by Beth Miller
‘Er… sorry. I didn’t know you were here.’ He glanced at Newland. It was probably shallow of me to notice that he was gratifyingly taller and more handsome than Theo, but what the hell. I was owed this moment.
‘Newland, this is Theo.’
‘Hello, Theo,’ Newland said, his face inscrutable. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’
‘Oh,’ Theo said. He started to hold out his hand, then changed his mind. The kitchen door banged open behind us.
‘Get the fuck in here, Theo,’ Gabby’s voice came wafting menacingly down the hall.
‘Well, er, I’d better…’
‘Good luck, Theo.’ I stood aside to let him in, and he scuttled off down the hall. Quietly, I added, ‘You’re going to need it.’
* * *
I’d have liked to stay forever in the comfortable passenger seat of Lan’s pink car, chatting about the weirdness of the day and listening to the steadying normality of his. But in little more than an hour, we pulled up outside my dad’s.
‘I’ll help you in with your bags,’ he said.
‘Thank you. It’s so late, I’m sure no one will be up. In fact, it’s so late, you ought to stay over.’
‘I can easily drive home.’
‘Lan, it’s one in the morning. Anyway, I want you to stay. You can meet my dad, and my grandma.’
I realised this was the sort of thing one said to a proper boyfriend, and I blushed; luckily it was dark so he couldn’t see. And also luckily, he said, ‘That would be great.’
I unlocked the door quietly, but to my astonishment my dad appeared in the hall, and threw his arms round me. ‘Stella! What a lovely surprise!’
Dad’s appearance was a lovely surprise too – he’d had a shave, washed his hair, and was smartly dressed. ‘Sorry it’s so late, Dad. Why are you up?’
‘I’ve, er, been out,’ Dad said, looking shifty.
‘You have?! Where?’
‘Oh, nowhere much, really.’ He let me go, and looked behind me to Newland standing a respectful distance away. ‘Do you need me to pay the driver?’
‘No, Dad, this is Newfriend. I mean, Newland, my, er, new friend.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Bright.’ He and Dad shook hands politely.
‘Yes, indeed, yes.’ Dad glanced at me quizzically. ‘Did you drive Stella here? Very kind. I was about to have a nightcap. Care to join me, you two? Newland? Is that from Edith Wharton, by any chance?’ He put his arm round Newland’s shoulder and led him towards the kitchen, leaving me to follow on behind, grinning to myself.
Nineteen
Kay
My last full day in Venice got off to a shaky start, with a phone call to Imogen. She told me her sons had received an offer on the cottage from a wealthy parent wanting it for his student daughter and her friend; he was willing to pay £900 a month.
‘My sons are thinking about it, chérie, because although they don’t really want undergraduates in, the money is, it seems, too good to turn down.’ Imogen’s voice was quavery. ‘They know the price of everything, my sons, and the value of nothing.’
‘I understand, Imo,’ I said.
‘If you think you can match it, dear, I’m sure I could get them to offer it to you instead.’
I knew I couldn’t match it, far less outbid it. In truth, I couldn’t even afford the original rent she’d mentioned. My savings would disappear in no time. With many regrets, I waved Bryn Glas goodbye.
I was saying goodbye a lot, lately: Bear, Richard, Bryn Glas. So with today’s disappointment out of the way, I wandered round Venice with, as usual, no particular aim in mind, taking photos on my phone. Most were utter clichés, but I wanted to see if I could get my eye back in. Once again, I really missed my proper camera. Why the hell had I left it behind, as if it were no more important than an old jumper?
In the afternoon I found myself – no idea how – back at the stationery shop where I’d bought my sage-green suede notebook. I went in and chose a bigger, more expensive one for Richard, in a delicate silver-grey, and another pile of the creamy notepaper. I took my purchases to the café outside, ordered a cappuccino, and uncapped my favourite Waterman fountain pen.
Dear Richard,
* * *
I hope you like this notebook. The stationery shop here is full of them, and I wish I could bring hundreds home. They’re too fancy for most of the shops, but they might do well in His Nibs.
