It was already spitting when I left the hotel after an uninspiring breakfast of dry white bread and tasteless, rubbery cheese. Now the rain has settled in, not planning on blowing over in a pesky squall. This downpour is shaping up to give us a bad-tempered soaking and I think the bread at breakfast might be the only dry thing I see today. The sky is draped heavily over the tops of the ornate buildings. Venice in September, I hoped, would be full of sun, full of fun. Instead, it’s full of tourists and full of water.
Winding through the maze of narrow backstreets, cobbles slick with rain, I make my way to St. Mark’s Square to find my tour guide. She’s already in full flow, speaking to a huge group of Japanese tourists when I arrive. The guide is older than me, maybe ten years, but she’s unutterably stylish—the chic that older Italian women do so well. There’s a red silk scarf tied jauntily around the hips of her tight black jeans and she’s carrying a matching umbrella that she hasn’t put up despite the rain. Instead, she shelters under the arches around the damp façade of the Doge’s Palace while her tour group listen patiently in the pouring rain. My Japanese companions may be untroubled, clothed as they are in bright yellow rain capes, matching hats and shod in makeshift tie-on wellingtons that are being sold on the corner of every sodden street. I, in my summer-weight pea coat from Monsoon—how appropriate—and heeled suede boots, am less so.
The guide, Silvana, drones on for far too long about the historical importance of Venice as a trade route while the Japanese nod vigorously and we all get wet. My attention drifts. St. Mark’s Square is unusually empty, the outdoor cafés closed up, chairs stacked. Even the droves of streetwise pigeons have gone into hiding.
I should have been in Venice with Jerrard. The weekend was to mark our fifth anniversary together. We met at a conference on The Ethics of Green Marketing, which seemed so terribly dull a start to a love affair. To counteract this, we always went somewhere extravagantly romantic to celebrate the ticking off of another year together. Except this year we didn’t. This year Jerrard felt that our relationship wasn’t going anywhere. He felt ‘the whole thing’ had become stale. We should spend some time apart. I felt he meant he’d found someone younger and more obliging. Someone who didn’t nag about leaving the remnants of his beard in the bathroom sink or make him pull his weight with the household chores. If he had met someone else, he wouldn’t say. But he moved out, anyway.
I couldn’t bear to see the weekend go to waste—call me frugal. As Jerrard did on many occasions. If I had been Jerrard, I would have gone to Venice anyway, hoping that it might reignite the spark that had been long missing. If that spark had still remained elusive, then I’d have called a halt. There’s an etiquette to these things that he failed to understand. Take someone else, he urged. A salve to his conscience, perhaps. I didn’t want to come with someone else. I wanted to be here with Jerrard. I wanted him to call me at the eleventh hour and sigh with relief when I told him that no, no one else had taken his place. No one else could.
Of course, he didn’t call. He’s walked out of my life without looking back to see if I’m okay, if I’m surviving without him, if I’m still in love with him. I am.
Inside the Doge’s Palace, we trail around after the fragrant Silvana, through the crush of wet, doggy-smelling people, trying to admire the dark beauty of the Tintorettos while outside the rain gets heavier and heavier. Outside, great plumes of water spray from the mouths of the grimacing gargoyles on all corners of the roof, showering into the courtyard below, and it’s easy to see why Venice is slowly being consumed by the rising tides.
The next part of our tour is supposed to be St. Mark’s famous Basilica. As I splash through ankle-deep puddles, thoroughly ruining my favourite boots, Silvana tells us with an insouciant shrug that the church is closed due to flooding. A high wind shouldering the waves across the lagoon has added its power to the rain and our tour is to be curtailed.
I booked the tour because I didn’t want to mooch around Venice alone and lonely. Being in a group would give my emotions the shelter they required. It’s not to be. Anyway, to be honest, the incessant chatter and clicking of camera shutters are not exactly enhancing my Venice Experience.
I decide to seek solace in a restaurant. A glass of good Rioja, some tiramisu and maybe a hot frothy cappuccino will restore my flagging spirits. Empty gondolas are tied up at the moorings: black, mournful, bobbing angrily at their enforced idleness. Their po-faced gondoliers are holed up in neighbouring cafés, conspicuous in their striped jerseys and comic boaters, thinking of all the tourists they’ve failed to ensnare, all the euros that haven’t changed hands, how many times O Sole Mio hasn’t been crooned. Today, Venice has pulled down its designer-labelled trousers and has bared its bottom at the tourists.
