Her New Year Baby Secret

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘Really? That’s what you want to do? You’re willing to take the risk?’ He looked surprised, but he was smiling. ‘In that case I’ll meet you back here in half an hour. Wear comfy shoes and wrap up warm. We may be out for some time.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOPHIE INSTANTLY FELL in love with the Dorsoduro. Although there were plenty of tourists around, exclaiming over the views and taking selfies with the canals and bridges as backdrops, it had a more relaxed air than the streets around the Rialto Bridge and Saint Mark’s square, a sense of home and belonging, especially once they reached the quieter back streets and small tree-lined squares. Amongst the grocery and souvenir shops, the cafés and restaurants, she spotted some gorgeous boutiques, specialising in stationery, in paints, in textiles as well as enticing pastry and confectionery shops that made her mouth water and she itched to explore further. ‘Can I go shopping before lunch and then explore this afternoon? I’d really like to look at those textiles if I could.’

  ‘Of course. I’m not sure how we’ve managed to miss this area out of our tours,’ Marco said. ‘We spent some time in the east of the sestieri, but somehow we haven’t wandered here.’

  ‘That’s because we were meant to come here today. It’s been waiting for me all week, an old friend I haven’t met yet.’

  ‘That’s exactly what this area is, an old friend. If I ever lived back in Venice full-time, I wouldn’t want to live in the palazzo. I’d prefer a little house tucked away in the back streets here. Something smaller than the London house, overlooking a canal.’

  No one Sophie had ever met who lived in London had ever wanted something smaller. Curiosity got the better of her manners. ‘How big is your house in London?’

  Marco shrugged. ‘Four bedrooms. It’s just a terrace, round the back of the King’s Road. Three floors and a basement, courtyard garden.’

  Sophie managed to keep walking somehow. Just a terrace. Just round the back of the King’s Road. She often walked those streets, picking out her favourites from the ivy-covered, white and pastel painted houses, knowing that houses like that, lifestyles like that, were as beyond her dreams as living on Mars.

  She’d known that Marco’s family was rich, knew he had enough money to buy handmade suits and frequent expensive bars, but somehow she hadn’t realised that Marco was rich—really rich, not merely well off—in his own right.

  It made everything infinitely worse.

  It took two to make a baby, she reminded herself. This wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t trying to trap him, to enrich herself at his expense. But it was what people would think. It might be what he would think and she couldn’t blame him. It would all be so much easier if he were a little more normal, if his family hadn’t made the idea of fatherhood, marriage and settling down into his worst nightmare. If she thought he’d be happy with her news, not horrified...

  Preoccupied, she hadn’t noticed where they were walking, barely taking in that Marco had turned out of the narrow road to lead her through an arched gate and onto a rough floor made of wooden slats, leading down to the canal. Wooden, balconied buildings took up two sides of the square, the open canals the other two, and upturned gondolas lined up on the floor in neat rows.

  ‘Marco!’ A man dressed in overalls, wiping his hands on a rag, just as if this were a normal garage in a normal town, straightened and strode over, embracing Marco in a warm hug. Marco returned the embrace and the two men began to talk in loud, voluble Italian. Sophie didn’t even try to follow the conversation, even when she heard her name mentioned; instead she pulled out her camera and began to take pictures of two young men bending over a gondola, faces intent as they applied varnish to the curved hull. It was the closest she’d got to a gondola in all the time she’d been here; Marco owned his own boat, of course, and had made it clear that gondola rides were only for tourists. She’d not argued but couldn’t help feeling a little cheated out of the quintessential Venetian experience.

  ‘Sì...sì, grazie.’ Marco embraced the man again and Sophie whipped the camera round to capture the moment, his body completely relaxed, his smile open and wide in a way it never was at the palazzo. His family were only a small part of his world here. He had his business contacts, yes, family obligations and friends—but also this whole other life. His own friends and interests, left behind when he started a new life in London, and yet still obviously important. This was what he would be returning to when he started to spend more time here. Leaving behind the network of business friends he spent his time with in London for people who really knew him. Sophie swallowed. She could go back to Manchester tomorrow and not meet one person who would make her smile the way Marco was smiling now.

  ‘Ready?’ He stepped over an oar and re-joined Sophie.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to go shopping and I have a few things I need to buy. Arrivederci,’ he called over his shoulder as they exited the yard as speedily as they had entered it.

