Here Come the Girls

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’ said Roz, rotating to take in the whole of Venice and shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘It is just like a film set.’

  ‘It’s fish-shaped, look,’ said Olive, holding out the complimentary map they had been given as they came off the ship. ‘And did you know it was named after Venus, the Goddess of Love?’

  ‘Mr Metaxas taught you well, my child,’ scoffed Roz. ‘I wonder what else he would have liked to have taught you.’

  ‘Alone together, in the stationery cupboard,’ added Ven, getting a good-humoured slap from Olive for that.

  ‘That’s Giudecca Island somewhere over there,’ pointed Frankie. ‘Where the Hotel Cipriani is. Look at those wooden boats with the hotel’s name on the side. Anyone fancy a very expensive lunch?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Roz.

  ‘And that’s the island called San Servolo,’ Frankie went on. ‘Far more suited to us.’

  ‘Cheaper restaurant?’ asked Roz.

  ‘Loony bin,’ corrected Frankie. ‘At least, it used to be.’

  ‘Cheeky cow,’ laughed Roz, moving forward down the queue. They were next now. Two gondoliers were heading towards them – a tall, hunky one with muscles bulging out of his blue and white top, and a little fat hairy one talking into his mobile.

  ‘Bet you can guess which one we will get,’ tutted Ven. But the gods were smiling down on them. Mr Hunky came in first and held out his hand to Ven because the water was quite bobbly and the boat was rising and sinking quite dramatically on the swell.

  He signalled that Roz and Olive were to sit on the sides and Frankie on the front-facing seat with Ven.

  ‘You’re the ballast,’ said Roz.

  ‘And this is the Italian for “go arse” – ma vai a quel paese!’ Frankie replied, with a shrug of Italian passion. God, she had missed the banter with Roz!

  The gondolier guided them skilfully along the canals. There had been a rise in the water levels and the girls had to lean to one side under certain bridges to get them through. It was such a beautiful calm journey, although some berks in the gondola in front of them were singing ‘Just One Cornetto’ at full blast.

  ‘Bet they haven’t heard that one before,’ said Roz. ‘We English are so predictable.’

  ‘We Italians have far more class,’ sniffed Frankie. ‘“O Sole Mio” is perfectly acceptable to trill.’

  ‘I thought the water would be smelly,’ said Ven, pleasantly surprised that there was just the merest niff of stale water. If anything, there was a heavier scent of basil in the air – wafting from restaurants.

  As the gondolier pushed his boat along the water channels, passing under the bridges gave them some cool relief from the damp-edged heat. Sightseers above them took aim and snapped photos, prompting Frankie to say that she felt like a film star.

  It was so beautifully tranquil on the gondola ride, the only sound the slap of water against the boat and the occasional commentary from the gondolier. ‘This pink house is where Mozart lived for a while . . . There are four hundred and thirty-six bridges in Venice, and one hundred and seventeen small islands . . .’

  There were a lot of ships in the harbour which meant crowds of tourists, but there on the gondola, no one was pushing anyone or trying to get past with sharp elbows; it was blissful. Washing hung from windows, water swished over the bottom steps of hotel entrances, flowers grew everywhere; it was chocolate-box lovely.

  And when their ride was over, they were all reluctant to get off – although Mr Hunky’s hand on their arms and the other on their waists in assistance was a small consolation prize in reaching terra firma again.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ said Ven dreamily. ‘I don’t think anything can top that.’

  ‘Oh? I would have thought flowers from Captain Ocean Sea might have been your highlight of the day,’ teased Roz.

  ‘We’re just around the corner from the Rialto Bridge, come on,’ urged Frankie, striding off.

  ‘I am getting so hungry,’ said Olive as her nostrils were assaulted by all the food smells in the air: pastry, pizza, chocolate.

  The Rialto Bridge was made up of inward-facing shops with a line of stalls running up the middle. It was a feast of interest, with lots of beautiful masks for sale. They all bought one, and Ven got extra ones for Jen and her daughter and an Inter-Milan football shirt for her nephew.

  A man was selling slices of coconut in a shower of icy water next to a woman trying to tempt tourists with cups of fresh fruit slivers.

  ‘I need food urgently now!’ cried Olive. ‘This sodding sea air is going to make me put twelve stone on.’