Cowering beneath my ineffectual umbrella, my long blonde hair plastered to my head, I find a pizzeria with steamed up windows and a cheerful hum of conversation. I think I’m lucky to score the last table until I find I’m sitting next to two American couples who talk in loud voices about ‘doing Europe’. Today is Monday, so it must be Italy. Tuesday is France. Monday, England. My pizza is soggy, my wine is sharp, my tiramisu synthetic, my coffee and the service both lukewarm. The urge to phone Jerrard and cry is almost unbearable. Thank goodness the wine is awful, otherwise I might be tempted to down a whole bottle.
When I can linger no longer, I tip the waiter meanly as a small revenge for his indifference and head out into the downpour once more. The weather doesn’t seem to be deterring the crowds and I squeeze my way towards the Rialto Bridge and the sanctuary of my hotel. On my bedside table there’s a good book, a romance—and right now I need a happy ending. I’ll have a hot bath, chill out, try not to think about what Jerrard’s doing and read about the tangled love lives of others.
The steady stream of tourists thins to a trickle as I take the lesserused backstreets to my hotel. The rain is worse. I look up, dodging the drips from my umbrella’s spokes and don’t recognise my surroundings. Somewhere in my haste, huddled down, I’ve missed my turning. There’s a little shop that I should turn by, its window filled with carnival masques in red, black and silver—exotic, opulent, erotic. Each time I’ve passed I’ve stopped to drool over them but their prices are way beyond my meagre budget. I’m in a similar courtyard by a metal bridge but not the right one and now I don’t know which way to go. My feet are cold, numb. My map, like my romantic novel, is on my bedside table. I hate this city. The rain is too heavy, the people too grumpy, the canals too smelly, the prices too extortionate, the pigeons too many, the pasta too fattening, the tourists too stupid. Tears run down my face. I’m alone and lost in Venice and I don’t know what to do.
When I’ve done enough snivelling, I look up and try to get my bearings. Come on, Beth, get a grip, I chide.
Across the courtyard, there’s a smart house. Its front door is bright red as are its balconies—surreal highlights in an otherwise monochrome scene. A small motorboat bobs by the door, next to a chalkboard, which has a phrase scrawled on it in a variety of different languages. The lettering is rapidly disappearing as fat drips of rain run down it. I can just about pick out the English version. Models Required, it says.
The door is ajar. Perhaps someone can tell me the way to my hotel. Before I can think better of it, I fold my umbrella and push open the door. The hall is dimly lit but warm and only serves to make me realise how cold I am. I shiver and call out, ‘Hello.’ My heels click on the caramel-coloured Venetian marble floor, echoing through the hall. ‘Hello.’
A door opens and a tall man stands in the frame. The room behind is light and airy so I can’t see his face. He says, ‘You’ve come for the modelling?’
‘No, no,’ I answer. ‘I’m lost. I’m looking for the Hotel Segusa.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Then you are very lost.’
‘It’s the rain.’ I shrug as if it’s an explanation. Nothing to do with my inability to remember to carry my map, of course.
‘You are very wet,’ he remarks. ‘And you look cold.’
‘I’m both.’
‘Then come into my studio. Sit down. Wait. The rain will stop.’
‘I don’t want to disturb your work.’
‘I am not working,’ he says. ‘I have no model. No muse. I am playing.’
It’s tempting. My curiosity is piqued and the ancient radiator churning out heat is appealing.
He opens the door wider, light floods over him. His hair is dark and curling. His body is long, lean, athletic. A black T-shirt and jeans cling tightly to him, outlining his muscles and his slim hips. His skin is olive, a native, and when he smiles the room lights up some more. ‘Come.’ He beckons with slender artistic fingers.
Hesitant, I follow him into the studio. The room is bright white; the roof is made of glass and looks tear-stained with the rivulets of rain. There’s a huge black leather couch and a large easel standing at one end. Behind, another enormous window with a view over the bleak slate-grey canal. A table filled with paints stands next to the easel.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You’re an artist.’
He laughs.
