Urban Venus (18 page)

‘
Lydia, I’m sorry,’ Stefano says, finally apologising as he pulls on my arm and tries to turn me towards him. I stand resolute in the queue, still giving him the cold shoulder and turning my back on him as I place my order with the barista. But I’m no good at keeping up a temper and soften just a little as I glance behind me, catch his eye and clock his crestfallen expression. ‘I was worried about you and these dreams, that’s all. I wanted to come over here and see you, make sure you were OK, take you for coffee……. Tell you what a lovely Christmas night I had…..’ This last sentence he whispers in my ear, scooping my hair from the nape of my neck and placing the most fleeting of kisses there as he tries to make me recall the night we had just spent together.

How could I forget; it had been gorgeous. We’d rolled drunkenly into bed some time around two in the morning
–
again
–
and made soft and gentle love for what seemed like hours. Then whilst we lay there entwined he had told me he loved me. It wasn’t just drunken ramblings or the effect of the endorphins from our love-making; he’d said it with the utmost sincerity. The trouble was, I didn’t, or couldn’t at that particular moment, say it back to him. But he was very sweet and didn’t push me to return the endearment; he just looked me in the eye and said simply, ‘Soon?’

I suppose I
do
love him in my own little way, but I don’t know what it is, maybe after Ed I’m just not ready to proclaim this as a serious relationship just yet. Maybe I still nurture that fear of trusting someone too much and then being hurt again.

Stefano is a good man, and I know I’d feel pretty silly if things had been the other way round last night. I realise I have to tread carefully here, so I decide to stop my sulking, forgive Stefano for disturbing me, and get on and enjoy the rest of the day. Finally I turn round to face him, give him a huge smile which melts his worried frown, his eyes lighting up once more, and plant a massive kiss on his lips. The barista coughs politely as she tries to draw my attention back to the two coffees steaming on the counter, and the fact that they are as yet unpaid-for. I prize myself off him and do what I need to do.

‘
I’m sorry Stefano,’ I say as we park ourselves at a table by the window in today’s near-deserted café. ‘I suppose I overreacted, but it was all a bit of a shock being woken up so suddenly. I felt like I was abandoning Maria and I was worried I might not be able to get back to her again. You understand that, don’t you?’

Stefano nods and enquires: ‘So what was today’s instalment?’ As I talk him through the
Carnevale
and all its glory I realise that I have remembered quite a lot of the dream, despite being snatched back to the current day so quickly. I’m glad at least that my time spent snoozing wasn’t lost, even if it would have been nice to stay in the sixteenth century just a little longer.

I can still recall so vividly the sheer splendour of that
Carnevale;
all I’ve seen before now are pictures of it from recent years. I can’t help thinking that in its basic format it probably hasn’t changed too much over the centuries; it’s one of these major historical happenings which have weathered the passing of time.

Venice is somewhere I’ve never been to even on an ordinary day, and my experience in that dream is enough to make me realise that the tourist brochures don’t do justice to the splendour of it all. And I don’t mean just to the
Carnevale
in all its colour and glory, but to the fabric of Venice itself, all those unbelievably beautiful buildings, rising up from the lagoon as though dropped into the blue waters by the hand of God. And I have been fortunate enough to vicariously experience Venice in its prime through Maria, not visit it in its twenty-first century state as it crumbles into the waters, shrouded in graffiti and shored up with vast buttresses. How privileged I am to have witnessed so much that in theory no one of our day should ever have seen.

‘
So, what next?’ I ask Stefano, once we’re back on solid ground and he knows he has been fully forgiven. For a split second he looks confused, presumably thinking I am referring to the next development in our relationship, not our plans for the rest of the day.

‘
How about a bit more culture? Shops are shut, so that’s a no-go, or there’s always back to your place…..plenty to do there….’ he proposes, with more than a little twinkle in his eye, his eyebrows whizzing up and down suggestively.