  ‘You didn’t have all that much to eat for breakfast though,’ said Roz. ‘The sausage was tiny.’

  ‘That reminds me, wonder how your David is?’ said Ven with a nudge.

  ‘Oh, don’t say that! You’ll set her off worrying that they’ve all died without her there to wipe their bums,’ admonished Roz. But Olive was not going to let her thoughts travel back over the sea to home. Whatever it was that was allowing her to enjoy herself and not think about the occupants of 15, Land Lane today, she was more than grateful to it.

  ‘Let’s head back to Saint Mark’s Square and find a nice restaurant for lunch,’ suggested Ven.

  ‘Isn’t it really dear there?’ asked Olive.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frankie. ‘But at least you’ll get a table. All the cheap places are packed solid.’

  ‘It’ll cost a bomb,’ said Olive. In saying that, she would have sold her liver for a bread roll.

  ‘It’s my birthday, so let’s do it,’ said Ven, following Frankie along the narrow streets and over some of the bridges under which they had just travelled.

  ‘What about here?’ she said, as they drew level with the almost entirely glass façade of a very grand-looking café with pale swishy curtains tied back with generous swags of material. ‘Gran Caffè Polo.’

  ‘Ven, shhh,’ said Roz. ‘They’ve just charged you five quid for saying the name of the place out loud.’

  But Ven ignored her and pushed open the door. As soon as they entered, they were in another world. A quiet, cool, dignified one of yesteryear.

  ‘This is so not going to be cheap,’ whispered Roz. ‘The waiters are in frigging Armani!’

  A tall smart Italian waiter, better dressed than a bridal groom, smiled a perfect-toothed smile and beckoned them past a glass cabinet filled with gift-cakes and biscuits, and into the downstairs restaurant. It was a beautiful room, with pale lemon and green walls, huge oval mirrors and old, dark portraits – everything exquisitely shabby-chic.

  The waiter led them to a window table. Outside, crowds scurried and perspired, occasionally stopping to gawp through the glass to see what sort of people dined in places like this. He then produced menus for each of them with a practised flourish and a basket of bread and breadsticks.

  ‘The water’s eight euros a glass!’ said Roz in a whisper so high it nearly shattered the huge crystal chandelier above their heads.

  ‘How much?’ shrieked Olive – it was the most commonly asked question by Yorkshiremen.

  ‘Look,’ said Ven sternly. ‘I am tired and thirsty and hungry and just for once, I’m going to totally and utterly ignore what things cost and just have them. Today I’m going to live like a person who chooses what she wants from this menu instead of one who goes for the cheaper option. Anyway, the competition people will pick up the bill – so if I’m not worrying, neither should you be.’

  ‘The competition people won’t pick up this bill, surely,’ objected Roz. ‘They’ll think we’re taking the piss.’

  ‘They said “everything” on the paperwork, which I do believe is legally binding. So shut up and choose something.’

  ‘I can’t stop looking at the prices,’ whimpered Olive, after Ven had ordered a bottle of prosecco that cost more than Doreen Hardcastle’s house.

  ‘Force yourself,’ said Frankie. ‘Just for once, let’s live like kings, whether Figurehead coughs up for this or n
ot. It’s not often your best mate is forty.’

  ‘Sod it, you’re right,’ agreed Roz.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ added Olive, deciding she was going to be a Mrs Crowther rather than an Olive Hardcastle today.

  The waiter left it the perfect length of time before he came to fetch the ladies’ order. Roz ordered a lasagne, Frankie a spag bol, Olive and Ven grilled chicken.

  ‘You’d have thought the menu would be fancier, wouldn’t you?’ Roz imparted quietly to the others. She had just ordered the most expensive common-dish in history.

  ‘You don’t pay just for the food in La Piazza San Marco,’ said Frankie. ‘You pay for the privilege of being here, listening to the band playing outside and for the ambience.’

  ‘I hope this ambience comes with chips,’ said Olive. ‘I’m starving.’

  They sat silently chewing bread, letting the cool calmness seep through their every pore, enjoying the sound of the orchestra playing outside in the square. It was a little touch of heaven in a very busy city.

  The food, when it arrived, wasn’t in huge portions and didn’t come with chips – but it smelled divine and was perfect in its simplicity. Olive and Ven’s grilled chicken came with crunchy lettuce, fat, salty black olives and thick, creamy home-made mayonnaise.

