Christmas at Tiffany's

by Karen Swan

She took it as Henry stood up and walked over towards the railing.

  Cassie laughed as he turned his back to her, fiddling about in his pockets, and she realized the intention of his joke. ‘Oh, stop being such a copycat, Henry! Even you wouldn’t put a Tiffany’s charm on this bridge!’

  He looked back at her and winked, attaching the locket to one of the links. ‘There!’

  She stopped laughing as her eyes confirmed her worst suspicion, and she ran over, horrified. ‘Henry! It’ll fall! The lock doesn’t work! I’ve been keeping it on the . . .’ She stopped and stared down at it. The arm was fastened shut and supporting the full weight of the dangling pendant.

  She touched it lightly, terrified of knocking it into the river below, but to her amazement it was locked solid. She turned back to him. ‘How did you get it to lock?’

  He shrugged. ‘With my supernatural strength, clearly,’ he quipped, flexing his arm and showing off a mighty impressive bicep.

  ‘I’m serious, Henry. I’ve never been able to lock it. I was supposed to change it in New York before I left, but then Luke . . . the point is, it was broken.’

  ‘Oh. Well, get it fixed here, then. There’s a Tiffany’s in the deuxième.’ He took another bite of his ice cream.

  ‘Well I was planning to, smartypants, but that’s going to be tricky now that it’s welded to a bridge,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Do you not know how to use a key?’ he asked slowly, as though she was stupid.

  ‘There is no key!’ she cried, exasperated.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It never came with a key. I wore it on the safety chain, and somehow you’ve managed to secure it to a bridge!’

  ‘No key?’ He looked back down at the tiny pendant fastened to the side of the bridge. He planted a hand on his hip. ‘Huh.’

  Cassie groaned as words failed her. He was beyond aggravating. Sometimes it was as if he was still sixteen.

  She crouched down and peered closer at the pendant, trying to fathom a way to unlock it, but though it was tiny compared with the huge bike padlocks covering the rest of the bridge, it was still solid silver and not giving an inch. She looked back up at him. ‘I’ll have to contact the head office and get a key for it. There must be a serial number or something. I’m sure someone in the office has contacts at Tiffany’s.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about someone coming along and nicking it. If we can’t get it off, no one else can either. Not without taking wire-cutters to the bridge.’

  He went to sit back down next to the bikes. Cassie stomped after him.

  ‘I can’t believe you just did that!’ she said sulkily, refastening the silver chain round her neck. ‘I loved that necklace.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know it didn’t . . . Hey! Have you got a sister I never knew about?’ he asked.

  Cassie turned just in time to see a bus stopping on the Quai Malaquais. She turned back. ‘Oh that. It was a favour to Kelly,’ she said flatly. ‘I kind of owed her.’

  ‘You’re a model now?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘What are you saying?’

  He blanched at the indignation in her voice. ‘I don’t mean that you couldn’t be a model, Cass. Of course you could. You’re a babe! But it’s . . . well, it’s . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t hurt yourself,’ she muttered, giving a heavy sigh. ‘Luke took them. The model was high as a kite and they needed someone and I was there and Luke . . . just insisted.’

  ‘Oh, I bet he did,’ he muttered stonily. He cast her a sidelong glance. ‘He really likes taking photographs of you, doesn’t he?’

  Cassie bit her lip, a furious blush running up her cheeks. ‘Mmmm.’ She didn’t want to go into it. It was bad enough going through a divorce, let alone this litigation as well.

  They sat in silence for a minute. ‘You got an injunction though, right?’ he asked.

  ‘For here, yes.’

  ‘What do you mean – for here?’

  ‘He’s got copyright in the pictures. Technically he can use them. But French privacy laws protect the individual, so he can’t show them in the exhibition over here.’

  ‘But he can elsewhere, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Theoretically. And he’s touring the exhibition worldwide. I’ll have to go to court in every country he shows in and get individual injunctions if I want to stop him.’

  ‘Sonofabitch!’