I’m so pleased you’re happy. It’s wonderful that we can both move on, and be glad for each other. I want to thank you for respecting me enough to take me at my word. I didn’t realise how serious I was about us, about our separation, until I heard it from you.
I will really miss you. Twenty-nine years is a triumph, not a failure. There’s a lot of great things to take from it, not least our wonderful children. What’s that thing, don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. Naff maybe, but it’s how I feel.
* * *
I stopped writing because I became aware of someone standing at my elbow. I turned to say, ‘No, grazie,’ to the waiter, assuming he was about to offer me more coffee, but it wasn’t a waiter. It was a tall man with dark hair, about my age, perhaps a little younger, wearing a light-grey suit and a blue scarf. He said something in Italian, and I looked up at him, puzzled.
‘English?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
He smiled. ‘You dropped this.’ He handed me the lid of my fountain pen.
‘Oh! Thank you.’ I hadn’t noticed, it must have rolled off the table. I turned back to my letter, but he didn’t move away. I looked up at him again, a ‘what?’ expression on my face.
‘It is a rare thing, nowadays, to see someone writing with an ink pen,’ he said. ‘You look like a woman from a Henry James novel.’
‘Er, thanks,’ I said. Was it a compliment, even? I couldn’t remember if Henry James was the one who had frumpy buttoned-up women, or was that Thomas Hardy?
‘I am also sitting alone,’ the man went on, ‘and wondered if you cared to sit together.’
A pick-up! My first for a while. Decades, probably.
‘No, thank you,’ I said, smiling to show no hard feelings. I gestured at my letter. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I will say goodbye, then. I just wanted to tell you that I was dining at the Gritti last night with my father, and I noticed you, sitting alone, perfectly self-contained. You sometimes smiled to yourself, and I was very intrigued. My father told me to speak to you, but I’m afraid I was too shy. Anyway. I wish you a lovely stay in Venice.’ He began to walk away.
Self-contained? Intrigued? Shy?
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘please do sit for a moment.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and did so.
Well, it wouldn’t be Venice without a little romantic frisson, right? I needed something to tell Rose when I got back that wasn’t about our friend’s terminal illness or my almost-not-quite attempt to return to Richard.
‘I’m Kay,’ I said.
‘K, as in the alphabetic letter?’
‘K-a-y, short for Kathleen.’
‘Kathleen is a lovely name. I am Luca.’
‘Your English is excellent, Luca,’ I said.
The waiter brought over his coffee, and he thanked him. ‘I studied in Oxford.’
‘Er, what college did you go to?’ My flirty chatter was extremely rusty.
‘Keble.’
He raised his cup to his lips, and I stole a glance. Mid-to-late forties? The suit was expensive. White shirt, no tie, one button open at the neck, cashmere scarf. Little too much Sacha Distel about the tan and the swept-back hair, but undoubtedly good-looking.
‘May I ask, to whom are you writing?’
I glanced down at the letter. It was hopefully at the wrong angle for him to read it. ‘My husband,’ I said.
‘Ah, I see. A lucky man.’
‘My ex-husband. We are separated,’ I said. It felt fine to say it out loud. Good, in fact.
‘Then maybe I am the lucky man.’
I laughed. ‘Your lines are very cheesy, Luca. Have you not polished them since you were at Oxford?’
He smiled. Hell, it was a nice smile. ‘No, you are quite right. I am stuck in the nineties, I am afraid. But I do feel lucky, sitting here, talking to a beautiful lady who writes letters with a fountain pen and orders champagne just for herself.’
‘I don’t usually,’ I said. ‘The champagne, I mean. I do of course always use a fountain pen.’
‘Of course.’
We smiled at each other. ‘How much longer do you have in Venice?’ he said.
‘I’m going home tomorrow.’ Of course, I didn’t really have a home, but it was too complicated to explain.
‘To your husband?’
‘No, but back to England. Work out what I’m going to do next.’
‘Do you have plans, then, for this, your last night?’
