Christmas at Tiffany's (44 page)

Cassie tipped her head back and let the wind blow her hair off her face as they sped over the water. She had no idea where they were going to stay and she was already starving. Henry had waited – until they were safely flying over the Alps – before he told her that he hadn’t booked a hotel, having guessed correctly that she wouldn’t have dreamed of coming if she’d known that little nugget.

‘I never do,’ he’d protested as she started to huff and puff. ‘It’s all part of the adventure.’

‘But it’s Easter weekend! Everywhere will be booked up.’

He’d just shrugged. ‘So much the better. It means we’ll find a real jewel hiding away somewhere.’

Cassie had rolled her eyes huffily. ‘A word of advice – don’t try that on your honeymoon. Lacey’s going to have packed nice shoes and pretty dresses and she’s going to want to go on a gondola. Trekking around Venice trying to find a bed for the night with her luggage on her back is not going to be the best start to married life. Trust me.’

‘You’re speaking from experience?’

‘I’m speaking as a woman.’

The boat docked at a taxi stop alongside St Mark’s Square and Henry jumped out, offering her his hand before the driver had even turned around. He had thrown a jumper over his shirt but he had no jacket, and no bag.

‘Are you really saying, Henry,’ Cassie said, walking alongside him as he carried her bag, ‘that you just carry your wallet and passport? You don’t pack
anything
?’

‘Nope. I don’t do luggage if I can help it. I’ll buy some toiletries in the first chemist I see,’ he said, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the square, though it was hard to see anything beyond the crowd. It was heaving with tourists. And pigeons. ‘And other bits and bobs. Don’t worry. I won’t smell and embarrass you.’

‘You don’t need to smell to embarrass me,’ Cassie quipped, just as a pigeon dive-bombed her. She ducked low. ‘That looked personal,’ she muttered, turning round to make sure it was still flying on and not making a U-turn for another go.

They stood in the middle of the square, hemmed in on three sides by imposing buildings and flanked on the fourth by water. The Doge’s Palace was to their right, the Basilica straight ahead. That was two of the five Venice landmarks she knew off the top of her head. She’d only taken ten steps into Venice and she’d already practically exhausted her knowledge of it.

‘So. Where to now?’

‘Hmmmm,’ Henry said, watching the flow of pedestrian traffic. The main current seemed to work from the front to the back of the square. ‘Come on. We’ll go this way,’ he said, heading left.

They walked out of the square and straight into a labyrinth of winding alleys, some so narrow Cassie felt she could stretch her arms out and brush the walls on both sides. Through the open windows she could hear the canned laughter of television shows, and a couple were shouting to the backdrop of a violin being played elsewhere. A stocky woman was beating a rug from a top-floor window and plumes of dust cascaded down, forcing Cassie and Henry to break into a jog to escape it.

They turned left and right at random, so that within twenty minutes Cassie didn’t know which direction she was travelling in; but Henry seemed to. This was probably nothing to him, she thought, hiding in the Venetian maze. He was used to hacking his way through jungles and rain forests and jumping off icebergs, not just water taxis.

They found an over-priced boutique where Henry got ripped off on a shirt, two pairs of socks and some boxers; there was a small chemist further along and he darted in there too, emerging minutes later with a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, razor, shaving foam, shower gel and shampoo.

They passed an osterie where two off-duty gondoliers were drinking espresso. Henry clocked their eyes following Cassie as she passed, and he moved in a step closer to her.

She looked up at him. ‘You know, we’re going to have to find somewhere soon, Henry. It’s getting late and you must be frozen without a jacket on.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, giving her a wry smile. ‘Trust me, I know frozen.’

By the time they had been walking for forty minutes, Cassie half expected to see the hills of Provence around the next corner. They came to a tiny crossroads, where their path bucked up into an ornate mini-bridge. A small canal passed beneath, but there was a path that ran along one side of it. They – meaning Henry – decided to follow it, turning right.

