La Suite (8 page)

“
Why
Venice?” Gaëlle asked Jérôme.

“
You can
always count on the bigwigs of aid agencies to pick somewhere nice
for a conference,” Jérôme said. “I know it’s illogical, but there
it is, and I have to go. The only question is whether you have the
time to come with me.”

“
Oh, I’ll
make time, don’t worry. I’ve never been to Venice. I pay for
myself, though, no freebies.”

“
I hadn’t
even thought of that. It’ll be lovely to have you there with me, to
maintain some degree of sanity…and it’ll be fun, too.”

As they
travelled on the waterbus from the airport to the Lido, where they
would be staying, they suddenly turned to each other and
simultaneously began, “You know, it’s…”

They burst out
laughing, then Gaëlle said, “You first.”

“
I was going
to say it looks just as it does on the postcards,” Jérôme
admitted.

“
My thought
exactly. This is going to be good.”

The conference
was on the Lido, too, a fifteen-minute waterbus ride from St.
Mark’s Square. The following morning, Gaëlle saw Jérôme off to his
morning session, then prepared herself to go into the centre of
Venice. The weather was hot and muggy, usual for September, she’d
been told. She chose a calf-length cotton dress and sandals with
low heels, as she intended to do quite a lot of walking. She looked
at herself in the mirror and decided she was decent enough to visit
some of the many churches to see the amazing range of great art on
display. On her return, she found Jérôme grumpy, so she cajoled him
onto the bed and did her best to cheer him up. Afterwards she said,
“Why don’t you come with me tomorrow afternoon? There’s so much to
see, and after a morning stuck inside, it’ll be good for you.”

Jérôme was
happy to comply, so the following afternoon they went to take the
vaporetto. As the waterbus arrived, they couldn’t help hearing a
voice from behind them, “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious. This is
Venice, babe. I made a list. We do, like, Harry’s Bar for a Bellini
first, then across to the Cipriani for cocktails. Your stupid
museums can wait until after the important things.”

Gaëlle and
Jérôme looked discreetly across at the owner of the voice.

“
She’s
pretty, but you can see how she’ll deteriorate already, can’t you?”
Gaëlle murmured.

“
Quite
easily,” Jérôme agreed. “The luscious lips that will become a
discontented pout and the big eyes that will turn
fishlike.”

“
Leaving
only the whining and the dissatisfaction. Poor fellow, I hope he
escapes in time.”

The companion
of the voice was a pleasant-looking young man, clutching a folder
with the title Treasures of Venice.

“
There’s a
load of stuff I need to see,” he protested. “Paintings, buildings,
the Arsenal…”

The voice went
on as if he hadn’t spoken. “And we have to have pizza, because,
hey, this is, like, Italy. They better have proper deep-pan, like
at home. I noticed this place on the map, the Pizza San Marco…”

Gaëlle had to
bury her face against Jérôme’s chest to hide her choked laughter,
as the young man patiently explained that what the map was showing
was the Piazza San Marco, St. Mark’s Square, rather than a pizza
restaurant. At the vaporetto stop, Gaëlle and Jérôme chose to go in
the opposite direction to the voice and her escort. In a city the
size of Venice, however, it was inevitable that they would bump
into them again.

“
Look, it’s
the oppressed Englishman,” Gaëlle said, nudging Jérôme as they came
out of the Scuola San Rocco.

“
Actually,
he’s an oppressed Irishman,” Jérôme said. “I recognise the
accent.”

The couple
sailed past on a gale of recrimination from the voice, who was
making it clear that her shopping had to take precedence over
anything anyone else might want to do. Even when Gaëlle and Jérôme
were returning to their hotel, they found they were sharing a
vaporetto with the voice and the Irishman. It came as even more of
a shock to realise that they were at the same hotel as the
couple.

“
A
nightcap?” Gaëlle suggested to Jérôme, later that evening. They
went down to the bar, ordered a beer apiece, sat down and relaxed.
They’d been there for five minutes when the Irishman arrived, alone
and looking even more harassed than before. He sat at the bar,
ordered a beer and slumped, elbows on the bar and head in
hands.

“
Would you
like to sit with us?” Jérôme called across to him. “You look as if
you can do with some company.”

The young man
smiled a weary smile and came to join them.

“
Is it so
evident?”