‘
Culture first, I think,’ I reply. ‘Give a girl a chance to recover, won’t you?’ I joke, although actually I can’t think of anything nicer than holing up with him in my room for the rest of the day, only emerging for refreshments. But I know the others will all be there, so it wouldn’t afford us a huge amount of privacy, and I would actually like to stay out and about for a bit longer first. It’s my place or nothing for later though, as Stefano flat-shares with three other lads, so the chances of finding his house empty are even less likely; in fact it’s just not worth even bothering to try.

We leave the gallery hand in hand, back out into the winter sunshine, and although there is a decidedly more of a nip in the air now, I am as warm as toast, safe in the knowledge that I have a man who adores me and would do anything for me. As I gaze up at him I know there is something I want to say to him.

‘
I love you too,’ I reply finally. It’s several hours late, but actually now I think I mean it.

Sixteen

‘
So how many are coming?’ I ask Sophia. She and Leonora have decided we need a New Year’s Eve party. Our apartment is probably the largest out of all the friends’, and the most central, so, with one day to go, bravely we decide to go ahead with it, contacting everyone via the networking sites we all use, and texting those we know are still out of town to see if they can get back in time to join us. Thank heavens for technology
–
within half an hour it’s confirmed that we have enough would-be partygoers to make it worth the effort.

‘
Last count, forty-two,’ Sophia replies. ‘Plus us lot, of course. More than enough to make a party, and there are bound to be loads more that just show up. Everyone is going to bring food and booze
–
we said we were happy to provide the venue if they could do that, so there you go, looks like we are having a party!’

Leonora, who has been head-down, quietly doing the sums, suddenly shrieks: ‘Let’s make it fancy dress, a masked party! Like the Venetians, all those mysterious masks and painted faces! Everyone can get their hands on a mask, can’t they, it’s not like they need to get a whole costume or anything? I’ll send another message round again now
–
No Mask, No Admittance!’ She’s off on a roll now, in full-on party-planner mode. She is doing so well, she has really come through this miscarriage episode brilliantly, and having a project like this to focus on is perfect for someone who, when in good health, is the world’s biggest party animal.

It’s weird seeing all these people in their masks, right here in our flat, so soon after dreaming about the
Carnevale.
I almost feel as though the dream has come to revisit me in my twenty-first century life. Of course not everyone has a fabulous glass (or even fake plastic) Venetian mask to hand which they can produce in time for a party with just a day’s notice, but there are a fair few nonetheless, dragged out from the backs of cupboards, or brought back from the family home in time to wear tonight.

Some people are wearing those little half-face black eye masks – my Gran used to wear something similar when she had her daytime naps
–
only with holes for their eyes, obviously, but most have gone in for the full-face version, so it is actually quite difficult to work out who’s who. And I don’t know all of them, which adds to the air of mystery and general excitement for me.

The party is just about in full swing when Leonora emerges from her room, quite unintentionally making a very dramatic entrance. She was so busy getting everything ready earlier that she simply didn’t have time to change, instead disappearing into her room as soon as the first guests arrived, to make her transformation.

Wow, I cannot imagine where she pulled a costume like that from at such short notice. As she stands in the doorway to her bedroom, back-lit in a golden ball-gown of epic proportions, I do a double-take as I realise how similar she looks to Maria in my
Carnevale
dream. I’m glad no one can see my face under my own mask as I’m sure I must have turned bright white. Her long, dark hair has vanished, swept up into the twisted organza back of the golden mask, and her face is completely hidden behind the gold-painted façade of the frontispiece. I only know for sure that it’s her from her body language and the fact that I recognise the shoes she’s wearing.

I wander over to her to compliment her on her costume. ‘No wonder you wanted to have a masked party,’ I joke, trying to calm myself down after the shock of seeing her. ‘If I had a costume like that stashed away I might have come up with that idea too!’