I looked into his eyes, which were crinkled at the side. I was very fond of eye crinkles. ‘Yes,’ I said, surprising both of us, ‘I am going to have dinner with you.’
He looked at me, amused. ‘That is very good to hear.’ He called the waiter over, and paid for both our coffees, ignoring my offer of cash. We agreed to meet outside the Gritti at 8 p.m., but he said he would take me somewhere else, ‘somewhere Venetians go’. I honestly thought he might kiss my hand when he stood up to leave, but clearly even for him it was a cliché too far, and he simply said, ‘Arrivederci, Kathleen. See you tonight.’
When he’d gone, I texted Rose, my fingers skidding awkwardly across the letters.
Henry James heroine – good or bad?
She must have already been looking at her phone because the reply came back straight away:
Venice obvs having fine literary effect on you. Generally good. Spirited, bookish, complex, independent. Why? Are you writing an essay?
* * *
Haha no. Talking of literary matters, how are things with Graham?
I was careful to always make sure I asked about him.
Good thanks. Wonderful. Stayed in bed till 10 this morning, I was late for work!
* * *
TMI, as Stella would say.
But good for Rose. Sex with someone new – it must be weird. But maybe sex with someone new, someone handsome, someone with a lovely smile, might be pretty nice. Someone hot, another of Stella’s expressions. Someone with no strings attached, in a foreign country one was about to leave… well. I wish I hadn’t left my fan in the apartment as it seemed rather warm, all of a sudden.
I finished my letter to Richard, rather more breezily than I would have if I hadn’t been interrupted. Then I walked back to the palazzo, stopping off at the little Castello post office to send the letter and silver-grey notebook to Richard, and my last letter to Bear.
Back at the apartment, I had a bath and did all the woman-going-on-a-date things I hadn’t done for years. Well, I’d done them, but not all at once, with a date mindset. I washed my hair, shaved my legs and pits, and had a little trim of the old lady-garden, not that I was planning to sleep with him, obviously not, he was clearly a café-lothario, but just in case…
In case what? I heard Rose say. In case there was a freak accident that involved your pants coming off in public?
OK, Rose, I said to myself, in case I do decide to sleep with him.
There’s nothing wrong with casual sex, Rose replied. As long as you have a…
Oh God, of course I didn’t have a condom. Why would I? I’d been married for a hundred years. Richard and I used the cap, and funnily enough, that wasn’t one of the things I’d packed in my rucksack. Anyway, a cap wouldn’t be good with a strange man, you had to have a condom to protect yourself against all his likely diseases. Ugh, maybe I wouldn’t sleep with him after all. In my mind he was morphing into a tacky medallion-man type with a hairy chest. Was I really going on a date with a man I didn’t know, just because he said I looked like a woman out of Henry James?
Apparently I was, as I put on my not-sensible bra, and my hitherto-unused fancy lipstick. I suspected it was too red for me but what the hell. My nicest dress was the one from the Sydney op shop, which I’d already worn the last two evenings to the Gritti. I sniffed it but it didn’t seem too bad, so I sprayed some perfume on it, and put it on.
All the way to the Gritti I told myself he probably wouldn’t even show up. But I knew he would. I was early, but he was already there, and we smiled hugely at each other and kissed on both cheeks.
‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d come.’
He took me to a restaurant I wouldn’t ever have found on my own. It was up one alley and down another and sideways and heaven knows where it was. And even if I had found it, I wouldn’t have gone in, as it looked completely undistinguished from the outside. But it was crowded with lively, noisy Italians of all ages, and it had a terrific buzz. How different it was from the awed hush at the Gritti, the whispering couples. Here, everyone was laughing and shouting, and most of the people sounded as if they were flirting wildly with each other, though given my lack of Italian they could as easily have been discussing high finance.