  ‘Venice, happy birthday, kiddo.’ Roz raised her glass of prosecco and clinked it against the birthday girl’s. ‘I am so glad you picked the Italian restaurant and didn’t leave the choice to me this year.’

  ‘Yes, well – when I say we’re going to the Great Wall of China for my birthday, I mean the takeaway on Hill Street, not the real one,’ put in Olive, touching her glass to Ven’s.

  ‘You never know, you might have won the lottery by then!’ said Frankie.

  ‘Or have written a slogan for their tourist board. “Have a ball, on the wall”,’ laughed Roz.

  ‘“There’s nothing finer, than the Great Wall of China”,’ Ven came back with. ‘Leave all the competitions to me, you flaming amateurs.’

  ‘This is the most divine meal I’ve had in years,’ said Roz. ‘It was nearly worth the heart-attack I had when I saw the price.’

  Olive scooped up the last of her mayo with a swoop of bread. A small ladylike burp escaped her as she put her cutlery down in the centre of her plate, and she clamped her hands over her mouth.

  ‘Don’t burp in here, you scruff,’ said Roz.

  ‘Don’t fart either,’ said Frankie, making Olive giggle so much she worried she just might.

  Ven got out her purse. The others did the same until Ven kicked up a fuss.

  ‘Let’s make a deal. If Figurehead come back to me and say “We’re not paying for this” – which they won’t – I’ll tell you and we’ll split it four ways. How’s that?’

  They were all too chilled out to argue, so Ven paid the waiter and tucked the bill into her handbag. Then they rejoined the heat and the madness outside.

  ‘Are you off on your wander now?’ said Roz.

  ‘I am. Are you sure you don’t mind?’ said Ven.

  ‘Don’t be daft. This is your day, you do what you want to do. You unsociable cow,’ replied Roz, adding quickly, ‘joke.’

  ‘You can have our company of course,’ put in Frankie. ‘But we perfectly understand that you need to be alone for a while.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ven. ‘I do.’ Frankie had taught her the Italian for ‘Excuse me, can you direct me to the Hotel Ani,’ and she had a crude map of where the hotel was – the best the internet had to offer, alas. She was as armed to find it as she could be.

  ‘See you back at the ship then, birthday girl,’ said Frankie, blowing her a kiss as they parted company in the square. ‘Ciao, bellissima!’

  ‘Arrivederci!’ called Ven.

  As the others crossed the square for a nosy at the legendary Caffè Florian and the even more infamous menu prices, Ven cut down one of the little alleys to where she thought her map was directing her. It was a dead end. Not that it mattered, because Venice, she decided, was indeed the perfect place to get lost. She explored a couple of shops selling the most beautiful leather goods and furniture, and window-shopped in some famous designer stores. A couple holding hands passed her, and a sharp pang hit Venice from left field. Here she was in one of the most romantic cities of the world, alone. No, more than that, she suddenly felt lonely because all around her were couples, groups, families. She had a moment of panic and wanted to run back and find the others. She knew then that she had made a wrong call, wanting to wander around by herself.

  Feeling a hard prickle of tears in her eyeballs, she made a pretence of ogling all the different ice-cream flavours in a shop. Then her eyes shifted focus to the reflection in the glass of a tall man standing behind her. It took her a few seconds to recognise him out of his uniform.

  ‘Hello, Venice. And a very happy birthday to you,’ the man said as she turned round to face him.

  ‘Oh hello, Captain,’ she said, stumped for words. ‘You look so different in blue.’

  He didn’t look any less handsome though, in cut-off jeans and a cornflower shade of T-shirt, said her interested heart. ‘Oh, and thank you for my lovely flowers. That was a lovely surprise.’

  ‘A pleasure. Did the truffles arrive as well? They were coffee-flavoured, I hope. That’s what I requested.’

  ‘The truff . . . Oh, they were from you too?’ Ven felt her face getting hot. She was sure this couldn’t be normal birthday customer service for everyone on the ship. Was he flirting? Or was he just being nice? Oh God, she was so crap at reading signals.

  ‘Yes, yes, I got those too,’ she mumbled. ‘Thank you. They were lovely.’ Do you know any other adjectives besides ‘lovely’? asked a snipy little voice in her head.

  ‘Your friends told me coffee was your favourite,’ Nigel went on.