‘
I went to the
Carnevale
with my parents a couple of years ago, and for some reason the dress ended up here, in a box at the back of my wardrobe,’ she explains. ‘Truthfully I’d forgotten about it
–
I knew I had the mask here but finding the dress was an added bonus.’

‘
You look fabulous,’ I say. ‘Amazing.’ I still feel a bit like I’ve been transported back five centuries, and also wish just a little bit that I had a costume like that to wear too, instead of just a cheap mask from a costume shop. But the jeans and casual clothes sported by the bottom halves of most of the other partygoers prove that she’s in a minority, dressed like she is; it’s just a bizarre coincidence that she chose this theme and looks so like Maria. I’m not caught up in some kind of strange cross-century conspiracy after all.

Stefano hasn’t arrived yet and I’m starting to wonder where he has got to; I need him here to get me into the party spirit. I’ve never been a great one for New Year’s parties. I can appreciate that they are the perfect distraction from either the fact that another year is over, during which time we may or may not have achieved what we set out to do
–
with all the resulting emotions stemming from that
–
and a new one, full of hopes and dreams and as yet unfulfilled ambitions, is about to begin. But for me the festive season has always been about Christmas and nothing else, so New Year might just as well be any other day. I’m glad we
are
having a party, but if the girls hadn’t suggested it first, then I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to propose it. As New Year’s parties go though, it looks like it has all the promise of being a good one, as the atmosphere is buzzing already
–
but I need my man in tow before I can really start to enjoy myself.

Over in a corner of the room, one of the guests has taken control of the iPod, and the music has increased both in volume and liveliness. We’ve borrowed Lanzo’s docking station for the night
–
he has one of those enormous testosterone-fuelled ones with boomers and bashers and woofers and tweeters and whatever other blokey technical terms might be needed to produce an industrial strength sound for a residential party. We’ve invited our neighbours from upstairs, downstairs and side-ways, and I think they are all here already, so hopefully we have covered our backs and no one will feel the need to put in a complaint about the noise pollution levels on
Via de Ginori
.

Finally Stefano arrives, looking gorgeous in his trademark tight black jeans. I would recognise that bottom anywhere, which is just as well as his face is completely hidden by a black, slightly scary mask, changing his appearance quite dramatically from the lovely, kind and smiley man I know into something from one of those teen-horror novels. I make my way across the room to him and pinch him hard on the bum.

‘
Owww, you! Hello gorgeous!’ he shrieks, squeezing me affectionately around the waist, seeing as he can’t get near my face to kiss me. I think both our masks might be coming off later
–
I can’t survive a whole party without kissing him.

‘
You look scary,’ I say, and he growls at me in full teen-horror spirit.

‘
You look gorgeous,’ he replies, slightly muffled under that monstrous mask. ‘Or at least I have to assume you do. Can’t see your lovely face, can I? But you look gorgeous from the neck down so I have to assume the rest is up to the usual standard!’

‘
Cheeky!’ I say. ‘Actually I’ve got no makeup on, I’ve got a massive spot on the end of my nose and my eyebrows need plucking – joke!’

‘
Well I might just have to drag you off to your room later to check,’ he says. ‘Actually, no one’s looking, let’s go now.’ He casts a conspiratorial eye around the room before leading me by the elbow in the direction of my boudoir.

‘
Stefano, you are incorrigible,’ I protest, very lamely, as I am more than happy to be dragged off to my room for a while and don’t feel in the slightest like a party pooper; the night is yet young, with all these masks no one will notice we’re gone, and we will be back soon. Better lock the door though…

Several hours in, the music is more subdued in deference to the lateness (or earliness) of the hour, the old year has been well and truly sent on its way, and the new one welcomed in, toasted and drunk to profusely. The pace has slowed significantly when a pair of new arrivals comes through the door. No masks for these two, and given the hour we will let them off, as they’ve clearly been elsewhere first, our party obviously not at the top of their agenda for the evening. Probably half-way down a list of several, given the time they’ve arrived here…