‘I mean…well…you don’t look like an artist.’ He doesn’t exactly comply with the typical image of starving artist in a grotty garret. I thought he was a photographer—that kind of studio.
‘I don’t know what an artist is supposed to look like.’ His Italian accent is tinged with an American twang and I wonder if he’s spent some time overseas. ‘I’m Marcello.’
He holds out his hand and I take it. ‘Beth.’
‘I have coffee, Beth. Would you like some?’
‘Please.’
There’s a small kitchen area at the far end of the studio and Marcello goes to busy himself with making coffee while I stand and drip self-consciously on his floor.
‘Take off your things,’ he says to me. ‘Be more comfortable.’
If only I could. I look round for something to do with my umbrella.
‘Let me.’ Marcello comes back with two cups of coffee, which he puts on the table with his paints.
I hand the umbrella over.
‘Now your jacket.’ I peel the wet sleeves away from my arms. Beneath it my T-shirt is soaked.
Marcello tsks at me. ‘A cold will take you to your death. Off, off. I will find you a shirt.’
‘But…I…’
‘I work with naked women every day,’ he says with a casual shrug. ‘I am not shy.’
But I am! Before I can voice that particular thought, he’s off, dumping my umbrella in the kitchen, hanging my coat over the back of a chair.
I have goose pimples on my arms and probably over the rest of my body. To distract me, I take in the artwork on the walls. There are, indeed, a lot of naked women, beautifully displayed, open, wanting, sensual.
Marcello returns and tosses a shirt at me. It’s warm, dry. He shrugs again. ‘What else are you going to do this afternoon? Take off all of your clothes. When you are warm again and we have drunk our coffee, I will paint you.’
My arms fold across my chest in an involuntary movement. ‘I don’t think…’
‘You must not think at all,’ he instructs. ‘You must just do it.’ Then he gives me my coffee cup.
Maybe Marcello has drugged me because as soon as I finish my coffee I’m so terribly tired, my limbs are leaden and I don’t have the wherewithal to move. But, frankly, I don’t care what he’s done to me. Even though he’s a stranger, I somehow feel safe here, in a warm cocoon. Maybe it’s just relief that someone has taken control. My eyelids feel heavy. The rain clearly has no intention of easing up. It pours in torrents down the windows, drumming rhythmically, cutting us off from the world. He’s left the room, my clothes are uncomfortably damp, so, tentatively, I tug my T-shirt over my head. Back to the door, I hurriedly unhook my bra and slip on his shirt. It’s warm and soft, comforting on my chilled skin.
I pull off my boots. They’re ruined, wet through, but, at the moment, I don’t care. Wriggling my jeans over my hips, I’m relieved to see that the shirt falls to mid thigh and covers me with reasonable modesty.
‘Sit down,’ Marcello says when he comes back. ‘Just relax.’
I edge onto the black sofa, curl my legs under me and try to look casual. He laughs at my discomfort. ‘Pretend I am not here.’
How can I when he’s staring at me so intently? I let my head fall back against a pillow. He goes to stand behind his easel. Then the reality of the situation hits me and I sit up straight again. ‘I can’t do this,’ I tell him. ‘Really. I’m far too strait-laced.’
Marcello smiles at me. ‘I don’t know what strait-laced is, but it sounds very nice to me.’
‘I must go.’
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Now that you’re here, I cannot let you go.’
A thrill of panic runs through me. He holds out a hand. ‘Don’t move. Don’t move. I will make it all better.’
He reaches behind him and draws out a carnival masque from under a black sheet. I gasp. The eye-piece is feline, covered with rich red velvet the colour of a Venetian whore’s lips. It’s thickly encrusted with sequins and ruby red jewels. Above it, plumes of feathers stand proud, ruffling of their own volition. It’s menacing, marvellous. Exciting and erotic. ‘That’s fabulous.’
His smile is indulgent. ‘I knew you would like it.’
I wonder, has it been worn before, maybe by some glamorous woman dancing and posing her way through the streets of Venice, entertaining the crowd.
Marcello hands it to me. ‘Put it on.’
‘I can’t!’
He looks bemused. ‘Why not?’
It looks too mysterious, too daring and I’m strangely nervous of its allure. I’m not sure that I’m worthy of it. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It will suit you,’ Marcello assures me.