Cassie glanced at the water nervously. It was dark and slapped the sides noisily, agitated by activity further along the canal, and she could see puddles where it had slopped up on to the path. Around the bigger waterways, she had noticed that profuse flower baskets and parked gondolas provided a barrier between the water and the streets, but here, it was just a straight drop in. She moved in closer to the wall and was so busy eyeing the dark water that she didn’t notice Henry had stopped walking. She bumped straight into him. He’d dropped her bag and was trying to peer over the top of a wall.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Hear that?’

She listened and heard the babble of conversation over the wall, music playing softly.

‘So?’

‘It sounds good, don’t you think?’

‘Well yes, but . . .’ She looked at him, trying to guess his intent. ‘No, Henry! It’s someone’s
garden.
They’re obviously having a party.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Venice is famous for its walled gardens – at the very least you should see one. Here, I’ll lift you up. You peer in.’

Cassie took a step back. ‘Absolutely not,’ she hissed, worried someone would overhear their plan. ‘I’m not going to snoop on someone’s party like a peeping Tom!’

‘It’s not snooping. We’re just seeing if it’s a private residence or not.’

Cassie planted her hands crossly on her hips and tilted her head.

‘What?’ He held his hands out. ‘You wouldn’t want to stay there if it was a hotel?’

The sound of laughter gurgled over the wall.

‘Yes,
of course
,’ she said.

‘So?’

‘Ugh,’ she said crossly. ‘You know, you can’t do this with Lacey, either,’ she went on, as he bent down and picked her up, holding her around her knees as if he was about to toss a caber.

He walked backwards towards the wall so that she could see over, and a little gasp of excitement escaped her. It was just like a hanging garden, with potted orange trees dotted around a small courtyard, a small vine draped across a trellis and espaliered peach trees against the walls. Six or seven small round tables, covered with white tablecloths and candles, were evenly spaced around a fire pit which burned in the middle, casting a gentle heat and flattering light.

‘What’s it like?’ Henry asked, loosening his grip so she slowly slid down to the ground. He didn’t seem to notice that he was holding her in an embrace, their bodies touching, their faces just inches apart.

She pushed back a little. ‘Yes, well . . .’ she said, playing with her hair and fidgeting restlessly. ‘It seems very nice.’

Henry blinked at her. ‘And? Is it a hotel?’

‘Yes, yes . . . I think it is.’

‘Great,’ he beamed. He picked up the bag and strode ahead. Cassie lagged a couple of spaces behind, inexplicably cross and bothered. She
had
to get some food.

They followed the wall round, turning into a narrow deadend street
.
There was a small caffe at the far end on the left, with several metal tables pushed against the wall and some dogs sleeping next to them. On the right, an illuminated black and white sign,
Hotel Capresa,
hung above the cobbles like a lamp post.

‘This’ll be it,’ he said, pushing open a wrought-iron gate and walking into a small garden, different from the one Cassie had just spied on, with a fountain gurgling like a baby and clumps of hibiscus and petunias everywhere. The building was a tall villa, ochre-yellow with white-rimmed windows and small balconies decked with rattan-seated dining chairs. Two olive trees flanked the front entrance, and the light shining from within was the colour of amber.

‘I feel like Mary at the inn,’ Cassie sighed as she took in the sight.

‘Well, let’s just hope they’ve got rooms,’ Henry said, crossing his fingers at her as he walked into the hotel. It was cavernous inside, with high ceilings and an intricate parquet floor, but scarcely furnished except for a giant chandelier twinkling overhead, a desk to the left with an open newspaper on top of it, and, opposite that, an enormous oak daybed, the size of a half-tester, with a foot-deep mattress.

‘If they’re fully booked, I’ll sleep there,’ Cassie said, motioning to the daybed. ‘I can’t go another step.’

‘If they’re fully booked, we’ll both be sleeping there,’ Henry replied, just as a man came out of a room at the other end of the hall, looking Lilliputian as he came through the door, which must have been fifteen feet tall at least.

‘
Buonasera
.’ He was wearing faded black trousers, bunched at the waist, and a white vest beneath his shirt. He was unrolling the sleeves from his elbows.