“
Oh yes!”
Gaëlle told him. She introduced herself and Jérôme, and learned
that the Irishman’s name was James. They chatted, taking care to
avoid the subject of the voice. James was studying the history of
art and had been awarded a bursary to see Venetian art in situ.
He’d thought it was a good opportunity to take Poppy, his new
girlfriend, to a romantic city, discovering, too late, that she was
seeing the trip as a free holiday and an opportunity for a lot of
retail therapy. Gaëlle and Jérôme let James talk, recognising that
he needed to release the tensions built up during his abortive
attempts to see some of what he was there for, rather than be
dragged round yet another outlet for imitation Murano
glassware.

It was almost
midnight when James stood. “Thanks for listening,” he said. “I’ll
sleep better for it. Good night.”

Shortly
afterwards, Gaëlle and Jérôme also headed for their own room. “He’s
lacking in self-belief, our James,” Jérôme commented as they went
up the stairs.

“
Yes, he is,
but then I don’t think he’s aware he’s a rather attractive young
man. I can do without meeting his friend Poppy tomorrow. I’m going
on an early waterbus. I bet she won’t be an early riser,” Gaëlle
said, turning off the light.

Once Jérôme was
away to his conference the following morning, Gaëlle took a shower
and thought about what to wear. She wasn’t planning on visiting any
churches, so she could afford to wear something less conservative
than the previous day. The fewer clothes the better, she decided,
in view of the weather. Eventually she opted for a pale green
tee-shirt that reached a little above mid-thigh, together with a
shawl that she tied round her waist as a skirt. She did her makeup
and set off. It was later than she’d anticipated, but she still
hoped to avoid the voice. Her heart sank when she saw them waiting
at the bus stop. James flashed a quick smile at Gaëlle, as if
afraid that Poppy might notice. By the time Gaëlle reached the
crowd at the vaporetto stop, she couldn’t avoid knowing that it was
imperative for Poppy to go to Murano, as she was sick of old
paintings. The voice, like nails on a blackboard, set Gaëlle’s
teeth on edge. She was about to move to the back of the queue and
wait for the next boat, when she felt someone tug at her arm. She
looked down and saw that the hand belonged to an elderly Italian
woman, dressed in black, who indicated that she would welcome some
help to get over the step and into the boat. Gaëlle smiled and
relaxed as she assisted the lady, unable to understand a word of
the little woman’s thick dialect. She made sure she was as far as
possible from Poppy and James for the trip to San Marco.

By one o’clock,
she was ready for some lunch, and had found a little trattoria. She
had ordered and was waiting for her food when she saw James,
wandering along and obviously unaccompanied. She waved to him.

“
All alone?”
she asked.

“
But with
some peace and quiet,” he replied. “I put Poppy on the vaporetto to
Murano, so I’ve been able to do what I’m really here for. It’s just
as well, because we leave this evening.”

Gaëlle patted
the seat beside her, for James to sit down. He refused her offer to
buy him lunch, but was happy to have a glass of wine. For the
duration of the meal, Gaëlle heard all about Poppy, how she was too
good for James, too pretty for James, too everything for James, it
appeared. The only evidence offered for this was Poppy’s conviction
that it was so. It almost spoiled Gaëlle’s appetite.

“
I’ve never
had a beautiful girlfriend before. Uninteresting men like me don’t
usually get a look-in with beautiful women,” James
concluded.

“
James,
that’s bullshit,” Gaëlle said firmly. “Any woman with a smidgeon of
taste would tell you so. You’re an attractive young man, and you’re
certainly a far more interesting person than Poppy. I think it’s a
major error for you to allow her to decide what and who you are.
You deserve better than that. Now, I’m going to the Doge’s Palace
this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

“
You’re sure
you want me?”

“
I’d love
it…if Poppy will allow you to escort an older woman, of course!”
Gaëlle added, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“
She’ll be
off doing the shops again, once she gets back from Murano,” James
said. “It’s just as well, because she’d be hopping mad to think I
was talking with another woman. Especially an attractive one like
you,” he added, colouring up slightly.

“
I’m sure
you know a lot more about the palace than I do, so to have you as a
guide will be great,” Gaëlle said, choosing to ignore the
compliment. “My visit here was arranged at very short notice and I
haven’t had time to read up on Venice.”