So I brush back my damp hair and put it on. It moulds to the contours of my cheeks, the bridge of my nose. Its weight is reassuring. I look at him through the slits of the eyes and feel like a different person entirely.
‘Get on the couch.’
Much to my own astonishment, I obey. Marcello arranges black pillows around my shoulders.
‘Take off that shirt.’ From nowhere, Marcello produces a sheath of blood-red crushed velvet. ‘Drape this over you.’
I strip off the shirt and do as instructed, covering my breasts with the fabric.
‘Leave them bare,’ Marcello says. ‘I want to see them.’
Lying back on the sofa, my head on the pillows, I let the fabric fall to my waist.
‘Pull it high,’ he says. ‘High on your legs. Your thighs are magnificent.’
I don’t think anyone has ever told me that before. My hands inch the velvet higher.
‘Great,’ Marcello murmurs. ‘Wonderful.’ He picks up a paintbrush. ‘You look beautiful. Bella, bellisimo. Think amazing thoughts.’
I lie back on the pillows, breasts and thighs bared, arms lifted above my head and wonder what Jerrard would say.
‘The light is gone. I can paint you no more.’ Marcello puts down his brush. ‘I can only remember you with the light of my eye.’
I’m tired, woozy, the hours have gone by while I’ve lain here, my mind in happy freefall. I try to sit up. ‘I must go.’
‘No.’ Marcello sits by me. ‘First I must love you,’ he tells me. ‘Then I must feed you.’
He laughs at the surprise on my face. Then he shrugs. ‘It is the Italian way.’
Taking the soft velvet in his hands, he caresses my breasts with it, making my back arch. He strips off his clothes effortlessly as he covers me with kisses, murmuring, ‘Bella, bella,’ as he does. Then, when he is naked and above me, he takes the strip of velvet and binds my wrists together as he holds my arms above my head. I want all of him inside me. More, more, more.
Then we twist together and I straddle him. I unbind my wrists and slip the velvet over his eyes while my tongue travels his body. The feathers on my masque shiver with excitement, ripples tensing and thrilling until I throw my head back and moan with pleasure.
For a long time we lie, Marcello’s arms around me. The drumming of the rain has finally stopped. The silence is comfortable and welcome. Then Marcello says, ‘And now, I promised I would feed you. I must do so.’
He eases away from me and pads, still naked, to the kitchen. I stare at the ceiling, spent, exhausted, exhilarated, not knowing what to think. When Marcello comes back, he brings a platter with bread, cheese, Parma ham and figs. Then he brings a bottle of wine and glasses.
Somewhat reluctantly, I sit up and take off the masque. ‘I feel like another woman in this.’
‘No.’ He takes my hand. ‘I think you feel more like yourself.’
We curl against each other. I’m ravenous. It’s as if I haven’t eaten properly for years. The cheese is rich and smoked; the bread fresh, crunchy; the ham salty on my tongue like Marcello. He drizzles red wine from his fingers over my breasts and laps it. The juice of the figs runs down my chin and I giggle as he kisses it away.
‘Can I see the painting?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’
‘But when? I leave tomorrow.’
‘You will know.’
‘How?’
‘Be patient.’ He puts a finger to my lips and doesn’t say any more.
When we’ve finished the food and drunk our fill of the wine, I get dressed. My clothes are still damp. I pull on my jeans and, after the warmth of the studio, they feel deeply unpleasant against my skin.
‘Keep the shirt,’ Marcello says.
I can smell the scent of his body on it. I try very hard to catch a peek of the painting, just a tiny glimpse, but my artist is having none of it. He steers me away to the other side of the studio.
‘Well,’ I say, when I’m fully attired once more and have my soggy umbrella to hand, ‘that was a very interesting afternoon.’ Much better than some fusty old church.
‘Take this, too.’ He gives me the carnival masque.
I say, ‘This must have cost a fortune.’
‘Take it,’ he insists. ‘It will always remind you of the time we have spent together.’
‘I’d like that.’ I give him a peck on the cheek as I clutch the carnival masque to me.
‘Give me your telephone number.’
I scribble it on the piece of paper that Marcello offers. ‘Now you’d better tell me how to get back to my hotel.’
