When I wake up, it’s with a start. And I realise it’s morning, and the bed’s empty. It’s my birthday, and I’m in Venice, and I’m completely alone. It’s not exactly what I’d been thinking of when James said we were having a weekend in a lovely hotel. I roll over, lifting the duvet just in case he’s hidden underneath.
Shit.
‘James?’
Silence.
I look in the bathroom and there’s a hotel branded Post-it Note on the mirror.
Gone for a wander. Thought I’d let you sleep. J x
I think about breakfast in bed or a lazy brunch in a café, and sigh as I switch on the little hotel kettle and make myself a cup of instant coffee. It’ll have to do for now. When I look on the desk, James being James, he’s left a fold-out travel map on the dressing table, and a note of where he’s planning to be. He’d give Sophie a run for her money in the organisation stakes. I shake my head, laughing at how similar they are, and head for the shower.
Even on a grey October Sunday afternoon, the Piazza san Marco is heaving with tourists – and pigeons.
I drop a piece of the pastry I’m eating on the run on the ground.
‘Shoo,’ says James, as one hops up beside him when we stop to look at a carving on the wall.
I look at the pigeon and I swear it winks at me. It takes the piece of pastry and hops off, looking pleased with itself. I shiver, and pull the collar of my coat more tightly around my neck. I don’t know why I’d expected it to be warm, but I’ve brought nothing but unsuitable clothes. The drizzle is relentless, and James’s desire to inspect every building and tell me historic facts is … well, it leaves something to be desired. They do say you don’t really get to know someone until you go away on holiday with them, and so far I’ve established that James is a lot more interested in Venetian architecture than I am.
I look longingly at a café with roaring patio heaters glowing in the doorway, and squeeze his hand.
‘D’you think maybe it’s time for a drink?’
Thankfully, he agrees, and as soon as we approach, the waiter takes my coat and pulls out my chair. We’re in a covered dining area, and the plastic roof is rattling in the wind. A long stream of rainwater pours from the corner, splattering into a puddle, which is starting to seep underneath and spread below the chairs opposite us. It feels as if we’re living underwater. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so damp in my life.
‘Negroni?’ James looks at me, his eyebrows questioning. I nod. He’s been in a weird mood all afternoon. There’s something about going away with someone – away from all the distractions of everyday life, from friends, and familiar places around you – that really underlines how your relationship is faring.
Or … isn’t?
After I got up yesterday, and once I’d managed to get lost twice trying to find my way to the restaurant where we’d agreed to have lunch (Google Maps and I are officially on non-speaking terms again), we did the gondola trip that everyone has to do when they visit Venice. James told the gondolier it was my birthday, and he insisted on serenading me, which was – well, I think James thought it was romantic. If I’m truthful it was just mortifying. It finally stopped raining in the afternoon for an hour or two, and we went to a café and I sat, feeling awkward and self-conscious, trying to make conversation.
Somehow that pissed him off, and he was offhand and a bit moody for a while afterwards, as we squelched our way around sodden pavements, stopping for coffee again to try and dry off. The rain started about twelve hours after we arrived, and it hadn’t stopped. We’d gone to bed after dinner, and I’d fallen asleep in James’s arms and thought that actually it was rather nice. Then we’d woken up this morning, and I’d found him sitting, guidebook in hand, writing a list of places we could go. I made a joke about no more architecture spotting, and he’d been a tiny bit huffy about it.
‘Cheers,’ says James now, lifting his glass to mine. He looks at me with his big, soulful eyes, and seems to relax a little bit.
‘Thanks so much for bringing me,’ I say, taking a gulp of negroni. God, it’s strong. He watches me, smiling fondly. An elderly couple sit down at the table across from us.
‘I brought her here fifty years ago,’ the man says, leaning over and smiling. ‘We’ve come back for our anniversary weekend.’
James’s eyes meet mine briefly and I am hit by a sudden panic.
‘Just nipping to the loo,’ I say.
‘What if they come back to order?’ James asks.
‘Oh,’ I say, clambering out of the chair and knocking over a candle holder at the table behind me, ‘just tell them to hang on. Or get a pizza, or something.’
‘What kind of pizza?’ James calls after me, but I’ve slipped through the plastic door and I’m standing in the Piazza San Marco, looking at tourists and Venetian people dashing, coats over their heads, trying to get out of the rain, which is landing in huge splashy drops on my head, covering my shoulders, dripping down my nose.
‘Are you lost, bella?’ The waiter appears, holding an umbrella over me. My reputation precedes me.
‘Just looking for the loo. I mean the bathroom. Toilet?’
‘Ah.’ He beckons for me to follow him. ‘This way.’
Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my mascara-smudged face. My hair has gone flop in the rain and is hanging in tragic limp strands. My heart is thumping because I have this terrible lingering sense of horror that something’s going to happen. I put a hand to each cheek and hold them there, gazing at my own reflection. The feeling of trepidation doesn’t go away.
What if James has brought me to Venice to propose?
I realise with absolute, incontrovertible certainty that I can’t say yes. Not just because I’ve known him for about five minutes, but because he brings all his travel documents in a see-through plastic folder. And because he gets up the morning we arrive and goes for a walk instead of staying under the covers like any sane, normal person. And because he’s – oh, God. Just because he’s him. I love Sophie to death, but he’s like the male version of her. And there is no way I could ever live with her. I think Rich needs a bloody medal.
