They drew her into their circle, the three of them. And so they were four. She had become, in that moment, one of the family.
‘
W
e’ve only got a day,’ Emmie told Archie at breakfast the next morning in the courtyard of their hotel. ‘So we need to make the most of it.’
‘Well,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You choose where you want to go. I’m a cultural savage.’
‘I think we should go to the Scuola Grande di San Rocco. To see the Tintorettos. Then maybe the Guggenheim? But I don’t know. Do you prefer classical or modern art?’
‘Um – pass. Neither are my chosen specialised subject. I’ll go with the flow.’
Archie was the first to admit that he knew nothing about culture, but he was happy to be guided by Emmie. More than anything, it was her delight and pleasure in the small things that entranced him as they made their way around. An art shop, the window full of powdered pigment in colours more vibrant than any rainbow, deep and rich and powerful. A display of Murano chandeliers, ridiculously elaborate and over-the-top, the milky white twists of glass tipped with ruby red and emerald green. In the Campo San Barbara, in a tiny shop window by a little stone bridge, Emmie gasped at the eccentric paraphernalia – stuffed rabbits, marble skulls, antique dolls, a silver mousse mould in the shape of a salmon.
‘I want to take it all home and put it in my studio!’
Archie couldn’t see why anyone would give any of it house-room, but he was charmed by her enthusiasm.
He was, however, gratified to find that the Tintorettos blew his mind. He hadn’t expected to be in such awe of their majesty – all the walls inside the Scuola hand-painted with a boldness and a sensitivity that made him want to cry. He had never felt that way about anything. He couldn’t grasp how one man could achieve such perfection, and how, even though he was pretty sure he didn’t believe in God, the depiction of both the Old and New Testaments could move him so profoundly. He gazed up at the ceilings: he saw savagery and rawness and tranquillity, all outlined in heavy gold.
‘It’s almost like a religious experience,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to that kind of thing.’
‘I suppose that’s the point of great art,’ Emmie told him, pleased by his unexpected reaction. She’d supposed he would be bored within five minutes and would want to move on, but in fact it was she who became anxious to go.
‘We can’t stay here all day,’ she said. ‘We’ve got places to go, bridges to climb.’
‘So where next?’ he asked, clutching a paper bag full of postcards, and feeling humbled. He hadn’t even been bothered to paint the wall behind the loo at home when he’d had the cistern replaced.
The Guggenheim confused him. He loved the simplicity of the art deco building, with its wide steps leading down to the Grand Canal, but he didn’t really understand any of the art or find it attractive. He pored over a Willem de Kooning, entitled
Woman on a Beach.
He could vaguely make out a leg and a head, but apart from that it looked as if someone had chucked a load of paint on a canvas.
‘I’m sure everyone says it,’ he told Emmie. ‘But I could do that.’
She just laughed.
‘And I like things to look like what they are,’ he grumbled. ‘Give me the Tintorettos any day.’
Afterwards, they sat at a café drinking luminously orange Aperol spritzes. From her handbag, Emmie produced a sketchpad and a tin of coloured pencils. She began to draw.
‘This is going to be my Venetian collection,’ she told him. ‘For next winter.’
She quickly drew a feathered turban in pleated Fortuny-style fabric, and a two-tone top hat in black and red, like the inside of a gondola. Archie sat in the afternoon sun and watched her sketch. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin as a dreamy contentment settled upon him and the liqueur-charged Prosecco bubbles worked their magic. For the first time in weeks, he was doing nothing, absolutely nothing, but relax. His mind began to wander. A few weeks ago, he would never have imagined himself sitting in a sun-drenched piazza with a girl like Emmie, a girl he would never have found otherwise . . .
‘Just out of interest,’ he said. ‘What did Jay write about me on the entry form?’
Emmie put the finishing touches to a big bow on the side of the hat while she remembered.
‘He said you were a scruff,’ she said finally. ‘But you scrubbed up well.’
‘Cheek!’
‘That you were quite shy, but actually, you quite liked a party. Once you got going.’
‘True . . .’
Emmie put her head to one side while she remembered the rest. ‘And that you valued loyalty over everything.’
