by the beauty and magic of her surroundings, feeling another, older kind of magic creep over her. She gave him a brief, sidelong glance, but she didn’t need to do that to know he was watching her, smiling with delight.
‘If you’ve finished your coffee, we might walk on,’ he said at last. As they got to their feet he took her hand again, and led her over the Rialto Bridge.
As he’d said, there was a lively market, just beginning to wind down. He stopped at a stall, took two peaches and handed her one. The plump grocer watched him with a grin, which didn’t fade even when Francesco said,
‘Your peaches don’t get any better. But I’ll do you a favour and relieve you of a couple.’ He strode on.
‘Hey,’ Sonia said, hurrying to catch up with him, ‘shouldn’t you have paid for those?’
‘Pay?’ he was shocked. ‘Pay my own cousin?’
‘That man was your cousin?’
‘That’s Giovanni. Every time his wife gets mad at him he comes to me and I give him a beautiful piece of glass for nothing, to placate her.’
‘Does she get mad often?’
He considered. ‘He’s a good husband—in his way, but he has an eye for the ladies. I’m running out of glass and I haven’t paid for my fruit for years.’
She chuckled. This was all mad, but it was like being on another planet, where the rules were different, and she could have a holiday from being her usual tense, cautious self.
Afterwards there were so many things to remember about that first night, but sometimes they all seemed to blur together, and sometimes each detail stood out sharply. All Venice seemed to be the same little street, one turning into another. Yet the Ristorante Giminola where he’d taken her to eat was clear in her mind.
It was a small cosy place where the owner greeted Francesco with a yell and showed them to a table by the window. The menu delighted Sonia. It was printed in three languages and the translations had been done by someone whose English was hit and miss.
‘What on earth are “schambed eggs”?’ she laughed.
‘I think they’re “scrambled eggs”, but I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘And “greem beans”?’
‘Done by the same man, I should think. Also “roats potatoes”.’
He ordered wine and prosciutto ham.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘I want to know everything about you.’
An imp of mischief made her reply, ‘I think you’ve already seen everything about me.’
‘Please,’ he begged, ‘don’t remind me of that.’
‘Is it such an unpleasant memory?’ she teased.
He gave her a speaking look. ‘Do you really want me to answer? Well, I shall. But later. When we’re alone together.’
She felt as if she was clinging onto a runaway train. Two hours ago she hadn’t even met him. Now they were rushing headlong into passion.
But the passion had been there from the moment he saw her nakedness and she saw his shock and admiration. The rest was talk.
‘You wanted to know about me,’ she said in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. ‘I’m English. I work for a chain of fancy goods stores—gifts, novelties, fine glass and china. It’s just been bought by people who want to expand and they decided to try Venetian glass. They only took over this week, which is why my trip here was arranged at the last minute. It’s my first big assignment and I’m going to make a success of it. And it’s my first sight of Venice.’
‘You put that the wrong way around,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s your first sight of Venice that matters.’
‘Well, you’re a Venetian—’
‘Yes, I’m a Venetian and I know that this is one of the wonders of the world. Now you have seen it, it will be with you all your life.’ His merriment had faded, and she realised he was talking about something that mattered to him deeply. She hoped he would go on, but he smiled and said, ‘Tell me some more. What about your family?’
‘I have none. My parents are both dead. I studied Fine Arts in evening classes, specialising in glass. I want to have a shop with the best glass from all over the world.’
He gave a mock frown. ‘But only Venetian glass matters. Why should you bother with any other?’
‘Well—other countries do make good glass.’
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