  ‘Yeah.’ She shrugged, the crisis over the Tiffany’s pendant now forgotten as the full strain of this more pressing situation bore down on her again. The simple fact was she couldn’t afford to keep hiring lawyers to stop him. Her savings had been all but used up. ‘And that’s not even the worst of it.’

  ‘It gets worse?’

  ‘American Vogue wants to publish them – the editor is finally getting her revenge on me for the whole show fiasco. I take it you heard about that?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Well, they’re doing a “Muse” issue, and Luke’s kindly telling her I’m his.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I hated him on sight.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I don’t blame you. He was a prat towards you.’

  ‘Glad you noticed. I was worried I was growing a sensitivity gene.’

  Cassie chuckled. ‘Do you know what he thought the padlock was for?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at him. ‘A chastity belt.’

  Henry went still at this. Then he held his hands up. ‘Okay, I admit it. I’m a spy working for your mother.’

  Cassie burst out laughing. ‘You are a ridiculous man,’ she giggled, elbowing him in the ribs.

  ‘Ah well, you’re not the first to have said it,’ he smiled, watching her before frowning a little and looking away.

  ‘What?’ she asked, feeling his attention drift.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, tell me. What?’

  ‘Well, it’s this . . . this whole Paris Cassie look you’ve got going on. It’s freaking me out.’

  ‘I knew you hated my hair,’ she muttered, holding her hands over it defensively.

  ‘No, it’s not that per se . . . Well, okay, yes it is . . .’

  She tutted, annoyed.

  ‘It’s more that you’ve done precisely what I told you not to do – tried to reinvent yourself when there is absolutely nothing about you that needs to be fixed.’

  Cassie froze at his words. ‘Well, sorry to have been so disobedient,’ she wise-cracked finally.

  ‘In fact the only good thing about your hair is that it’s right for Venice.’ He shook his head and looked upriver.

  ‘Venice?’ She turned and looked at him. ‘What are you on about? I’m not going to Venice.’

  ‘No, but you should.’

  Cassie blinked at him. He had an ice-cream moustache across his top lip. ‘You’ve got a . . .’ she indicated to her top lip. He put his finger to his own and found a smudge of ice cream.

  ‘Mmmm, bonus,’ he quipped.

  ‘Don’t tell me there’s a list for Venice too,’ Cassie said.

  ‘Well, there’s going to be. I’m taking Lacey there for our honeymoon.’

  Cassie slumped down a bit. ‘Venice. For your honeymoon. That is so romantic.’ They sat there for a moment, then she turned to him, perplexed. ‘But what’s that got to do with my hair?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? You told me in New York that you thought you might be a brunette there, with a bob. And you’d wear flat shoes like Audrey Hepburn and eat prosciutto for lunch and read the papers on a balcony at breakfast.’

  Cassie stared at him in amazement. ‘I can’t believe you can remember all that!’ she exclaimed.

  Henry shrugged. ‘Eidetic memory.’

  ‘That figures. So what’s your Venice list going to say then?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m going out there – to draw it up.’

  ‘You are? When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight!’

 
; ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Oh.’ She immediately tucked away her growing idea of cooking him dinner – the duck Claude had done with her last week.

  She felt him sit up a little, then sink down again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Go on – say.’

  ‘Well, I was just thinking that you should come with me.’

  ‘To Venice? Don’t be mad!’

  ‘Why? I’ve never been there before either, so I could do with a bit of help.’

  ‘I don’t think Lacey would be too happy about it.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Why’s it any different to being out here with you right now?’

  She tipped her head to the side. Good point.

  ‘We’re old friends, Cass.’ She felt him grin. ‘Unless of course you’re worried you can’t trust yourself around me.’

  She gasped and gave him a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Dream on!’

  ‘Right then,’ he laughed, thoroughly amused by her indignation. ‘Well, that’s settled. We’d better get you packed.’

  ‘But wait . . . I can’t just . . . go.’

  ‘Why not? It’s Easter weekend. It’s only an hour and a half’s flight from here and you don’t have to be back at work till Tuesday. What reason do you have for not enjoying an adventure in Venice?’