At the cherry-red front door, Marcello gives me meticulous directions. I kiss him goodbye. This time a long, lingering kiss. My fingers trace the contours of his face, committing them to memory. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ We kiss again and he runs his fingers through my hair. ‘I would like to spend more time with you, bella Beth,’ he says, ‘but I have things I must do.’
‘I understand.’
Then I leave. The night is cool and fresh. My steps are brisk on the slippery streets, light and carefree. I’m heading back towards my hotel, glad that I’m no longer lost.
The next day the sun is full and high in the sky. I take my breakfast by the open windows of a Juliet balcony and watch the diamonds of sunlight glitter on the surface of the Grand Canal. In my dark shuttered room I slept like a log, alone in my double bed—a deep sleep filled with colourful dreams. In full carnival regalia I was parading through the streets, all eyes on me wearing my wonderful masque, low-cut dress with bustle and silk slippers on my feet, Marcello in black velvet, his hand held tightly in mine. I awoke refreshed, light in spirit and smiled at the masque propped up against the alarm clock on my bedside table.
Now I’m anxious to greet the day. And what a day! The gondoliers are back out in force, their songs ringing out across the water. The tourists are already thronging towards the Rialto Bridge. I finish breakfast—fresh warm bread this morning—and head back to my room.
Carefully folding Marcello’s shirt, I slip it into a plastic bag that I find in the bottom of my case. This time, as well as my umbrella, I take my map. My destination is Marcello’s studio. My excuse: I have his shirt to return.
The tourists move at a snail’s pace, shoulder to shoulder, through the ribbons of streets and the tiny arched bridges, stopping to gawp in the shop windows at the masques, the jewels, the handmade paper and quill pens. I break my journey only to buy chocolate-covered nougat, Torrone Classico, from a gorgeous chocolate shop that makes me salivate.
Retracing yesterday’s steps, I eventually find myself in the small square by Marcello’s studio. Today, there’s no chalk board outside and the cherry-red door is firmly closed. The bobbing boat is gone. A cold dampness encircles my heart despite the increasing heat of the day. Without hope, I knock at the door and am greeted by silence. I wait patiently and knock again. Wherever Marcello is, he clearly isn’t here.
Folding the plastic bag containing his shirt as small as I can, I leave it tucked down beside the door, hoping that Marcello finds it still here on his return. I want to keep the shirt to remember the scent of him but that seems too pathetic, too sad. I don’t know what I wanted in coming back to his studio. Perhaps to check that it really did happen. Or did I think that we could have had another wonderful day together? Yes, I confess, I did. But it was as much of a dream as my glorious vision of the carnival was in my sleep. Perhaps Marcello will call me one day. But, somehow, I doubt it.
So now I have the day to myself. I let the crowd carry me along aimlessly and, eventually, we burst into St. Mark’s Square. Today it is full of pigeons, full of tourists, full of couples holding hands. Blowing my budget, I sit outside Florians Caffé sipping a chilled Bellini and listen to the soaring strains of the tail-coated violinists, the sun bronzing my face. I eat a piece of my Torrone to give me a sugar rush, to give my spirit a lift.
In the square a mime artist poses for the Japanese tourists, who never, ever tire of taking photographs. She’s dressed in a cheap, hastily put together carnival costume and a flimsy masque that is nothing compared to the beauty of mine. I smile contentedly. I’m not going to let the fact that Marcello isn’t going to feature in my plans spoil my last day in this city. I have churches to see, paintings to marvel over, many paninis to eat. Tonight, I fly back to London and have wonderful memories and an exotic carnival masque as souvenirs.
Back at work, the relentless push towards Christmas is turning us all into mad things. I have endless marketing proposals to finish, tight deadlines, even tighter budgets. My weekend in Venice seems long ago, Marcello a distant and wonderful memory. Any beneficial effects dissipated just as soon as I returned to the daily grind. Only the rich, ruby-red carnival masque smiling enigmatically at me from my bedroom wall reminds me that it ever happened at all.
Every night I go home late, flop in front of the television and watch I’m A Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here! I enjoy the delights of a microwaved meal on my lap and a large glass of anything remotely alcoholic.
