In Just One Day

by Helen Mcginn

  ‘I didn’t think there was another bridge after the Accademia. Hang on…’ Johnny tapped at his phone.

  Flora gazed across the water at the famous Gritti Palace, the hotel’s unassuming pale orange brick façade barely hinting at the decadent and luxurious interiors she’d once seen in a magazine. Bright blue poles lined the front of the building, sticking out of the water sentinel-like.

  ‘It says here the bridge is a temporary one, there for some kind of festival. The Salute festival, something to do with celebrating the end of the plague. Apparently, the locals flock to light a candle in that church up there, Santa Maria della Salute, the big white one we saw from Harry’s Bar last night. Want to go and have a look?’

  Flora watched the Venetians crossing the bridge, wrapped up against the chill in thick coats and scarves.

  ‘Let’s walk past, shall we, but then can we find something to eat? I’m getting hungry. Again.’ She smiled at Johnny before kissing him briefly.

  They left the museum and joined the moving crowd of people walking towards the church, the enormous white dome of the Basilica towering above them. The sound of the crowd was gentle. People walked and talked quietly, an air of contemplation around them. They rounded a corner to find the huge steps of the church fanning out from the door at the top like a bride’s train, and covered with people. Temporary market stalls lined the waterfront with traders selling votive candles, their calls to potential sellers punctuating the thrum of the assembled churchgoers. Families greeted one another with waves and gentle hugs.

  Flora and Johnny passed the crowds, walking along the front of the church and on towards the point. ‘They’re not afraid to remember the dead, are they?’ whispered Flora.

  ‘Not by the looks of it.’

  ‘I mean, the English barely talk about it. It’s like we don’t know how to, but this feels more like a party.’

  Johnny stopped. ‘Flo, you know you must talk about Billy as much as you’d like to. The more, the better, in fact.’

  ‘Maybe, but I worry it makes people uncomfortable.’

  ‘Too bad. If it makes people uncomfortable, you’re with the wrong people.’

  ‘But, Johnny, I’m talking about my parents. I can’t avoid them forever.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you meant them specifically. But I’m sure, with time, they will want to talk about Billy more. They’ll want to remember all the good times you had as a family.’

  Flora sighed. ‘I hope so, but right now all Mum seems to want to talk about is how he died. It’s like I can’t find any common ground for us to talk about him.’

  ‘I know. But she’s hurting and that’s her way of dealing with the pain. You just have to give her a pass on that, for now at least.’

  ‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about, actually. About Mum. Well, about Dad, to be precise.’

  ‘Is he OK?’ Johnny looked worried.

  ‘He’s not ill or anything. But,’ Flora sighed, ‘can I tell you when we’re sitting down? I think I need a glass of wine for this one.’

  ‘Of course, come on. There’s a place just around the corner from here.’

  They walked on ahead, rounding the point at the end, the wide stretch of water between where they stood and the island of Giudecca in front of them. The myriad of tiny streets behind them suddenly felt like a make-believe miniature world compared with the expanse of wide buildings and enormous domes dotting the skyline opposite them.

  The crowds thinned as they walked away from the Basilica and the sun threw light onto their faces and across the pale stone of the pavement beneath their feet.

  Johnny swiped at his phone. ‘It’s just up here.’

  ‘Won’t it be horribly expensive if it comes with these views?’

  ‘You could be right, but we can just skip starters. Come on, we never go out at home. We’re on holiday, even if we’ve only got half a day left.’

  Up ahead, a restaurant terrace covered with a multitude of canopies seemed to be waiting just for them. Only a few of the tables were taken, books and cameras on the tables giving away the occupants’ tourist status. On the other side of the pavement sat the restaurant building itself, packed with tables of Italian families finishing, by the looks of it, very good, long lunches.

  Flora and Johnny were quickly shown to a table at the front, nearest the water, and handed two menus by a smiling young waiter. ‘Is a good view, no?’ The waiter looked out across the water.