  ‘Yep,’ nodded Ven, not able to think of anything else to say that didn’t involve the word ‘lovely’. Her head was whirling. ‘Down, boy,’ her brain was warning her heart.

  ‘Are you all alone now?’ Nigel asked.

  Why don’t we just call into this little hotel and let me give you your real birthday present . . .? Ven tried to ignore her vivid imagination and be sensible.

  ‘Erm, yes. I’ve just had lunch with the others and now I’m off to find my hotel.’

  ‘Don’t forget to have your picture taken there so you can show your parents when you get home.’

  Already closer to tears than normal, his words hit her with a whoosh. Just for a moment there, the tiniest moment, she had been about to say, ‘Yes,’ and do that for them. A delicious sliver of time had existed where that was a possibility, a second of smoke that clouded reality before lifting as quickly and letting truth smack her hard in the face with its full force. Ven struggled to hold down the tears and not make a show of herself in front of this gorgeous man, but they were too strong and pushed themselves out, down her cheeks, faster than she could wipe them away.

  ‘My goodness, Venice, what did I say?’ gasped Nigel, whilst Ven flapped her hands, unable to speak, and plundered her pockets and her handbag for a tissue but sod’s law she didn’t have one. And no amount of dropping her head could disguise the fact that she was crying. She felt his large, warm hand on her shoulder, his sympathy flooding out towards her and making the tears flow even faster.

  Then Nigel pushed his handkerchief into her palm and she had no choice but to use it and sink her face into the soft man-fragrant linen.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ven, trying to gain some composure and cough down her emotion. ‘My parents are both gone, alas.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Nigel, his sing-songy voice both deep and calming. His hand was still on her shoulder.

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Ven attempted a smile but she predicted it wouldn’t look that fabulous. The tears were crescendo-ing inside her again. She stamped her foot like a stroppy bull in a neurologically deficient way to stop them.

  ‘Coffee, cappuccino, latte!’ said Nigel suddenly, like
a beverage form of Tourettes. The concerned hand on her shoulder slipped to her arm where it gripped her elbow and guided her around the corner to a quieter spot because he felt embarrassment coming off her in tidal waves.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ven again. ‘God, look at me, what an idiot.’

  ‘Can I take you for a coffee?’ asked Nigel softly. ‘I know you want to be by yourself and have things to do, but I’m afraid I’m not leaving you alone until you’re all right.’

  ‘Don’t worry, honestly I’m fine,’ said Ven bravely, but obviously she wasn’t.

  ‘You’ve got over three hours left in Venice,’ said Nigel, taking a quick glance at his watch. ‘I’m going to steal fifteen minutes of that and take you to my favourite place here – Caffè Angelo – if you’ll let me. It’s just two minutes away and I think you need a sit-down and a few wee quiet moments.’

  Ven was going to protest, but he was right, that was exactly what she did need, so she shut up and let him lead her down the narrow street and over a tiny metal bridge.

  ‘It’s tucked away,’ Nigel told her. ‘Ah, here we are.’ They came to a pretty little coffee house. Inside, it was like a tiny version of Gran Caffè Polo – all beautiful mirrors and pastel walls. But this one had the addition of the most enormous ice-cream cabinets Ven had ever seen in her life.

  ‘This is all home-made and trust me, it’s the best gelato in the world,’ whispered Nigel.

  A smiley bright-eyed man with thick grey hair welcomed Nigel warmly with a man-hug and a flurry of Italian.

  ‘Venice, this is my friend Angelo,’ said Nigel as Angelo shook Ven’s hand so vigorously he nearly broke it off.

  ‘Table for two for the capitano!’ Angelo barked at a young waiter who scurried to clear a space for them. ‘Do you require lunch, signorina?’

  ‘No, I think just coffees and possibly ice cream,’ Nigel replied and looked to Ven for confirmation. She nodded and then Nigel said something to Angelo in very fast and fluent Italian which made the old guy chuckle.

  ‘Wow,’ said Ven, impressed. ‘Was that gobbledegook or the real thing?’

  ‘I always found languages very easy to pick up,’ said Nigel, without sounding big-headed in the slightest. ‘I speak fluent Italian, French, Spanish, a little less German and Portuguese but I’m working on it. And a smattering of English, of course,’ he added with a grin.