resealed the gift packaging, wrote his name on the label, finished her coffee and went off to search for the Forli Palace. Following the signora’s directions, she crossed the Ponte della Paglia, with its bird’s-eye view of the Bridge of Sighs, and joined the teeming crowds on the promenade on the busy Riva degli Schiavoni. People eddied around the busy stalls and hurried to and fro from the vaporetto stops, but Laura’s interest was centred on the volume of gondolas, tugs, water buses and taxis on the waters of the lagoon, with even a naval ship just visible in the distance. Eventually the crowds thinned out and Laura reached a row of palazzos long since converted into luxury hotels. Her heart sank when she found the Forli Palace, which was as unlike the Locanda Verona as a hotel could possibly be. The foyer was all pillars, mirrors and frescoes, with great urns of flowers, chandeliers of Venetian glass, and an expanse of marble floor to cross to reach a reception desk manned not by Domenico, to her huge relief, but by two young men who smiled courteously as she approached.
Laura said good morning very firmly in English and held out the package to one of them in response to an offer of help. ‘For Signor Domenico Chiesa,’ she said briefly.
‘Did you wish to see him, signorina?’
‘No! No, that won’t be necessary,’ she said hastily. ‘But would you make sure that he receives this fairly soon, please?’
‘Senza fallo! Without fail,’ he repeated. ‘I will personally make sure of this. But I require your name, please, signorina.’
‘Miss Laura Green,’ she said formally. ‘Grazie.’
Her duty done, Laura squared her shoulders and set off on the longish walk to Dorsoduro to explore the Guggenheim, the one-storey palazzo that from the picture in her guidebook looked out of place among the other buildings in Venice. With Domenico for company she would have travelled by water taxi, but for her remaining time in Venice her diminishing finances meant a walk everywhere. The morning was hot, and the combination of a sleepless night and the nervous strain of visiting the Forli Palace had depleted her energy level to the point that when she’d crossed the Accademia Bridge and found the museum her enthusiasm for modern art, or any other kind, was at low ebb. She brightened a little when she found that the young guide who offered help at the Guggenheim actually came from London, but because of this had to pretend interest she didn’t feel. After a detailed tour of works by familiar names like Picasso, Mondriaan and Ernst, others by artists Laura had never heard of, plus a whole room devoted to the works of Jackson Pollock, her guide took her round the statuary in the garden. But when they reached the canal entrance a sculpture of a horse bearing a man in a state of full arousal was a statue too many for Laura, and, face burning behind the dark glasses, she muttered her thanks and left in a hurry to go in search of caffeine.
She came to a halt at one of the cafés along the Zattere, where the views across the Giudecca Canal were delightful and the prices a lot cheaper than in San Marco. Lunch seemed like a good idea now she was here, in case she couldn’t face the prospect of a solitary dinner later. After a toasted sandwich and some orange juice, followed by an espresso to perk her up, Laura walked back to the hotel, so tired by the time she got there she collapsed on her bed, desperate for sleep. And stayed wide awake. Exasperated, she read for a while instead, but at last gave up, dressed again, and went out to look at some of the Renaissance art Venice was famous for.
During her window-shopping in the Mercerie Laura had noticed a side entrance between the shops to the San Salvatore church and made this her first stop. The beautiful Renaissance interior was impressive, but without Domenico for company Laura felt totally overwhelmed by it, and after only a cursory inspection of the two Titian paintings the guidebook mentioned she went back to the shops. She wandered past the tempting merchandise on display in the windows again for a while, but when she reached Campo Santo Stefano Laura dutifully went inside the church to admire the ship’s keel ceiling and marble pillars mentioned in the guidebook. Her duty done, she went back out into the big square and sat down in one of the open-air cafés to cool down with an ice cream. While she waited for it she watched children playing near the central statue and wondered what on earth to do for the rest of the day. But originally she had expected to be alone in Venice for her entire stay. So she would just have to resign herself to spending her last night here with a book in her hotel room or come back to this busy square to eat. It would be too painful to visit Florian’s again.
Laura sighed, took out the postcards she’d bought earlier, and began writing messages on them, ready to post on her way back. Halfway through the pile her phone rang, and she seized it, heart thumping, to say a cautious, hopeful hello.
‘Laura?’
Her heart leapt at the sound of the voice she’d never expected to hear again.
‘Yes?’
‘Domenico. I have just received your gift. Many, many thanks. I did not expect this.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did. I bought it before we went to the Basilica yesterday.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘In the square where we found the gold mask.’
‘Ah. Campo Santo Stefano.’
‘So my guidebook says.’
‘Laura, ascolta—listen. I know you fly back tomorrow.’
‘I leave after breakfast.’
‘It is a very bad thing to part in such a way. I was angry last night—’
‘You had every right to be. I regretted the words the moment I said them. I apologise.’
‘I said certain words that I do not regret,’ he said, his voice a tone lower.
Not sure what answer he expected in answer to that, Laura played safe. ‘I’m very glad you rang.’
‘Bene. I am glad also. Laura, let us dine together one last time tonight, yes?’
Oh, yes, please! ‘Thank you,’ she said, deliberately polite to mask the joy bubbling up inside her. ‘I’d like that very much.’
‘Then I will call for you at seven.’
Laura put the phone away and sat utterly still for a long time, savouring the blissful feeling of relief. Campo Santo Stefano was suddenly the most beautiful place on earth. She no longer felt tired, and tomorrow she would fly home in far happier frame of mind now the parting with Domenico seemed likely to be at least amicable. She rang her mother to confirm that she’d go straight to Stavely for the weekend for Fen’s hen party, and then strolled back to the hotel to get ready for the evening. She was in such tearing spirits during the process she was ready and waiting in the airy chiffon dress when the phone rang dead on the minute at seven o’clock.
‘I am here,’ said Domenico.
‘Give me a moment and I’ll be right down.’
Laura sprayed a cloud of perfume into the air, walked through it on her way to the door, and then made herself go downstairs at a sedate pace. Her heart missed a beat at the sight of Domenico in the reception hall, which was deserted for once. He wore a formal dark suit with a gleaming white shirt and the tie she’d bought, and it was all she could do not to run the rest of the way and throw herself into his arms.
‘Buona sera, Laura,’ he said, smiling as he came forward. ‘What