  ‘Amazing,’ they chorused.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Could we have a look at the wine list, please?’ said Flora.

  ‘Of course. We have a few specials today, seafood zuppa and spaghetti alle vongole. Also, we have some lobster today but,’ the waiter lowered his voice, ‘I wouldn’t bother, is very expensive. Go for the vongole.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’d like, the vongole.’ Flora smiled at the waiter.

  ‘No starter for you?’

  ‘No, thanks, just the vongole.’

  ‘Of course. And for you, sir?’

  Johnny looked at the menu, hoping to find a dish at a price that didn’t start with a three. ‘I think…’

  ‘I can recommend this one.’ The waiter pointed at the menu. ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have that one.’ Johnny has no idea what it was but it was considerably cheaper than the other dishes on the menu.

  ‘Perfect. I’ll be back for your wine choice in a moment.’

  Flora looked at the list of wines, the number of local ones running to a whole page. ‘I’m going to order two glasses, a white and a red and we can try them both. What was that you ordered?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ Johnny poured them a glass of water each from the carafe on the table. ‘I’m just doing what Mack said.’

  Flora’s eyes widened. ‘But what if it’s, I don’t know… tripe? Isn’t that a speciality here?’

  ‘Adds to the excitement, I suppose.’ Johnny laughed. ‘You order the wine. I’ll be back in a mo. I’m desperate for a wee.’

  Flora ordered and a few moments later the waiter returned with two glasses of wine. The glasses were short-stemmed but generously sized.

  ‘The Custoza,’ the waiter said, putting the white wine on the table. ‘And the Valpolicella.’ He put the glass of red down too.

  ‘Thank you.’ Flora picked up the glass of white and took a long sniff as she looked out across the water. The scent of orange blossom and jasmine filled her nose, flavours of citrus followed by a touch of spice spreading across her mouth as she took a sip. It was just right for that moment, crisp and alive on her taste buds. She broke off a piece of the still warm focaccia the waiter had left on the table, popping it into her mouth. She chewed on the bread, the taste of rosemary mingling with the traces of lemon left by the wine. Taking a breath, she exhaled slowly.

  Noting the flavours, the smells around her, the feel of the sea air on her skin and the sound of boats on the water, she began to feel as if she was resurfacing at last. Her shoulders felt lighter, her mind more present.

  Johnny took his seat next to her, picking up the glass of white. ‘What’s this? Is it good?’ He went to sniff the wine.

  ‘Very good!’ Flora winked at him. ‘It’s a local wine, Custoza. Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Really good.’

  Johnny managed to hide his surprise when his dish arrived, octopus, legs akimbo as if trying to escape the plate, and they talked easily, unrushed. They shared the glasses of wine, the white working with the vongole like a dream, and the bright cherry fruit pop of the Valpolicella matching the meaty octopus perfectly.

  But, later, as they sipped on their strong espressos, Johnny noticed Flora had drifted in her thoughts. ‘Would you rather we head back to the hotel, have a rest before going out for one last time later?’

  Flora looked at her hands in her lap, then at Johnny. ‘It’s my parents, Johnny. There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for ages, but I
just couldn’t face saying it out loud.’ She sighed. ‘I think, well actually, I know… Dad’s been having an affair.’

  ‘Flora! What makes you say that?’ Johnny couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Are you sure? Your father adores your mother!’ Robin had always struck him as so steady, dependable. Certainly not someone you’d put down as the kind who would have an affair.

  ‘I saw him, at the station. With a woman. Johnny,’ Flora fixed him with her eyes, ‘they definitely weren’t just friends.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, if I saw you kissing a friend goodbye like that…’ Flora shook her head. ‘Trust me, they were more than just friends.’

  ‘Well, did you say anything?’

  ‘Not at the time, but I have told him I know.’

  Johnny waited. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I said that either he stops it, or I’ll tell Mum.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything really. Although to be fair to him, he didn’t have the chance. It was at the end of the launch party and someone came up to talk to us – Tilda, I think – just after I’d told him I’d seen him.’

