take a bath. Don’t worry.’
She gave a brave smile, and Stephanie’s heart went out to her. She must be beside herself with worry. Stephanie wished she could do something to alleviate it, but until they knew for certain, she was helpless. She had to try and get away as quickly as she could, to put Beth out of her misery.
Then Stephanie and Simon were led through marble corridors, along a terracotta-tiled tunnel and through sweet-smelling hedges to the Palazzo Vendramin, the palace adjoining the hotel. As they were shown their suite, Stephanie almost had to pinch herself. She had never seen a hotel room like it. At one end, floor-to-ceiling windows fringed with silk curtains looked out over the gardens. At the other, a seven-foot bed, made up with crisp white linen, looked out over the lagoon.
She wandered about, touching everything in amazement: the chinoiserie desk stuffed with stationery, the mirrored dressing table, the little table set with a pristine cloth bearing an exquisite platter of pineapple and mango, raspberries and kiwi. The manager explained to them that there were two butlers at their disposal, any time of the day and night. They just had to phone up for them.
It was all Stephanie could do not to laugh. What on earth would they do with two butlers? She couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Simon, of course, seemed to take it all in his stride. This was the kind of service he was used to. When the manager had gone, she came and stood by the window, and they looked out across the water, which was turning from gold to deep blue, to the magnificent Doge’s Palace.
‘This is just amazing,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t think it could get any better.’
He turned to her.