  Cassie shook her head. She couldn’t think of one.

  ‘So come on, then,’ Henry said, picking up their bikes. ‘Come on!’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They touched down at Marco Polo just before nine and caught a water taxi across the lagoon. The sun had set less than an hour previously and the sky was still alight with flaming clouds dragging towards the horizon. The silhouette of the city, like Manhattan’s, was instantly recognizable by the grand domes of the basilicas which glowed like celestial orbs in the sunset, and candy-striped canal poles threw long, rippling shadows on to the water.

  Cassie tipped her head back and let the wind blow her hair off her face as they sped over the water. She had no idea where they were going to stay and she was already starving. Henry had waited – until they were safely flying over the Alps – before he told her that he hadn’t booked a hotel, having guessed correctly that she wouldn’t have dreamed of coming if she’d known that little nugget.

  ‘I never do,’ he’d protested as she started to huff and puff. ‘It’s all part of the adventure.’

  ‘But it’s Easter weekend! Everywhere will be booked up.’

  He’d just shrugged. ‘So much the better. It means we’ll find a real jewel hiding away somewhere.’

  Cassie had rolled her eyes huffily. ‘A word of advice – don’t try that on your honeymoon. Lacey’s going to have packed nice shoes and pretty dresses and she’s going to want to go on a gondola. Trekking around Venice trying to find a bed for the night with her luggage on her back is not going to be the best start to married life. Trust me.’

  ‘You’re speaking from experience?’

  ‘I’m speaking as a woman.’

  The boat docked at a taxi stop alongside St Mark’s Square and Henry jumped out, offering her his hand before the driver had even turned around. He had thrown a jumper over his shirt but he had no jacket, and no bag.

  ‘Are you really saying, Henry,’ Cassie said, walking alongside him as he carried her bag, ‘that you just carry your wallet and passport? You don’t pack anything?’

  ‘Nope. I don’t do luggage if I can help it. I’ll buy some toiletries in the first chemist I see,’ he said, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the square, though it was hard to see anything beyond the crowd. It was heaving with tourists. And pigeons. ‘And other bits and bobs. Don’t worry. I won’t smell and embarrass you.’

  ‘You don’t need to smell to embarrass me,’ Cassie quipped, just as a pigeon dive-bombed her. She ducked low. ‘That looked personal,’ she muttered, turning round to make sure it was still flying on and not making a U-turn for another go.

  They stood in the middle of the square, hemmed in on three sides by imposing buildings and flanked on the fourth by water. The Doge’s Palace was to their right, the Basilica straight ahead. That was two of the five Venice landmarks she knew off the top of her head. She’d only taken ten steps into Venice and she’d already practically exhausted her knowledge of it.

  ‘So. Where to now?’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ Henry said, watching the flow of pedestrian traffic. The main current seemed to work from the front to the back of the square. ‘Come on. We’ll go this way,’ he said, heading left.

  They walked out of the square and straight into a labyrinth of winding alleys, some so narrow Cassie felt she could stretch her arms out and brush the walls on both sides. Through the open windows she could hear the canned laughter of television shows, and a couple were shouting to the backdrop of a violin being played elsewhere. A stocky woman was beating a rug from a top-floor window and plumes of dust cascaded down, forcing Cassie and Henry to break into a jog to escape it.

  They turned left and right at random, so that within twenty minutes Cassie didn’t know which direction she was travelling in; but Henry seemed to. This was probably nothing to him, she thought, hiding in the Venetian maze. He was used to hacking his way through jungles and rain forests and jumping off icebergs, not just water taxis.

  They found an over-priced boutique where Henry got ripped off on a shirt, two pairs of socks and some boxers; there was a small chemist further along and he darted in there too, emerging minutes later with a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, razor, shaving foam, shower gel and shampoo.

  They passed an osterie where two off-duty gondoliers were drinking espresso. Henry clocked their eyes following Cassie as she passed, and he moved in a step closer to her.

