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‘This way,’ he said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses against the sun’s glare. He was more casually dressed than she had seen him so far in a pair of faded jeans, which clung perfectly in all the right places, a thin grey woollen jumper and a double-breasted black jacket. Somehow he managed to look both relaxed and elegant, a combination few British men could pull off. ‘Hungry?’
‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘Actually a lot. I could barely eat anything last night.’ Nor had she managed much in the day, her stomach twisting with nerves.
‘We don’t usually have much for breakfast in Venice,’ he said to her dismay. ‘A coffee, maybe a brioche or small pastry standing up at the bar. But on a special occasion we visit a pasticceria for something a little more substantial. You do have a sweet tooth, don’t you?’
Obviously it was far more sophisticated to say no, actually she only liked to nibble on raw cacao and a few olives were more than enough to satisfy her snack cravings, but honesty won out. ‘Like a child in a sweet shop.’
‘Bene, then I think you’ll be more than happy.’
The next few hours slipped by like a dream. First Marco took her to a little neighbourhood pasticceria, which showcased a breathtaking array of little pastries and cakes in the display cabinets under the glass and wood counters. People dressed for work queued at the long polished wooden bar, where they quickly tossed back a small, bitter-looking coffee and maybe ate a pastry before ducking back out into the street, another caffeine seeker seamlessly moving into their place. Breakfast almost on the go. Marco and Sophie elected to take a little more time and sat at one of the elegant round tables, where Marco introduced Sophie to frittelle, round, doughnut-style pastries stuffed with pine nuts and raisins. ‘They are usually eaten during carnivale,’ he explained as Sophie uttered a moan of sheer delight at the taste. ‘But some places make them all year round.’
‘I’d love to see carnivale,’ she said, licking her fingers, not wanting to waste even the tiniest crumb. ‘It sounds so exotic.’
‘It’s crowded, noisy—and utterly magical. I have missed the last few, thanks to work, and every year I wish I’d been able to make the time to be here. There’s nothing like it.’
Her curiosity was piqued by the longing in his voice. ‘But you could live here if you wanted, couldn’t you? You were working yesterday. Couldn’t your business be based here?’
‘Like I said in London, Venice is a village on an island. There’s no escape. Besides, it’s good to try somewhere new, you know that. Where are you from? Manchester, didn’t you say? You moved cities too.’
He was eyeing her keenly and Sophie shifted, not comfortable with the conversation turning to her and her decision to move to London. ‘I think every home town can feel like a village at times. So, what else are we going to do today and will it involve more cake?’
After their brief but sugar-filled breakfast Marco led her along some more twisty streets. At the end of every junction she could see water, her throat swelling with excitement every time she heard the swish of waves lapping against stone, until finally she was walking along a pavement bordering not a road, but a broad canal complete with boats; private boats, taxis, even a police boat serenely cruising along. Sophie had to stop and photograph everything, much to Marco’s amusement—especially the fat ginger cat sunning himself on one of the wooden jetties.
She was especially charmed when their route brought them out at a traghetto pier and Marco, after a quick conversation and handshake, gestured for her to get in and stand in the long, narrow boat. Two more passengers joined them before the two oarsmen—one at the front and one at the rear—pushed off and began to steer the boat across the Grand Canal.
‘These are the traditional way to cross the Grand Canal.’ Marco was standing just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, steadying her as the boat rocked in the slight swell of the water. ‘There are seven crossings, although there were many more when my parents were small. The businesses have often been in families for generations, passed on from father to son.’
‘Why are there two prices? Is one a return?’
‘One for tourists and one for residents, but Angelo here considered you a resident this time.’
‘Because I’m with you?’
‘And because he said you have beautiful eyes.’
Sophie could feel her cheeks heat up and she was glad Angelo was too busy rowing to notice her reaction—and that Marco couldn’t see her face at all.
After disembarking from the traghetto they headed to the tourist mecca of St Mark’s square. It was still too early for many visitors to be out and about—and now that the Christmas holidays were finished Venice was entering its quiet season—but they were far from alone in the vast space. People were taking photos of the ubiquitous pigeons and the imposing tower or were sitting outside one of the many cafés that lined the famous piazza. Sophie’s camera was in her hand instantly, every view, every angle needing capturing whether it was the blue of the canal and the lagoon beyond or the old palace, dominating the other end of the square.