I wash my face, wiping away the smudges of mascara with a paper towel, and run my fingers through my hair. And then I square my shoulders, brace myself, and return to the Piazza, where James is sitting, waiting quite patiently, for my return. He’s reading a guidebook. Obviously.
The waiter reappears and takes our order. I can’t think what I want, because there are so many things on offer that my brain’s on shutdown. Plus my heart is thumping with anticipation, and not in a good way. I choose a small margherita pizza, because it seems the simplest thing to go for.
James leans in, lowering his voice. I sit back slightly, curling my fingers into my palms. It’s not him, I say to myself, it’s me. He’s lovely. I’m just … I don’t know what I am.
‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ he begins. I pick up a napkin and shake it out, taking it by the corners and folding it into neat squares.
‘I wondered – I mean, the thing is – you said your lease is coming up soon. And I know you like living there, and Becky’s your friend, and everything, but—’ it feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath, waiting for him to carry on talking ‘—I’ve seen a really nice flat, and I wondered if you’d like to move in with me.’
There’s a second where I exhale, and I feel so dizzy that it’s as if I’m a balloon that’s just been untied, and I can see myself whizzing round in circles, high above the Piazza San Marco, all the air flying out of me until I collapse back down, completely deflated, in my chair. Sitting opposite James – charming, nice, Golden Retriever James, with his big chocolate button eyes and his helpful, kindly nature, and his broad dependable shoulders and his good job. I look at him, and feel my shoulders sag with relief and guilt and a million other things I can’t put a name on.
‘I can’t,’ I say eventually.
‘What do you mean, you can’t? Have you signed another lease?’ He looks at me, and I feel like I just kicked a puppy. But it’s really just hit me. I’m thirty, and life is happening all around me. And I can’t spend any more of it doing what looks like the right thing just to keep some imaginary observer happy. I’ve only got one life and I want to start living it, now.
‘No,’ I say, and I feel a bit sad, but not so sad I’d spend the rest of my life with someone who is nice enough, but not enough. ‘I just … can’t.’
The journey home is pretty hideous. James sits beside me, drinking gin and tonic and studiously reading the in-flight magazine and not saying much. I try to make things better by making stupid, pointless observations, and being extra lovely to the cabin crew, as if somehow that’ll make up for the fact that I’ve just dumped James in the most romantic city in the world because I want …
What is it that I want?
We fly over London, the lights illuminating the darkness like a million tiny sparkles, and when we pass through passport control James turns to me, shouldering his bag, and says stiffly, ‘I think maybe we could leave it from here?’
And I nod.
He strides off, his long legs eating up the floor of the airport, and I make my way back towards the station, and the tube, and home to Albany Road.
My phone buzzes with notifications as I get off the tube and the Wi-Fi connects. A million messages from work friends and Sophie and Gen, asking if I’ve had a gorgeous time, updating me on what’s been going on, telling me they can’t wait to hear all about it.
And there’s a message from Becky, sent to the house group chat, calling for a team meeting.
When I walk into Albany Road there’s a really weird, hushed atmosphere. Everyone – apart from Rob, who’s (predictably) working – is sitting round the kitchen table, drinking coffee or tea. They look up at me expectantly.
‘Nice time?’ Alex says, first.
‘Venice was gorgeous,’ I say, truthfully. ‘Lots and lots of water.’ Also truthful.
‘Loved your photos,’ says Becky. ‘Looks like you had the most amazing time.’
‘It’s so romantic,’ Emma sighs. She glances across at Alex, and I can’t read her expression. I want to tell them that what they see on Instagram isn’t necessarily representative of my real life, and remind them that the main reason I share the photos isn’t to try and become Instafamous or to get free stuff. It’s because it’s an easy way of sending a little pictorial hello to Nanna Beth and my friends from wherever I am, whatever time of day it is. And I suppose there’s a bit of me that’s felt like I had a point to prove – after all, I walked away from my life in Bournemouth and moved to London to have the dream career and the amazing house in Notting Hill, and all of that.
‘Right. We’re here for an extraordinary meeting,’ Becky says, steepling her fingers and clearing her throat, ‘because one of us is leaving the fold.’
I look at everyone. Before I have time to start trying to size up who it is, Becky laughs, and carries on.
‘Alex is leaving to share a place with some of his friends from the nursing course, so we need to put our heads together and see if we can find someone to replace him.’
‘Shouldn’t be too hard,’ Alex says, laughing and looking a bit uncomfortable. I try to catch his eye, but he looks down at the table.
‘Have you got a place yet?’ Emma says.
‘Not quite,’ says Alex. ‘Got a couple of places to look at though.’
‘I might know someone,’ Emma says. ‘She’s a friend from work.’
‘Do I know her?’ Becky asks, looking interested.
I watch Alex, who is drinking his tea and looking out of the window. It’s as if he’s distancing himself already. I can’t help wondering with a sinking feeling if he’s moving out so he can make it easier for him and Emma to actually get together. Once again, I’ve gone away and come back to find that Alex has slipped through my fingers. Or the idea of him, anyway. I have to remind myself that all of this has been in my own bloody head. I need to get over myself and stop believing my life is going to turn out like a romantic movie.
It turns out Becky vaguely knows the girl through another friend at work, so it looks like the deal might already be done.
I stand up, faking a yawn. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, picking up my bag. ‘I’m so tired, and I’ve got work in the morning. After a week and a half off, God knows what I’ve got waiting for me.’
I walk out of the room without looking back.