‘After the old masters in the Accademia gallery, we pass theCollezione Guggenheim, where they hold the American heiress’s famous modern-art collection.’ Lucia continued her commentary, oblivious to the tension Natalie felt so strongly. It was hard to believe the rest of the passengers were able to talk or fiddle with their phones as if today were like any other.
‘We are here.’ Lucia consulted her smartwatch as the vaporetto nosed towards the landing stage. ‘Perfect. We will arrive exactly when Simona is expecting us.’
Cate pulled her ponytail out of its half-moon clip. Natalie stood up, ready to disembark. She had a job to do. And she was determined to do it professionally.
Cate walked beside her, up thecallethat led to Simona Rinaldi’s shop, shoulder bag clamped to her side, dark glasses obscuring half her face. It was impossible to know just what she was thinking.
14
VENICE, TWENTY-FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Miss Morrison led the way, striding across the Accademia Bridge in her sensible, lace-up shoes.
‘Look over there, girls. That’s the church of Santa Maria della Salute!’
‘It’s really beautiful,’ Natalie piped up, aware that no one else was paying attention to her favourite teacher’s enthusiastic pronouncements. Every head had swung round to gawp at the group of boys behind them.
Even at this distance, Natalie could tell these boys were a different breed from the slouching, mumbling pupils at the boys’ school round the corner from St Margaret’s. These fine specimens swaggered, chins up, across the wooden bridge as if the iconic views on either side were something they’d seen a hundred times before. At their head marched a golden-haired youth, as handsome as any statue they’d seen in the Doge’s Palace.
‘Keep moving, no loitering on the bridge.’ Mrs Nickson glowered.
Several of the girls began giggling. Natalie’s best friend Cathy yanked at her lank fringe, desperately trying to obscure her pimple-strewn forehead. Julie Paine arranged her features into an expression of casual disdain. As the blond boy drew nearer, she accidentally on purpose let a packet of chewing gum fall from her fake Burberry handbag like the heroine of a period drama dropping a handkerchief at the feet of an eligible squire. Mrs Nickson gave her a look that would dry up the Grand Canal.
The boy picked up the gum and handed it back, letting his fingers brush against Julie’s. The other boys sniggered, striking confident poses, all except two, who hung back awkwardly. One fiddled with the edge of his shirt; the other stared down at his super-cool trainers with bright-yellow laces.
‘Come on, girls!’ Miss Morrison said gamely, trying vainly to separate the two school groups, now merged on the bridge, blocking anyone else’s chances of coming or going.
‘Stop messing around, Upper Fifth!’ a man’s voice commanded. The boys sprang to attention. ‘Ladies first,’ he added, poking one of the boys in the back to allow Mrs Nickson and Miss Morrison a clear passage. Natalie’s school party moved on towards the Accademia.
They’d only got as far as the first of the display rooms before the two school parties crossed paths again. Natalie tried to concentrate on what Miss Morrison was saying despite the nudging and giggling. Close up, the boys were far less interesting than the three-dimensional faces carved into the gallery’s coiffured ceiling.
Julie Paine burst into snippets of songs from Madonna’s newRay of Lightalbum whenever they passed another depiction of the Holy Mother. Cathy laughed loudly even though it had only been funny the first time. Natalie peered at the white labels by each painting as they moved from room to room: Titian, Veronese, Carpaccio. She hung back as her classmates moved on, fixing her gaze on an oil painting of Mary in a blue robe and faded-red dress flanked by two serious-looking young women. Her classmates’ voices drifted away.
She felt someone come up behind her. She turned, expecting to see Cathy, imagining her best friend, bored of Julie’s japes, would have come back to find her, but it was one of the schoolboys. The one with the fancy trainers.
‘Oh, you gave me a fright.’
He took two steps back.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled to the floor. ‘I just… just wanted to… you know, get away from the others, look at these paintings properly.’ His voice was friendly; he didn’t speak with a posh, Prince-William accent like most of his classmates did.
She moved aside to let him read the label.
Madonna with the Child between Saints Catherine and Mary Magdalene
‘Yeah, Giovanni Bellini, I thought it was.’
‘How did you guess?’
‘I just like art: the old stuff anyway.’ He shrugged.
‘Same here.’
‘What do you like about this one?’
‘The fabric of their clothes. How do they make it look so real?’
‘Dunno… the brush strokes?’ He lapsed into silence.