‘
Buonasera
,
vorremmo prenotare due camere, per favore
,’ Henry said in flawless Italian. ‘
Per due notti
.’

The man looked first at Henry, then at Cassie, seemingly baffled by the request. Then he shook his head. ‘
No
.’

‘No?’ Henry repeated. ‘
Non avete camere libere?
’ He was going to have to plead for the daybed then.

‘
Ho due stanze libere per stasera
,’ the man said, holding up his fingers. ‘
Ma solo una domani
.’

‘Oh.’ Henry turned and looked back at Cassie. ‘He says they’ve got two rooms tonight, but only one tomorrow.’

‘Well then, I guess we could stay here tonight and maybe try to find somewhere else in the morning?’ Cassie said.

Henry nodded. ‘We could do that.’ He looked back at the man. ‘Could we do that?’

The man shrugged, uncomprehending, although from the way he looked from Cassie back to Henry, Henry could tell that if it was his decision, that wasn’t what
he’d
be choosing.

‘Okay,’ Henry smiled. ‘
Cominciamo a prenotare le due stanze per stasera e in mattinata decideremo cosa fare per domani
.’

The man opened a small cabinet on the wall behind him and grabbed the only two keys from the hooks. They followed him up a winding staircase with grey marble treads, and along a wide corridor that had demilune tables set with lamps between every doorway.

He stopped outside one room and unlocked it, turning on all the lamps and walking to the far end to open the doors on to the balcony. Cassie remained at the doorway, blinking. The walls were set plaster with a delicate
trompe l’oeil
mural, and a pair of mint-green silk curtains fluttered in the night breeze. A regency wardrobe and escritoire stood against the far wall, opposite the bed which made the daybed downstairs look like a footstool by comparison. It was high, princess-and-the-pea style, with a luxurious pocketed headboard and footboard, both of which curled around the ends like little walls, and sheets which were white and crisply ironed with a hand-made lace trim. The bathroom, leading off from the near corner, was, from what she could see, utilitarian, and all the more chic for it.

There was nothing else. There didn’t need to be. It was perfect, even better than she had imagined. Cassie walked slowly through it towards the balcony and looked out. It overlooked the small canal and the gardens she had peeped at earlier. She couldn’t see much through the canopy of trees and vines, but the music was still playing and she could hear women’s laughter carrying into the night.

‘
Signore, la sua stanza è di fianco
.’

‘I’m next door,’ Henry said. His room was set out as a mirror image of hers, except that his curtains were ivory silk with a velvet stripe, and the bed was a Napoleonic four-poster with a pleated silk tent effect that fell from a corona in the ceiling.

‘Wanna swap?’ he asked with a twinkle, clocking the majesty of his bed.

‘No,’ she said smartly. ‘I like the roundy bits on my bed.’

‘
Roundy
bits?’

‘Roundy bits,’ she giggled. ‘And I’m going to
die
if I’m not eating within twenty minutes. I’ll come and knock for you when I’ve freshened up,’ she said, walking towards the door.

She threw her bag on to the bed and tried to make sense of the jumble of clothes she’d thrown in several hours earlier. Everything had been so rushed, so last-minute. She rifled through, trying to pull together an outfit, which was easier said than done with one pair of white city shorts (an accidental choice – she’d thought it was a shirt), a fairisle cardigan, her black biker jeans, a butterscotch silk blouse, one pair of narrow khaki trousers and a pair of camel Tod’s.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing her favourite blue jeans (about to die on the right knee but now exquisitely soft), a black and ecru fine-striped silky top which gathered at the bust, a pair of Superga plimsolls and a burnt orange hacking jacket. There was no getting away from it – even Kelly wouldn’t be able to number this lot into some sort of order.

She jumped into the shower first, letting the limited options settle in her mind, and hurriedly washed her hair with the complimentary shampoo. The advantage of having a bob meant her hair dried within minutes, and as the Brazilian perm had long since given up the ghost, it settled into a casually dishevelled style all its own.