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The receptionist greeted them like old friends, whizzing them through the formality of signing various forms. She placed their room key on the desk. ‘Room fourteen on the third floor, second door on the right as you come out of the lift. Would you like me to make a restaurant booking for you this evening anywhere?’ she asked, her bright red nails hovering over her keyboard, her short dark hair lacquered neatly into place.
‘Well, we thought we’d start with a drink at Harry’s Bar and take it from there.’ Johnny looked at Flora. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Sounds good.’ Flora smiled.
The receptionist screwed up her nose. ‘Is very expensive there. Twenty euros for a Bellini the size of your thumb.’ She held up hers by way of demonstrating her point.
‘Yes, but it’s got to be done, don’t you think?’ Johnny gave a little shrug.
‘Well…’ She shrugged back. ‘Whatever you think… but just in case, head over the bridge towards Dorsoduro and you’ll find nice places there, too.’
‘Thank you, good to know.’ Johnny nodded enthusiastically, picking up their bags. ‘Right, see you later.’
Standing in the small lift, Flora hit the button for their floor.
‘You OK, Flo? You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m good, just a bit tired, I think.’
‘We can have a rest before we head out, if you like. How about a hot bath?’
‘Actually, I’d love that.’
He unlocked the door to their room. Johnny hit the light switch, throwing a stark white light across the room. The double bed, with its imposing wooden headboard, was draped with a deep red cover reaching the floor. Matching floor-to-ceiling curtains hung heavily in front of the windows, an old dressing table between them and a chest of drawers on the wall opposite the bed.
Johnny put his head around the door of the bathroom on the other side of the bed. He looked back at Flora. ‘Massive bath,’ he called back. ‘I’ll run you one now.’
Flora went to the window on the right of the dressing table, drawing back the curtain. The light was fading fast, the sun now long gone, replaced with an inky blue sky. She looked out at the crumbling pale orange wall of the building on the other side of the narrow canal, so close she felt if she stretched across, she could touch it.
Flora looked back at the bed. Here she was, in the most romantic city in the world, with the man she loved more than anyone. And yet, all she wanted to do was climb under that thick blanket, close her eyes and sleep. Her heart felt heavy; in the pit of her stomach lay a low, dull ache. Much as she’d hoped she might have left that feeling behind, even if only temporarily, it seemed she had carried it with her to Venice like unwanted hand baggage. She gently lowered herself down to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘It’s nearly ready.’ Johnny crossed the room to her. ‘No rush.’
She stood and kissed him gently. ‘Thank you.’
Soon after, Flora lay in the bath, wishing the piping hot water would soak the sadness from her bones.
21
About an hour later they left the hotel, crossed the small bridge and headed into a maze of narrow alleys, the light from street lamps thrown onto the cobbles beneath their feet. This hidden part of the city felt still, peaceful. They passed under porticos, over more small bridges and down a long street where, at the end, Flora caught a glimpse of the Grand Canal. Turning right, they walked under the arches and into the empty space of the Rialto fish market. Wooden poles poked up like giant toothpicks on either side of the canal, numerous small boats tethered to them.
‘Do you know where we’re going?’ Flora asked, noticing Johnny look at his phone, then up, then at his phone again.
‘No, but this does.’ He tapped the screen. ‘It’s this way, over the Rialto Bridge.’ He pointed ahead. ‘We’re crossing there.’
Flora looked up to see the bright white stone of the bridge, lined with archways and seemingly lit from within. They walked across it, the shutters down on most of the shops on either side. She stopped halfway to take in the view, first one way, then the other. The canal reflected back the light from the buildings at the water’s edge, small waves making it dance on the surface.
On they went, down streets and along alleys, across squares with enormous churches suddenly seeming to appear from nowhere, past ornate gateways on to courtyards, hinting at the hidden splendour behind the façades. The air was cool on Flora’s face. She pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.
‘Want to walk through St Mark’s Square before or after we’ve had an extortionate Bellini?’
‘After, definitely.’ Flora smiled.
Arriving at a small wooden door at the end of the narrow street, Johnny pushed it open and waited for Flora to go in first. She walked in, clocking the bar along one side, the dark wood, the waiters in crisp white jackets moving between tables. It was much smaller than she’d imagined. Six bar stools, each topped with a soft padded seat covered in worn light-brown leather ran along the length of the bar, an array of spirit and vermouth bottles lining the shelves behind.
Johnny moved towards one of the small empty tables beneath a window on the far side. They sat and waited, taking in the room and the people in it, a mix of tourists – their selfie-taking an instant giveaway – and locals, talking happily with their companions.
A passing waiter nodded at Johnny and a moment later returned with a small bowl of bright green olives, placing them on the pristine white tablecloth. He looked at Johnny, said nothing.
