Lucy Gordon - Wedding in Venice

She awoke to find him watching her and had a sudden conviction that he'd been doing that all the time.

"Now tell me about yourself," he said. "I want to know everything."

Held in the safety of Riccardo's arms, Justine struggled with memories that usually she tried never to think of.

"Until I was eight years old I thought I had a happy home. I knew my parents loved each other more than they loved me, but there was love to spare for everyone, or so I thought." Justine let out a sigh. It was difficult for her to talk about this.

"My mother used to say that being in love was the most important thing in the world, and nothing mattered more than being true to your heart.

"But then she fell in love with another man, and he became the most important thing in the world – enough for her to leave us to be with him."

Justine gave a little wry smile. "She had to be true to her heart, you see. Well, she was. She made a fine romantic heroine, giving up everything for love. But one of the things she gave up was me."

Riccardo was watching her with shocked intensity. "She didn't take you with her?"

"But how could she?" Justine asked in a rallying voice. "Romantic heroines can't have eight-year-old kids in tow."

He gave her hand the smallest squeeze, as if to show that he understood her irony.

"So you stayed with your father?" he asked.

"For a while. Then he dumped me on one of his sisters while he went out on the town. He didn't want me cramping his style, either. In due course he fell in love again.

"They sent me to boarding school for a while. Then there was some mix-up about who was supposed to be collecting me for Christmas. In the end, neither of them did. I spent Christmas in the care of the Social Services."

Riccardo swore violently. Justine didn't understand the words, but from his tone she guessed it was a profanity. She felt vaguely comforted at the fierceness of his empathy.

"I never lived with either of my parents again," she went on. "Neither of their new marriages lasted. My mother is currently being true to her heart in South America with a man ten years younger. We don't keep in touch."

"So that's why your views are jaded," Riccardo said. "And who could blame you?"

"As far as I'm concerned love is just an excuse for selfishness."

"In selfish people, yes. But love doesn't make us what we are. It merely reveals the truth about us. Selfish people love selfishly, generous people love generously. Your parents were spoiled brats, but don't blame love. It didn't make them that way."

"It gave them the excuse," she said stubbornly.

"But you were married. Didn't you love him?"

"So much that it scared me."

"Ah. I see."

"Don't say that. You don't see anything. I wanted our marriage to work, but – I can't explain -"

She could never explain the fear that had pervaded her. Too much happiness, she had thought. One day it would be snatched away. Watch for that moment, be ready for it, go to meet it with a smile, and don't let anyone know you care. Never, never let them know that.

No, she couldn't put these things into words.

But then, looking at Riccardo's face, she knew she didn't have to. He understood everything. He'd seen into her soul with eyes of love and seen the turmoil of rage, bitterness and misery that was insidiously driving out everything else, until the best had all gone.

"He wanted a child," she said abruptly. "I didn't. Not then, anyway. Who am I to be a parent? So we started to quarrel. One day – one day, I realized that the quarrels were destroying us."

"So you quarreled harder, to drive him away," Riccardo said. "You reckoned that would be less painful than waiting for the breakup to occur naturally."

She stared. "How did you know that?"

"It's not magic. Attack sometimes seems the best form of defense. But it leaves you with nothing."

"I can cope with nothing," she said desperately. "It's what I'm used to. What I can't take is believing in something and then learning all over again that it's an illusion."

"I know," he said gently, tightening his arms and drawing her against him.

In the comfort of his embrace it was easy to fall asleep again. When she awoke it was night, and they were speeding back across the lagoon.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, coming to stand beside him at the wheel.

"Home," he said.

She didn't ask where he meant. A few minutes later they had stopped in the small canal that ran by the hotel, and were climbing up to the stars.

The dawn came softly and quickly, ushered in by the bell of St Mark's campanile. Justine stood on the balcony on top of Riccardo's apartment, and marveled at the beauty of the morning.

She had spent the night in his arms, not making love, but enclosed in safety. Instinctively he had known what she needed, and had given it to her. A generous man, loving generously.