I moved out of the flat that I rented with Jerrard into somewhere less salubrious and more affordable. Switching on the television in my cramped living room, I settle down to my night of wild entertainment. The news is on before Celebrity…and I let the doom and gloom wash over me in the same way as I let the taste of my tepid luxury seafood pie wash over my taste buds, helped down with a passable white. Then an image on the screen arrests my attempts to pretend I’m enjoying this meal. I grab the remote and turn up the sound.
‘World-famous Italian artist, Marcello Firenz, is in London this week for his first exhibition in five years…’
I tune out as I see Marcello on my television screen, in my lounge. I’d know him anywhere. He speaks into the reporter’s microphone, thrust into his handsome face, but I don’t hear what he’s saying—I simply watch his hands rake through his dark curls and remember when I did the same thing. Marcello disappears and the newscaster moves on to another story. Famous Italian artist. I know Marcello Firenz’s name—who doesn’t?—but I had no inkling that he was my Marcello.
My heart’s pounding as I jump up and search for this week’s issue of London Lifestyle. Flicking wildly through the pages to the events section, I scan the listings until I see Marcello’s name. His exhibition opens to the public tomorrow night at a gallery that I’ve never heard of. My pounding heart halts abruptly. The exhibition is called Carnival.
I have no idea how I get through the next day at the office. I can’t wait to get to Marcello’s exhibition. My smartest suit has been hauled out of the back of my wardrobe and I’ve retouched my make-up a thousand times, spending so much time in the ladies’ loos that my colleagues probably think I’ve got some hideous stomach bug. The ruby-red carnival masque is in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag, plumes spilling over the top. I’ve taken it out and looked at it as many times as I’ve put more slap on. The afternoon drags interminably and the minute the hands of my watch hit six o’clock I’m outta here.
I take the packed rush-hour Tube to the chi-chi gallery, which is in a smart backstreet in Bloomsbury. A gaggle of people, champagne in hand, cluster around the door. I pull up short. In the window is a magnificent full-size painting of a harlequin in a carnival masque, bright, vibrant, dancing. Despite the cold, my palms are clammy with sweat.
Pushing through the crowd, I make my way into the spacious white rooms. A waiter thrusts a glass of champagne into my hand and I down it gratefully. Juggling my carrier bag with its escaping plumes, I take some tiny canapés and eat them without tasting. Marcello must be here, surely, but I can’t see him. He never did call me and, to be truthful, I never really expected him to.
The first room is filled with large canvases of revellers in gaudy costumes; men in luscious capes wearing masques with obscenely pointed noses; women, breasts spilling from their laceadorned dresses cover their eyes with feline masques. My mouth is dry as I marvel at Marcello’s skill. Murmurs of approval ripple through the crowd around me. I make my way through the rest of the gallery; the paintings become more erotic, the masques more elaborate, more sinister, more beguiling.
There’s a crush to get into the final room. A buzz of appreciative murmurs hangs in the air. I wind through the crowd, picking my way forward. ‘Excuse me, excuse me. Thank you. Excuse me.’ Then, when I finally manage to squeeze through the doorway and into the room, I get my first glimpse of what the art-lovers are staring at. I freeze and stare at myself.
That’s me. Up there on the wall. Thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. My breathing arrests in my chest. I go hot, cold, hot again. It’s really me. I am magnificent, voluptuous, provocative, sex personified. My breasts are full and inviting. My thighs milkwhite, parted. The red velvet is draped between my legs, veiling and yet accentuating the delights that lie below. No wonder Marcello wanted me. I’m a whore, a jezebel, a harlot, a scarlet woman, a temptress offering her goods for her chosen man to try. Beneath the disguise of my carnival masque there’s a hint of a sensual, knowing smile. I never realised that I was such a fabulous being. Who’d have known that this darkly sexual person was locked inside of me?
The crowd thins. I feel a hand at my elbow and spin round.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
My eyes widen and the room rocks slightly under my feet. This was the very last person I was expecting to see. ‘Jerrard?’ I manage to say. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Admiring the artwork,’ he replies coolly.
I gulp. I haven’t seen Jerrard since he walked out on me, the week before I went to Venice. Not one single phone call to find out how I was faring. To see if I had gone away without him. Well, now he knows that I did. Now he can tell that I had a rather interesting trip.
His eyes are locked on the painting. He’s finding it hard to tear his attention back to the real life me. My cheeks are hot and flushed. Good grief. What on earth is he going to say? I hide my carrier bag behind my back.