  She looked up at him. ‘You know, we’re going to have to find somewhere soon, Henry. It’s getting late and you must be frozen without a jacket on.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, giving her a wry smile. ‘Trust me, I know frozen.’

  By the time they had been walking for forty minutes, Cassie half expected to see the hills of Provence around the next corner. They came to a tiny crossroads, where their path bucked up into an ornate mini-bridge. A small canal passed beneath, but there was a path that ran along one side of it. They – meaning Henry – decided to follow it, turning right.

  Cassie glanced at the water nervously. It was dark and slapped the sides noisily, agitated by activity further along the canal, and she could see puddles where it had slopped up on to the path. Around the bigger waterways, she had noticed that profuse flower baskets and parked gondolas provided a barrier between the water and the streets, but here, it was just a straight drop in. She moved in closer to the wall and was so busy eyeing the dark water that she didn’t notice Henry had stopped walking. She bumped straight into him. He’d dropped her bag and was trying to peer over the top of a wall.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hear that?’

  She listened and heard the babble of conversation over the wall, music playing softly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It sounds good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well yes, but . . .’ She looked at him, trying to guess his intent. ‘No, Henry! It’s someone’s garden. They’re obviously having a party.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Venice is famous for its walled gardens – at the very least you should see one. Here, I’ll lift you up. You peer in.’

  Cassie took a step back. ‘Absolutely not,’ she hissed, worried someone would overhear their plan. ‘I’m not going to snoop on someone’s party like a peeping Tom!’

  ‘It’s not snooping. We’re just seeing if it’s a private residence or not.’

  Cassie planted her hands crossly on her hips and tilted her head.

  ‘What?’ He held his hands out. ‘You wouldn’t want to stay there if it was a hotel?’

  The sound of laughter gurgled over the wall.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said.
/>   ‘So?’

  ‘Ugh,’ she said crossly. ‘You know, you can’t do this with Lacey, either,’ she went on, as he bent down and picked her up, holding her around her knees as if he was about to toss a caber.

  He walked backwards towards the wall so that she could see over, and a little gasp of excitement escaped her. It was just like a hanging garden, with potted orange trees dotted around a small courtyard, a small vine draped across a trellis and espaliered peach trees against the walls. Six or seven small round tables, covered with white tablecloths and candles, were evenly spaced around a fire pit which burned in the middle, casting a gentle heat and flattering light.

  ‘What’s it like?’ Henry asked, loosening his grip so she slowly slid down to the ground. He didn’t seem to notice that he was holding her in an embrace, their bodies touching, their faces just inches apart.

  She pushed back a little. ‘Yes, well . . .’ she said, playing with her hair and fidgeting restlessly. ‘It seems very nice.’

  Henry blinked at her. ‘And? Is it a hotel?’

  ‘Yes, yes . . . I think it is.’

  ‘Great,’ he beamed. He picked up the bag and strode ahead. Cassie lagged a couple of spaces behind, inexplicably cross and bothered. She had to get some food.

  They followed the wall round, turning into a narrow deadend street. There was a small caffe at the far end on the left, with several metal tables pushed against the wall and some dogs sleeping next to them. On the right, an illuminated black and white sign, Hotel Capresa, hung above the cobbles like a lamp post.

  ‘This’ll be it,’ he said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate and walking into a small garden, different from the one Cassie had just spied on, with a fountain gurgling like a baby and clumps of hibiscus and petunias everywhere. The building was a tall villa, ochre-yellow with white-rimmed windows and small balconies decked with rattan-seated dining chairs. Two olive trees flanked the front entrance, and the light shining from within was the colour of amber.

  ‘I feel like Mary at the inn,’ Cassie sighed as she took in the sight.

  ‘Well, let’s just hope they’ve got rooms,’ Henry said, crossing his fingers at her as he walked into the hotel. It was cavernous inside, with high ceilings and an intricate parquet floor, but scarcely furnished except for a giant chandelier twinkling overhead, a desk to the left with an open newspaper on top of it, and, opposite that, an enormous oak daybed, the size of a half-tester, with a foot-deep mattress.