  Sophie looked back, wishing they’d had more time for her to take in every detail. ‘Is that where gondolas go to die?’

  His mouth curved into the rare genuine smile she loved to see, the smile she liked to draw out of him. ‘No, it’s where they go to get better. Tonio’s family have been fixing them for generations. When we were boys he swore it wouldn’t be for him, swore that he would travel the world, be his own man...’

  ‘What happened?’

  Marco shrugged. ‘He travelled the world and realised that all he wanted was to come home and run the yard. Now he’s the most respected gondola maker and fixer in all of Venice.’

  It didn’t take long to reach the shops Sophie had noted when they’d first entered the Dorsoduro and she was immediately torn between a textile shop specialising in hand-woven materials and a traditional mask maker. She hadn’t had to dip too far into her carefully hoarded money so far; a few ingredients for the meal she’d cooked Marco, material from a warehouse for her dress and for Bianca’s wedding gift, but she wanted to buy presents for her friends if possible.

  ‘I have a few errands to run,’ Marco said as she wavered between the two. ‘See you back here in an hour? I know the perfect place for lunch.’ And before she could respond he was gone. Sophie checked her watch. She had just under an hour and streets of tempting little shops to explore; there was no time to waste. With a deep breath and a feeling of impending bankruptcy she opted for the mask shop.

  It was like stepping into another world, a world of velvet and lace, of secrecy and whispers, seductive and terrifying in equal measure. Sophie turned slowly, marvelling at the artistry in every detail, her eyes drawn to a half-face cat mask, one side gold, the other a green brocade, sequins highlighting the slanted eye slits and the perfect feline nose. She picked it up and held it against her face, immediately transformed into someone—something—dangerous and unknown. She replaced it with a sigh of longing. The gorgeous carnival masks, all made and painted by hand, were definitely beyond her means and having seen the real thing she didn’t want to waste her money on the cheaper, mass-produced masks displayed on souvenir stalls throughout the city. Likewise she soon realised that the colourful fabrics, still produced on traditional wooden looms, would bankrupt her.

  Three quarters of an hour later she was done, choosing beautiful handmade paper journals, one for each of her friends. Turning as she exited the shop, she saw Marco sauntering towards her, a secretive, pleased smile on his face. ‘Done already?’ he asked as he reached her side. ‘I usually have to drag Bianca and Mamma out of these shops kicking and screaming.’

  ‘I could just look at the colours and the workmanship for hours,’ Sophie admitted. ‘I very nearly came home with a cat mask. But options for wearing such a thing in London are sadly limited. Not that I can imagine actually wearing it. It’s a work of art.’

  ‘You should see the city at carnivale. It’s not just t
he masks, the costumes are out of this world—hats, dominoes, elaborate gowns. You would go crazy for the colours and designs. My mother has five different outfits and six different masks, so each year she changes her look completely.’

  ‘What about you? What do you wear?’

  ‘I go for the simple black domino and a half-mask, but it’s many years since I’ve been here during carnivale. The city gets a little fevered. It’s easy to get carried away.’

  After a light lunch at a pretty café overlooking a narrow back-street canal they explored the rest of the vibrant district, wandering down to the university, visiting churches and museums as they went. The afternoon flew by and it was a surprise when Sophie realised it was late afternoon and their wandering no longer had an aimless quality to it. Marco was walking with intent as they retraced their steps back to the gondola yard they had visited earlier. The gates were closed now, but Marco knocked loudly on the wooden door and almost immediately one large gate swung open. Sophie didn’t recognise the owner at first. He’d changed out of his overalls and into the striped top and straw hat of a gondolier, although, in a nod to the season, he had put a smart black jacket over the top.

  ‘This way,’ Marco said and steered her towards the jetty. A gondola was moored there, gleaming black in the fading light. Warm velvety throws were placed over the black leather seats, several more were folded on the two stools that provided the only other seating. ‘It gets cold,’ Marco said briefly as he took her hand and helped her step into the gently rocking boat. ‘Welcome aboard, signorina.’