‘This guy is a genius, isn’t he?’
I nod, mutely.
Jerrard sighs contentedly and there’s wonder in his voice when he says, ‘Every brush stroke on the canvas is vibrant, alive.’
‘Mmm,’ I agree vaguely. Not quite as alive as the same woman standing next to you. I just wish he’d make his comments now and we can get this over with. I’ve never much cared for Jerrard’s cat and mouse games. He must realise that this is what I did in Venice without him.
‘What a beauty,’ he breathes again.
And I am. I’m naked for all to see. Jerrard and I were together for five years. Surely he must recognise those breasts, those thighs, that come-hither look? Can he not see the woman he knew so intimately right in front of him?
Finally, Jerrard drags his eyes away from the painting. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called,’ he says. ‘I meant to.’
I shrug. He has absolutely no idea that this wanton woman displayed in front of him is me!
‘I heard that you had a good time in Venice.’
‘Yes. I did.’ I let my gaze fall on the painting and smile.
‘Did you like the art?’
‘Fabulous. I learned a lot.’
‘Did it rain?’
‘On one particular day, it never stopped.’
‘How terrible.’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I still managed to amuse myself.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened between us,’ Jerrard says. ‘Perhaps I was a little hasty.’
Ah. So, it hasn’t worked out with the nubile young bit-of-stuff.
He takes my hand. ‘Do you have plans? Can I take you to dinner?’
I glance up at the massive canvas again and I see a woman who’s powerful, self-assured, independent, confident. This is a woman who could do anything. She could give up her dreary job, move from her dreary flat, find herself a wonderful man, have herself a wonderful life. This is a woman who could rule the world. I slip my fingers out of Jerrard’s grasp. I hear myself say, ‘I don’t think so.’
Jerrard looks put out.
‘I loved you, Jerrard, but our time has passed. I’m a different woman now. And I don’t believe that you ever really knew me.’ How can I begin to explain to him that a man who knew me for barely an afternoon saw so much more than Jerrard ever would? And one day I’ll find a man who will see me like that again.
At the front of the gallery, someone claps their hands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says. ‘Mr. Marcello Firenz!’
Marcello takes centre stage. He’s as strikingly handsome as I remember. ‘Thank you for coming this evening,’ he says. ‘It is very good to be back in London after such a long time…’
As Marcello continues his well-rehearsed speech, I turn and see that Jerrard has slipped away from me and I have no desire to go after him.
‘So, be my guests,’ Marcello continues. ‘Have some champagne. Eat. Look at the paintings…’
The assembled audience applauds and then moves out into the other rooms. Marcello has a clutch of people around him. It’s now or never. Shall I go and say hello, tell him that painting my portrait is the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done for me? Or should I just melt into the background? He’s laughing, enjoying the plaudits, comfortable with the adoration of his admirers.
‘I’d love to buy this painting,’ I hear a man say to Marcello, gawping up at me on the wall. ‘It’s magnificent. Your best work.’
‘Ah, this one,’ Marcello says, his full mouth parting in a languid smile. ‘This one is not for sale.’
The man moves away, slightly disgruntled at having his retail therapy thwarted. Marcello is momentarily alone and I inch forward—not the brazen harlot now but shy and unsure. As I near, a woman joins him. She’s dark-haired, beautiful and I wonder if he’s painted her, too. Perhaps she’s his wife, maybe a lover. He slips his arm casually round her shoulders and plants a tender kiss on her forehead. I get a vision of his lips against mine and can almost taste his kiss. Ah, well. I should go. Then, as I turn to leave, Marcello’s eye catches mine. Electricity crackles between us. I smile, mouth ‘thank you’ at him and quickly make my way out of the gallery.
The night has turned cold as I step into the street but it can’t take away the warm glow inside. Marcello and the glorious afternoon we spent together in Venice will always be one of my most precious memories. I’m still clutching my carrier bag with the masque. This beautiful disguise will serve as a treasured and tangible reminder. A tear comes to my eye but I won’t be unhappy. I wonder where the painting will hang, who will look at it and what they will think of the woman in the ruby-red carnival masque. I’ll look back at the masque in my old age and think of a time when I was young, reckless, daring and extraordinarily beautiful.
A time when a weekend in Venice changed my life.