Over the years, I’ve discovered that the more you love a person, the more they’re bound to disappoint you in the end,” her mother had once said to her, adding: “And, in my opinion, men understand this better than we do. That’s why they rather cleverly spread their bets. Always remember that, Vanny. Don’t give all for love. And don’t be duped.”
But she had given all for love. And she had been duped. And she had remembered her mother’s wise words far too late for them to matter.
Was it true? Did men spread their bets when it came to women? Was that what Bill had done?
Certainly she had loved him a lot, put all of her trust in him. And in the end he had bitterly disappointed her. But no, wait, it was so much more than disappointment, wasn’t it? He had humiliated her, made her feel foolish, even ridiculous, and he had hurt her so badly she thought she would never recover from that hurt. It cut deep . . . deep into her very soul.
She had been so open with him, so honest, baring her soul, her innermost secret self. She had given him everything she had to give, far more than she had given any other man, even her husband.
Seemingly, her gifts of love and adoration had meant nothing to him. He had discarded her as easily as he had picked her up in the bar of the Hotel Gritti Palace.
Unexpectedly, and quite suddenly, she remembered something he had said to her about Frank, something about Frank hedging his bets as far as women were concerned. Perhaps all men did that.
Vanessa let out a long sigh and walked on across the sand dunes, her heart heavy, her mind still fogged by the pain of Bill’s defection.
It was a fine, clear day in the middle of April—cold, with a pale sun in a pale sky. The Atlantic Ocean was calmer than it had been for days despite the wind that was blowing up.
She lifted her eyes and stared up into the sky when she heard the cawk-cawk of seagulls. She watched them as they wheeled and turned against the clouds.
The wind buffeted her, driving her toward the beach. She hunched down farther into her heavy duffle coat and stuck her gloved hands into her pockets. She felt dispirited to the point of depression.
She was well aware that her depressed emotional state was because of Bill Fitzgerald and what he had done to her. She found it hard to believe that he had disappeared from her life in the way that he had, but it was true. At times she even tried to tell herself she didn’t care. But of course she did.
Their love affair had been so intense, so sexual, so passionate in every way and so . . . fierce. He had swept her off her feet and into his bed and then out of his life when he had grown tired of her. Just like that. Puff! She was gone. Had their affair been too hot? Had it burned out too fast for him? She was not sure. How could she be sure . . . of anything . . . ever again?
Vanessa felt the splatter of raindrops on her face and immediately looked up. Thunder-heads were darkening that etiolated sky, turning it to leaden gray, and there was the sudden bright flourish of lightning, then the crack of thunder.
Turning swiftly, she walked back to the cottage at the edge of the dunes. She made it just in time. It was a cloudburst. The heavens opened and the rain poured down.
She locked the door behind her, took off her duffle, and went into the library. Here she turned on lamps, struck a match, and brought the flame to the paper and logs Mavis had stacked in the grate.
Since she had returned, Mavis Glover had taken to coming almost every day, fussing over her, bringing her fruit and vegetables and other groceries. Once Mavis had even offered to pick up newspapers and magazines, but Vanessa had told her not to bother. She was not interested in the outside world; she had cut herself off from it.
She had returned from Venice and moved out to Southampton permanently. She had turned herself into a virtual hermit. She had unplugged her telephone and pulled the plugs on the radio and the television. In fact, she vowed she would never look at television again as long as she lived.
She was out of contact with everyone. Out of action. The only person she saw or spoke to was Mavis.
Licking my wounds, she thought now as she sank onto the sofa in front of the fire. Licking my wounds like a sick animal.
The truth was, she did not want to see anyone, not even her mother. The world was well lost for her.
Peter had sent the divorce papers; they had arrived yesterday by special delivery. She had laughed loudly and hollowly when she had seen them. As if they mattered now. She had pushed for the divorce when Bill was a part of her life, and now seemingly he had discarded her.
The anger flared again in her and with it came the hot, endless tears. Pushing her face down into the cushions, she cried until she thought there were no tears left in her.
She sat up with a start. The fire had almost gone out. Glancing at the mantelpiece, she focused on the clock. It was just five. Time to go to work.
Pushing herself up off the sofa, Vanessa looked out of the window and saw that the rain had ceased. The late afternoon sky, washed clean of the dark clouds, was clear again.
After putting on her duffle coat, she walked slowly across the lawn to the red barn, then stopped for a brief moment as she passed the small copse of trees to the left of the house. Years ago her mother had planted hundreds of daffodils, and she had added to them since she had owned the cottage.
Many of them were pushing their golden heads upward, fluttering in the breeze, pale yellow beacons in the soft light. How fresh and springlike they looked. So pretty under the trees. Her eyes filled. She brushed her damp cheeks with her fingertips and walked on.
Once she was inside her studio, Vanessa focused on her work. Going to the drawing board, she switched on the light above it and was soon sketching rapidly, drawing spheres and globes, until she found her way through the many shapes springing into her mind. She settled, at last, on kidney and oval shapes.
Her work had become her salvation. She found it hard to sleep at night, and so she had reversed her routine. From five o’clock until eleven she created her designs in the barn. She had a drink and ate dinner at midnight, and then read half the night, until fatigue finally overcame her.
And once the designs on paper were finished, she worked in the foundry, hand-blowing the glass pieces. As she did she would ask herself how she would ever be able to go to Venice again. She would have to because of her work. But she knew she must find another hotel. She would never again set foot in the Gritti Palace.