Archie looked away. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Those last few words reminded him so sharply of the friendship he’d had. And what he had lost. On the table, his hand clenched into a fist. He wasn’t going to lose it. Not here, with Emmie, after such a lovely afternoon. Then he felt her fingers slide over his and squeeze them gently. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him, just carried on sketching with her other hand. But this time, he didn’t pull away.
I
mogen woke to the sound of pealing bells and seagulls. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. She was at the Cipriani, in Danny McVeigh’s arms. It really didn’t get any better than that. She wriggled as unobtrusively out of his embrace as she could, pulled on a T-shirt and picked up her phone to check her emails while she brushed her teeth in the bathroom.
There were three from Sabol and Oostermeyer. All with details of potential apartments attached. She clicked on them, then flicked off her phone with a sigh. She didn’t want to look. Reality was starting to filter in, cutting through the fantasy. She felt an overwhelming sense of disquiet. Suddenly the thrill of Danny’s romantic gesture and the euphoria of having him with her had faded, to be replaced by an anxiety she couldn’t shift. The emails had reminded her of the commitment she had made, a commitment she could hardly go back on if she wanted to be taken seriously. You couldn’t just accept jobs then turn them down five minutes later because your schoolgirl crush had swept you off your feet.
Or could you?
Troubled, she called room service and asked them to send up breakfast. She’d have to have a serious conversation with Danny about their future and how he saw it. They hadn’t talked about it at all on the train or during dinner last night at the hotel. Somehow the real world didn’t seem relevant when you were on the Orient Express, or arriving in the glamour of Venice.
When breakfast arrived she took the tray over to the bed and shook Danny awake.
‘Hey, girl of my dreams,’ he smiled.
‘We need to talk,’ she replied.
‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘that’s never a good sign.’
Imogen fed him a slice of mango.
‘I’ve still got to go to New York,’ she told him, wiping the juice from his lips with her thumb. ‘They’re expecting me to go for discussions at the very least.’
‘So. Nothing’s changed then. Since your note.’ Danny’s tone was mild, but she sensed his anger.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she told him. ‘But you’ve got to understand. This is my career.’
‘Well, I wasn’t really brought up like that. So excuse me if I don’t get it.’
‘With the gallery closing, I’ve got to think about building a name for myself. So I can have choices. And money.’
‘I’ve got money,’ he said. ‘If it’s money you want, I’m pulling in shedloads. I can give you whatever you want.’
He didn’t understand. Not at all.
‘Let’s talk about it when I get back from my meeting,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want us to fall out over it.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Have I upset you?’ she said.
‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘Just put me in my place. Career first, me second.’
‘No. I want both.’
‘I only want you.’
He lay back on the pillows and shut his eyes.
‘That’s easy to say,’ said Imogen. ‘But it’s not very practical.’ She felt indignation rising. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to give up your business.’
He sat back up again. ‘I’d give it up tomorrow. For you.’
‘And then what would you do all day? And what would you do for money? Go back to your old ways?’
As soon as she heard her own words she was horrified, but he was being totally impractical.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘No.’ He threw back the duvet and climbed out of bed. She lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to look at him. ‘Heaven forbid that I should forget I’m just a McVeigh.’
‘Danny, I don’t think that at all. I think you’re amazing. You’ve . . .’ Oh God. How could she say it without sounding patronising? He’d done very well for himself, all things considered? ‘I love you,’ she managed, eventually.
He slammed the bathroom door shut.
Imogen put her head in her hands. Was the difference between them always going to be a problem? Even though it wasn’t such a great difference anymore? He was a success, she knew that, though he chose not to brag about it. But she could tell, by the things he had bought, and the things he aspired to, and the way she’d heard him talk on the phone. Why couldn’t she give him the credit for that, instead of rubbing his nose in his past?
Because he wasn’t playing fair either. He was sulking because she had ambition, and he found that a threat. Well, her career was part of who she was and if he didn’t like it . . .
Imogen walked over to the cupboard and started to choose what to wear. She’d go and see Jack Molloy. By the time she got back, Danny would have calmed down, she was sure of it.
