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Her heart might burst—or it might break—but all she could do was kiss him back and let all her yearning, her need, her want pour out of her and into him. Savour each second—because if this was it, if this was a farewell gesture, she wanted to remember every single moment, remember what was good before she blew his world apart.
* * *
Sophie hadn’t expected the evening to continue after the gondola ride, but after they reluctantly disembarked Marco took her to a few of his favourite bàcaro, small bars serving wine and cicchetti, little tapas-type snacks. In one bàcaro Sophie was enchanted by the selection of francobollo, teeny little sandwiches filled with a selection of meats or roasted vegetables. ‘They’re so tiny it’s like I’m not eating anything at all,’ she explained to a fascinated Marco as she consumed her tenth—or was it eleventh? ‘Less than a mouthful doesn’t count, everyone knows that.’ In another she tried the tastiest meatballs she had ever eaten and a third offered a selection of seafood that rivalled the fanciest of restaurants. One day, she promised herself, she would return when the smell of the different house wines didn’t make her wrinkle her nose in disgust and she could sample the excellent coffee without wanting to throw up.
She had no idea how long they spent in the friendly, noisy bars as early evening turned into evening. Marco seemed to know people everywhere they went and introduced her to all of them until she had completely lost track of who was a school friend, who a college friend and who had got who into the most trouble in their teens. Everyone was very welcoming and made an effort to speak in English, but Sophie was very conscious of their curious glances, a confirmation that Marco seldom, if ever, brought girlfriends back to Venice.
‘Okay,’ Marco announced as Sophie was wondering if she could possibly manage just one more francobollo. ‘Time to go.’ She glanced up, surprised; she’d assumed that this was the purpose of the evening, that they didn’t have anywhere else to go.
‘Go?’ she echoed.
He nodded, his face solemn but his eyes gleaming with suppressed mischief.
Sophie got to her feet. They couldn’t possibly be going out for dinner, not after the almost constant snacking starting with the pastries in the gondola and ending with that last small sandwich, and it was too dark to head back out on the water. She was relieved that she’d dressed smartly that morning, and some bright lipstick and mascara had been enough to make her look bar ready; she just hoped it would work for whatever Marco had planned next. ‘Okay, I’m ready. Lead on, MacDuff.’
It didn’t take them more than five minutes to reach their mystery destination, a grand-looking palazzo, just off St Mark’s Square. The main door was ajar, guarded by a broad, suited man, and to Sophie’s surprise Marco produced two tickets and handed them over. The man examined them and then with a nod of his head opened the door and bade them enter. They were ushered through a grand hallway, beautifully furnished in the formal Venetian style, up the sweeping staircase and into a grand salon, where around sixty people were milling around, all smartly dressed. In the corner a string quartet were tuning their instruments.
One end of the room was empty, furniture carefully placed in a way that reminded Sophie of a stage set; chairs had been placed in semicircles facing the empty area. ‘Is this a recital?’
‘Not quite. Have you been to the opera before?’
‘The opera? No, never. Is that what this is? In a house?’
‘La Traviata,’ Marco confirmed. ‘Each act takes place in a different room in the palazzo so that the audience is both spectator and part of the scene. It’s one of my favourite things to do when I’m home. I thought you might enjoy it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’ Sophie knew nothing about opera, had no idea if she would like the music, but it didn’t matter—what mattered was the effort Marco had put into her last free evening here. The effort he had put in to show her the parts of Venice that meant something to him, show her the city he loved and missed. ‘Thank you, Marco. This is the loveliest thing anyone has ever, ever done for me.’
He smiled, but before he could reply they were asked to take their seats.
The next couple of hours passed by in a blur of music, of song, of spectacle, of tears. Sophie was so engrossed she didn’t notice the tears rolling down her face as Violetta sang her swansong, not until Marco pressed a handkerchief into her trembling hand. It wasn’t just the music, moving as it was, it was the setting, it was the night as a whole, it was the realisation that these were the last innocent hours she and Marco would spend together, that whatever happened after this would be heavy with expectation. She wanted to freeze every second, frame them, remember it all.