  ‘Look, it’s not your problem to fix, it’s theirs. But, Flora, I really hope you’re wrong about this.’

  ‘I hope so, too, Johnny, but my dad didn’t deny it. What if my parents split up? I mean, I’m not sure either of them would cope without the other now…’ Her voice broke.

  Johnny felt a surge of anger rising in his chest. Flora had enough to deal with, without this to worry about too. ‘Listen, it’s up to them to sort it out. They’re adults, Flora; somehow you have to leave them to deal with it. But I’m glad you’ve told your dad that you know rather than having to keep that to yourself. Now, let’s just enjoy these last few hours without worrying about it, shall we? I promise you it will be all right in the end.’ He squeezed her hand across the table.

  Flora drained her coffee cup. ‘I hope so, for both their sakes.’

  They spent much of the rest of the afternoon back at the hotel, a tangle of limbs and sheets, their lovemaking gentle and indulgent. Later that evening, they crossed the Grand Canal by traghetto, standing as the locals did. They walked, hand in hand, along the quiet streets of Cannaregio, stopping for a glass of chilled, pear-scented prosecco at a small bar on a corner by a canal, another plate of cicchetti between them.

  ‘We never did take that gondola ride.’ Flora spoke between mouthfuls of fresh olive tapenade on crunchy crostini, the bitterness bumping up deliciously against the off-dry froth of the prosecco.

  ‘Well, we’ve still got time. I’m sure I read somewhere you can do them at night. Why don’t we do one after this?’

  A while later they floated on the water, street lamps casting light onto the pale terracotta stone walls of the buildings on either side of the canal. Together they looked up at the stars. The air was cold now, kept from their bodies by a thick blanket given to them by the gondolier. The stillness in this hidden part of the city was quite magical. As they glided under a small bridge, a couple stood watching them. Flora looked up, catching the smiling woman’s eye just before they disappeared from view. She caught her breath, turning back to see. But the couple had gone.

  ‘That was her, Johnny,’ Flora whispered, as she craned her neck.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman in the church. The one who said, “Hearts stay broken.” You remember I told you earlier?’

  ‘Yes, and she also said it gets easier. Don’t forget that.’ Johnny kissed Flora’s forehead.

  ‘But don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence?’ Flora looked back again but there was no sign.

  ‘Could be. Who knows?’ Johnny drew the blanket round them. ‘You warm enough?’

  Flora hugged him tighter. ‘Venice feels like another world, far away from everything,’ she whispered.

  ‘It really does.’

  ‘When we get home, will you remind me that I felt happy again? Just in case I forget.’

  Johnny took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. ‘I will, I promise.’

  24

  It was barely light when they made their way to the airport by taxi, crossing the bridge to the mainland. The flight back was uneventful, and Flora slept for most of it. As London came into view through the clouds, she thought of the children, of the hugs she’d give them. She smiled to herself. It had been barely forty-eight hours but she’d missed them more than she’d realised.

  She glanced across at Johnny, reading a newspaper, his forehead furrowed.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  Johnny quickly closed and refolded the paper, putting it on his lap. ‘Oh, it’s old. Someone must have left it on here yesterday. Nothing that interesting, the usual.’

  Flora felt sure something was amiss but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s all so depressing nowadays, you’re better off not looking.’ He went to put the paper back in the pocket of the seat in front of him.

  ‘Johnny, please. I’m not so bad I can’t handle reading the news. You don’t have to protect me from everything.’ She reached across and took the paper from the pocket. She hardly ever read a paper during the week any more, only the Sunday papers. Glancing at the front page she saw a picture of an ageing actor, topless in the sea on some tropical island with someone at best half his age. She turned the page and scanned the headlines, more to pass the time than for actual information.