He came up through the trapdoor, bearing a cup of hot tea.

"You're a magician," she said. "I'm just ready to murder for a cup of tea."

She sipped blissfully, looking around her and down into the narrow alleys. Then she stiffened.

"What's that? It looks like water in the streets."

"It is," Riccardo sighed. "It's high tide and the lagoon has flooded. It used to only happen in winter. Now it can be at any time."

The photographer in her spoke at once. "I must get my camera."

He grinned ruefully. "How did I know you were going to say that? Come on, I'll take you home."

Outside she found the whole aspect of Venice transformed. Wherever she looked the narrow streets seemed to be lakes, and although the water was only four inches deep the effect was still staggering.

Running like children, hand in hand, they splashed their way back to the palazzo and secured all her equipment.

"First we go to St. Mark's Square," he said. "It's an astonishing sight when this happens, and it won't last long because the tide will turn."

It was like that all day. He acted as her caddy and her advisor, telling her where to find the best shots.

"I love this city," she said as they finally sat together at Florian's, drinking chocolate.

He was clever enough to say nothing, letting her work out the implications for herself.

When they came out, the water had gone, and they strolled contentedly back to the hotel. While he saw to some business in the hotel she went up to the apartment and took a shower.

He arrived upstairs later to find her swathed in one of his towel dressing gowns, drinking tea. He held out his hand and led her to bed.

His loving was like himself, generous, skillful, unpredictable. Relaxed at last, Justine responded wholeheartedly, and discovered that she too was unpredictable. It was like finding that you'd turned into a new person.

Dozing in his arms afterward she found her mind traveling along new paths of discovery. Much of her business involved traveling abroad. She could run it as well from Venice as from England.

She woke to find him planting soft kisses on her face.

"Stay with me always," he begged.

It would be so easy to say yes, to believe in the bright dream. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him. Now the last leap seemed not only possible but easy, inevitable.

But before she could speak her cell phone shrilled.

"Answer it," he said. "There's time enough for what we have to say to each other."

It was Dulcie, calling from her honeymoon hideout.

"Blissful," she said in answer to Justine's question. "I can recommend marriage."

Justine laughed. "That's very interesting."

"But something sad has happened. Harriet has left Marco."

"What? But they were setting the date," Justine protested.

"I know. Now it's all over."

When the call ended Justine slowly replaced the receiver, feeling stunned.

"What has happened?" Riccardo asked, with foreboding.

"Harriet and Marco have broken up. Two days after it was going to last forever."

In a daze she saw the bright dream disintegrate and fall with tinkling shivers around her feet. So much for love eternal! What had she been thinking of to believe in such stuff?

She began to laugh, falling back on the bed, contorted with mirth.

"Is it funny?" Riccardo asked.

"Of course it is, don't you see? Oh, what an idiot I've been!"

"Justine, this has nothing to do with us."

"The hell it hasn't! It has to do with everyone who buys into that pretty fantasy. And I came so close – but not anymore. I got confused, but I've seen the light now, and I'm going home before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have. Don't try to stop me Riccardo."

She waited for him to argue, but there was only silence. It seemed he had accepted her decision and, illogically, she knew a little ache of desolation. If he would only speak a word to dissuade her -

"I'll take you home," he said.

Justine's flight was at noon the next day. At ten, while she was finishing packing, Liza looked into her room to say, "The boat is here for you."

The old woman bid her an affectionate goodbye, not hiding her disappointment that Justine was leaving Riccardo. The count also embraced her exuberantly, and escorted her out to the landing stage, where his staff had already piled Justine's bags into the motorboat.

She gave them both a last kiss and, turning, put out her hand for the boatman to help her aboard.

"Buon giorno!" Riccardo said.

"You?"

She felt a flash of dismay. They'd said their goodbyes last night, devastated and defeated on her side, quiet and strangely resigned on his. Why couldn't he leave it there?