Luca and I squeezed in to a little table at the back, and talked non-stop. He told me about his life; unusually for someone living in Venice, he had grown up here. He and his friends used to earn money in the school holidays by helping lost tourists find their way. He’d lived in the UK and many other places in Europe, been married twice, and had a grown-up daughter in Canada. He worked for a non-profit organisation that had something to do with energy and the environment, but he was on a six-month sabbatical to look after his father who was ill. During that time he needed to find residential care for him, of which there wasn’t much in Venice. He wanted to move them both to Milan, but his father was resisting.
I told him about my kids, and I relaxed so much, I even told him about my grandkids. He couldn’t believe I was a grandmother, did a genuine double-take. ‘I was a child bride,’ I told him, but I could see he was trying to work out my age, too polite to ask outright. I realised I didn’t care if it put him off. I was very much in a ‘this is who I am, take it or leave it’ kind of mood. I told him about my dashed photography plans too – Lord knows how we got onto that.
‘So you were going to work in a studio?’
‘Yes, a great place right in the centre of London. They did weddings but also some celebrity and fashion work. Terrific opportunity.’
‘Then you got pregnant?’
I nodded. ‘Told you I was young. Up the duff, crashed out of my degree, never finished it, couldn’t take up the apprenticeship. Got married instead.’
‘I can guess “up the duff”, though it is a new phrase to me,’ he said. ‘Life is a strange and complicated journey that does not follow a straight path.’
‘How profound, Luca!’
‘So what did you do instead? What are your special skills?’
‘Gosh, I’m not sure I have any. I’ve worked in a shop for twenty-five years. I guess I’m good at being cheerful with customers. Is that a skill?’
‘Certainly not all in the service industries have it.’
‘True. Oh, and I’m pretty good at DIY.’ Luca looked puzzled, so I continued, ‘I was the one who did all the repairs around the house. Put up shelves, did plumbing and electrical things, you know.’
‘Not your husband?’
‘Well, he wasn’t at home much. And I’m more handy. You should see me with a screwdriver.’
‘I would like to see that,’ Luca said, in so sexy a voice that I hid my flustered face in my glass, and drank a big slurp of wine.
‘And where is your accent from, Kathleen? I have been trying to work it out.’
‘I’m from Hoylake, near Liverpool.’
‘Ah, it is a Beatles accent!’
‘Well, it’s a bit grander than theirs. In fact, the most famous celebrity from Hoylake was John Lennon’s first wife, Cynthia. She was his bit of posh. My mum knew her cousin quite well.’
‘Yes, I’m only three degrees of separation from John Lennon.’
‘I have always loved the Beatles,’ Luca said.
‘Everyone loves them.’
When Rose and I were at university in London, we dined out on being from Liverpool. Rose even developed a convincing little routine about being the secret love child of Paul and his first serious girlfriend, Dot. Thinking about that made me smile, and Luca raised his glass to me.
‘To Cynthia Lennon, and Kathleen – beautiful women from Hoylake.’ He pronounced it ‘Oh-lick’, which was weirdly sexy.
As we ate delicious home-made pasta we discussed our marriages. I told him a little about Richard and me, and how tiring it was to ricochet from feeling that things were fine when I first left, to feeling lost and afraid.
‘Divorce is like a death,’ Luca said, pouring more wine. ‘You have to grieve it in a similar way.’
He’d been through it twice, so I supposed he knew what he was talking about.
We had the most exquisite chocolate tart I’d ever eaten, and more wine, and coffee. He put his hand over the bill so I couldn’t see it.
‘I would like to pay,’ I said.
‘I’m embarrassed for you to see how little it is,’ he said, ‘and I asked you to dinner, so I must pay.’
‘Actually, if you remember, I asked you.’
He handed the waiter his card and said, ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Look here, Luca,’ I said, my words slurring slightly. ‘I’m not going to have sex with you just because you paid for my dinner.’
‘I should think not,’ he said, ‘after such a cheap dinner.’
We both laughed, and I thought, Actually, maybe I will sleep with you… but the thought of it terrified as much as excited me.
* * *
He let me leave the tip, and we weaved out into the cool dark night. He put his arm round my shoulders, which felt very natural, and we strolled in some direction or other. With Venice, who knew where we were going? It wasn’t as if it mattered.