The island of Giudecca was tiny, and a quick glance at a map told Imogen that the apartment where Jack Molloy lived was in one of the houses that lined the front and looked straight across the water at the Zattere. If you loved art, where else would you buy a house? It had to be the most painted view in the world.
She had put on a cream linen shirt-dress with a wide belt. She wanted to look businesslike, but not too austere. She left the hotel by the back entrance, by Cip’s restaurant. People were already starting to gather for drinks on the deck, enjoying a cocktail or a glass of wine and drinking in the sunshine and the magnificent view, warmed by the heaters that took the edge off the spring chill.
Imogen turned left, walking down the wide boulevard that ran alongside the water’s edge. The midday sun was bouncing off the puddles caused by a brief shower earlier on. A breeze was coming in off the lagoon. The boulevard was well paved, interspersed with wrought-iron lamps with pink glass shades that reflected the red stone of the houses.
As she crossed several bridges, she noticed that the canals on Giudecca seemed wider than those in Venice. It made it less claustrophobic, and the light had a special quality. She passed several restaurants with tables outside, each more enticing than the next, before finally coming to a halt in front of the building that housed Jack’s apartment, perched next to a canal with a wooden bridge. It was pleasingly symmetrical and grand, with shuttered windows and balconies, yet faded in its grandeur, the terracotta plaster peeling away in places to reveal a paler stone underneath.
By the heavy arched front door, painted a murky green, was a display of round, brass bells with each owner’s name engraved underneath. In the middle she saw his: Jack Molloy. It seemed determinedly English amidst the elaborate Italian names – although she remembered that in fact he was Irish American.
She rang the bell. After two minutes there was no answer. Imogen felt a twinge of disappointment.
And then the door opened. Standing in front of her was a girl of about twenty-three, in a T-shirt dress and flip-flops, dark hair in a ponytail on top of her head.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Imogen. ‘I mean –
scusi
. . .’ She couldn’t think what to say.
The girl gave her a warm smile. ‘It’s OK. You must be Imogen. Jack asked me to come down and get you. He’s not very good with the stairs these days, I’m afraid.’ The girl stood to one side. ‘I’m Petra, by the way. I’m his housekeeper.’
Imogen followed the girl through the gloom of the hallway. She could smell the cloying damp from the nearby canals, barely masked by a large vase of lilies on a table. It was deathly quiet in the building, as if no one at all lived here. Two flights up, the door to Jack’s apartment was open.
‘Come on through,’ said Petra, and Imogen stepped inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the canal, and the greeny blue of the water was echoed on the walls in a powdery, soft paint. Heavy linen curtains were hooked back with thick ropes. Two cream sofas faced each other in the centre of the room, and in one of them reclined Jack Molloy. His thinning hair was swept back and a cigarette smouldered in his right hand. His clothes were shabby and threadbare, but had obviously been expensive, as they still held their colour and their shape: a navy-blue shirt and white trousers. His eyes were hooded: hooded and hungry, for information and company.
‘Jack Molloy. Forgive me if I don’t get up.’ He extended a hand, and offered no excuse for his inability to stand. Maybe he didn’t have one? Maybe he just didn’t want to get out of what looked like a very comfortable sofa at his age?
She took his hand: it was cool and dry and his grip was firm. ‘Hello. I’m Imogen.’
‘So – one of the twins must be your father?’
‘That’s right. Tim.’
He looked at her. ‘You’re not terribly like Adele.’
Imogen couldn’t help feeling she’d disappointed him, as if he had been expecting a doppelganger.
‘Well, yes. I’m shorter. And rounder. And not so dark. Or elegant—’
‘You seem perfectly delightful to me. I was just observing. It’s a very long time since I saw her. Though I think perhaps . . . the colour of your eyes?’
Imogen felt awkward being scrutinised. His gaze was very piercing.
‘So – you knew my grandmother when she was younger?’
Jack was silent for a moment.
‘Yes. Yes, I knew her when she first started the gallery. I like to think I inspired her, in a way. Though she was very driven. She certainly didn’t need me.’