  ‘What do you want to do today? I thought I’d go into the shop this afternoon; perhaps you could pick the kids up from school?’ Johnny went to take the paper from her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Flora laughed, looking at Johnny. ‘Let me, for once, read a whole paper. Even if it is a bit rubbish it’s a total luxury to be able to do it without being interrupted by a child!’ She laughed and went back to the page.

  ‘Seriously, Flo, we need to have a plan. We’ve got things to do.’

  Flora looked at him again, seeing worry on his face. ‘Johnny, what’s going on? Why are you being so weird?’

  ‘I’m not!’ He tried to look normal but they both knew he was failing, badly.

  Flora slowly turned the page of the paper. There, looking up at her, was a familiar face. One she knew so well but couldn’t square with being there on the page. Her stomach flipped. Billy.

  ‘Flo…’ Johnny reached his arm across her shoulders. He spoke softly. ‘You don’t have to read it.’

  She stared at the page again, her brother’s face staring out at her. She forced herself to read the words, but it was almost impossible. They rushed at her from the page out of order, out of focus. Tears clouded her sight, but slowly, she pieced it together. A picture of another man sat next to Billy’s. She wanted to look away but found she couldn’t. His name was right there. Stephen Hirst. Eighteen years old. She’d never seen this man’s face before, which had been a conscious decision she’d made when Billy died. But here he was, looking right at her. And all she could think was: you are so young.

  ‘Flora, why don’t you—’

  ‘It’s fine, Johnny, really. I want to.’ Flora didn’t look up from the page. She read on, the words hitting her like sucker punches, blow after blow, again and again.

  Mother, Denise… devastated… family declined to comment…

  ‘Why is it in the paper now?’ Flora’s voice was flat.

  Johnny spoke quietly. ‘It’s because the trial starts soon. He was charged with death by careless driving and pleaded not guilty, so…’ Johnny sighed. ‘Look, hopefully it’ll be over quickly.’ He held her gaze.

  Flora knew that. She remembered the police coming to her parents’ house back in those early days, just after Billy had died, to explain that the driver had been charged. She could remember the officers’ voices but not their faces.

  And now the trial was happening in a matter of weeks. She looked again at the picture of Billy. He’d been so full of
life. Bursting, in fact, as if he’d taken more than his fair share of energy, of brilliance. She shut the paper and put it back on Johnny’s lap. She closed her eyes as they came in to land, the face of the boy in her mind. She tried to replace it with Billy’s, but her mind kept going back to the boy and the name of his mother. She thought of her own mother, too.

  Would she or her mother ever feel like they were living properly again? Or was it only when Flora escaped real life that she wouldn’t feel quite so sad? The image of those still, quiet waterways came into her mind, along with the words of the woman in the church. Deep down, Flora knew she had to learn to live with her broken heart. She just wasn’t sure how.

  Robin woke early but Kate was already gone, the sheets on her side not even warm any more. He slipped out of bed and went to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down across the lawn to the river below. There, at the end of the garden, sitting on the old stone bench, sat Kate wrapped in her dressing gown. It looked cold outside, too cold to be sitting like that. Robin quickly threw on some clothes and went downstairs. He made a fresh cup of tea and went down to his wife, mug in hand. The air was still, and there was a slight frost on the ground.

  ‘Darling, you must be freezing.’ Robin stood behind her, holding the cup forward.

  ‘I like it out here this early. It’s so peaceful.’ She looked up at him, smiled a little and took the still-steaming mug. ‘Thank you.’

  Robin walked round the side of the bench and took a seat next to her.

  He took a breath, then spoke gently. ‘Kate, I think we need to talk.’

  She laughed a little, keeping her eyes on the view in front of them. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?’

  ‘Kate, please. We can’t go on just not speaking about it.’

  ‘About what, exactly?’ Kate turned to look at him, her eyes not giving anything away.

  ‘Well, about everything that’s happened. About Billy…’

  Kate looked away again. She took a sip of her tea. Then she spoke, her voice soft but steady. ‘How about we talk about your affair instead?’