  The rug was soft and warm as Sophie wriggled into one of the two main seats, placed side by side along the middle of the long narrow boat. Marco picked up another blanket and draped it across her knees and Sophie folded her hands into the fabric, glad of the extra coverings. Her tights and wool jacket were good enough protection against the chill while she was moving and the sun was out, but, sitting still as the evening began to reach dark fingers along the sky, she was suddenly very aware it was winter. Marco set a basket on the small table in the middle of the seating area before gracefully stepping aboard and taking his seat next to hers. It was a narrow space and she could feel the hard length of his thigh next to hers, his body heat as he slipped an arm around her shoulders and shouted something unintelligible to his friend. The next moment the moorings were untied and the boat began to glide away from the dock, moving smoothly down the canal.

  Marco leaned forward and, with a flourish, took two champagne glasses and a bottle out of the basket, and set them in front of her, followed by a selection of small fruit and custard tarts, beautifully presented in a lavishly decorated box.

  ‘It’s far too early for dinner,’ he explained. ‘But I thought you might enjoy a picnic. And don’t worry, I’ve remembered your ‘no drinking in January’ rule. The bottle is actually lightly sparkling grape juice, although it really should be Prosecco.’

  Sophie didn’t need Prosecco, the unexpected sweetness of the surprise he had so carefully planned more intoxicating than any drink could possibly be. The grape juice wasn’t too sweet, the tartness a welcome relief against the flaky pastry and sugared fruit of the delicious tarts. Replete, she snuggled back against Marco’s arm and watched Venice go by. She’d spent many hours on the canals, but the city felt closer, more magical from the gondola, as if she were in a dream, part of the city’s very fabric.

  Marco had obviously planned the route with his friend in advance and the gondola took them into several hidden corners of the city, going through water gates into some of the palazzos and even slipping beneath churches into secret passages. Their route took them through the back waters and quieter canals and at times it was as if they were the only people in the city, even their gondolier fading into the background as, with a final burst of orange and pink, the sun finally began to sink into the water and the velvety dusk fell.

  ‘I don’t know why you said a gondola was a tourist trap. It is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me,’ Sophie said as the last of the day disappeared, their way now lit by the soft gold of the lamps, their reflections glowing in the murky water.

  ‘More romantic than you knocking me over in the snow?’

  She pretended to think about it. ‘Almost. Even more romantic than you chasing me into a cupboard on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘I have fond memories of that cupboard,’ he said and she elbowed him.

  ‘Nothing happened in that cupboard, unless you’re mixing me up with someone else that night.’

  ‘Oh, no, you are definitely one of a kind,’ Marco said softly. ‘The first girl who ever ran away from me.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’ But she didn’t. She found it hard to believe that she ever had run away, that she had had the strength of will to walk away that first night and again on New Year’s Eve. ‘Is that why you asked me here, because I walked away?’

  ‘Ran,’ he corrected her. ‘One sight of me and you were tearing through that ballroom like an Olympic medallist in heels. And maybe that’s why. I was intrigued for sure, wanted to spend more time with you.’

  And now? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t quite dare. The carefully orchestrated romance of the evening was perfect but could so easily be a farewell gesture. ‘You didn’t bargain for quite so much time,’ she said instead. ‘Thank you, Marco, I know you were blindsided by your sister, but thank you for making me feel welcome, for making me feel wanted...’

  He leaned over then, pulling her close, his mouth on hers, harder than his usual sweet kisses, more demanding. He kissed her as if they were the only two people in the whole of Venice, as if the world might stop if she didn’t acquiesce, fall into it, fall into him. The world fell away, the heat of his mouth, his hands holding her still, holding her close all she knew, all she wanted to know. Her own arms encircled him as she buried one hand in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder as if she were drowning and he all that stood between her and a watery grave.

  It was the first time he’d kissed her for kissing’s sake, she realised in some dim part of her mind. That first night they didn’t lay a hand on each other until they were in the hotel room, New Year’s Eve she had walked away from his touch—but if she hadn’t, she knew full well they would have ended up in that same hotel room, the kiss a precursor, a promise of things yet to come. It would have been another hotel, not his house; close as it must have been, that was too intimate for Marco, not her flat, too intimate for her.

  Even here in Venice they were curiously separate... Oh, he kissed her cheek in greeting, held her arm to guide her, but there were no gestures of intimacy; no holding hands, no caresses as they passed each other, no cuddles or embraces. No kisses on bridges or boats. Kisses, caresses, embraces—they were saved for under cover of darkness, saved for passion and escape. But there could be no passion or escape here in the middle of a canal, visible to anyone and everyone walking by. This was kissing for kissing’s sake. Touching for touching’s sake. This was togetherness.

  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 tas
tiest 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.