She thoroughly
enjoyed the visit to the palace with James as her informative and
animated guide. The pleasure continued afterwards as they wandered
through the streets, over footbridges and along canals, doing their
best to remain in the shade.

“
I’m sticky
and too hot,” Gaëlle said at last, unable to stand the heat any
longer. “Do you mind if I take this off?” she asked, indicating her
shawl-cum-skirt. James blushed.

“
Er, no, of
course not,” he said.

“
Ouf, that’s
better,” Galle said, folding the shawl and putting it in her little
backpack. The extra length of leg on show attracted a few whistles
from passing Italian men. James looked, too, although rather more
discreetly, Gaëlle noticed with pleasure. It was late afternoon
before they decided to return to the Lido and headed for a
vaporetto stop. The rush hour was in full swing, and they were
jammed like sardines into the standing area. Gaëlle smiled at
James.

“
You’re
looking much more cheerful,” she commented.

James blushed.
“I’ve really enjoyed this afternoon. You’re very kind.”

“
Nothing
kind about it. It’s to do with sharing pleasure. I’ve enjoyed
myself, too.”

At San Marco,
they got on to the waterbus for the Lido. This boat was just as
crowded. As they got on, Gaëlle heard James’ muttered expletive.
She looked down the boat and saw Poppy, sitting in the cabin area
and looking daggers at both James and Gaëlle. The boat pulled away
from the landing stage.

“
Have you
done anything wrong? Apart from enjoying yourself, that is?” Gaëlle
asked James. “Stop looking guilty, then. She doesn’t own
you.”

James looked at
Gaëlle with some sort of epiphany in his eyes.

“
You’re
right, you know,” he said. “This is the first time Poppy and I have
spent more than a few hours together and it’s not working. I’ve
been letting her dominate me. It has to stop. I’ve realised that I
don’t even like her very much. It’s over between us.”

The boat
crossed the wake left by one of the huge skyscraper cruise liners
going across the lagoon and lurched heavily. Gaëlle grabbed hold of
James’ arm to steady herself. An idea crossed her mind. She clung
on to him unnecessarily, and turned his arm so she was holding it
firmly against her body. The mass of people around them ensured
that nobody could see, as she took hold of his hand and curled his
fingers inwards, so they pressed against her sex.

James looked at
her, surprise evident on his face.

“
You look so
guilty, you may as well have something to be guilty about, now
you’re a free agent,” Gaëlle said. She moved her feet slightly
further apart, ostensibly to have better balance, but in fact
allowing James’ hand to slip more deeply between her thighs. She
bent her knees slightly, loving the extra pressure of his hand
against her. She gently raised the hem of her tee-shirt. Now his
hand was touching her knickers, which she could feel were
damp.

“
You do know
what to do, don’t you? You’ve caressed a woman before, I’m sure,”
she murmured.

James nodded,
and wiggled his fingers against Gaëlle’s sex.

“
Don’t look
down,” she said. “Just do it for me, please.”

For the
remainder of the trip, Gaëlle was treated to gentle arousal as she
became more and more turned on. James’ fingers played a tune on her
swollen labia and on her clitoris. She was able to regulate her
excitement by pressing harder or more gently against his hand.
James might have been shy, but he knew what he was doing. It
occurred to Gaëlle that Poppy hadn’t known when she was well off.
Finally, as the swell caused by their arrival at the Lido swung the
boat one last time, Gaëlle let herself come, hiding her trembling
in the movement of the mass of passengers hurrying to get home.

Gaëlle and
James became separated in the course of the disembarkation and
Gaëlle was about to step up onto the landing stage when again she
felt a tug on her arm. The little old lady of the morning was
seeking her assistance again. Gaëlle smiled and supported her as
she got off the boat.

Once off the
boat, though, the old lady didn’t let go, talking volubly. Gaëlle
looked down at her, unable to decipher the heavy accent and patois.
The old lady paused, then pointed significantly to her eyes. She
took hold of Gaëlle’s hand and gave it a sharp tap, then stroked
the skin gently. She spoke slowly. Gaëlle guessed that she didn’t
often speak standard Italian, “Ti ho visto fare. Sei una ragazza
cattiva…però anche una donna molto brava,” she said, with a wicked
smile as she turned and waddled off. Gaëlle stood for a moment,
working out the words. Then she laughed out loud.