there for us, until we went back to college, when it folded itself back up and was packed away.
I smile fondly at my foolish arrogance. In my teenage mind I was the first person to discover Venice, and Nate and I were the only two people to have ever fallen in love in among its canals, intertwined piazzas and maze of backstreets. No one had ever, and could ever, feel like us.
How wrong I was, I realise, walking across the square. Venice has a life of its own, a sense of history that overshadows anything that Nate and I created, a magic that draws lovers to it, I muse, watching the dozens of couples strolling by, hand in hand, no doubt feeling exactly the same way Nate and I once did. Like the only two people in the whole world. That’s the magic of Venice – it makes everyone feel special.
Turning another corner, I head into the labyrinth of alleyways. This is the first time I’ve been back in ten years, and although I’ve changed, the city hasn’t. I start wandering in no particular direction, enjoying the sensation of rediscovering the maze of canals, shadowy piazzas and sounds and smells that are Venice.
I’ve been so focused on Nate, on getting him here, on getting both of us here, that I’ve never stopped to think about actually being back here. In my head it was simply the scene of the crime, the baddy, the cause of this whole mess, but now I can’t help falling in love all over again.
Only this time it’s not with Nate; it’s with Venice itself, I muse, glancing up at yet another beautiful building. I don’t know the name of it, but a whole bunch of paparazzi are crowded outside. It’s the film festival and everywhere the banners are flying, posters are advertising films, tourists have their cameras at the ready, hoping to spot a movie star. Apparently Penélope Cruz was spotted earlier on the Rialto Bridge, and the man checking us in at the hotel swore blind Tom and K”line the cnd atie were staying in room twelve.
Though somehow I doubt it. All the celebrities are staying at the magnificent Gritti Palace. We passed it earlier, coming from the airport on the Vaporetto, and there was a big stretch of red carpet running all the way up from the jetty to the terrace bar right on the canal. There was tons of activity, dozens of black-and-white uniformed waiters, like an army of penguins, flitting around getting everything ready for the big film première party that’s happening tonight. Though I haven’t a clue which film it’s for.
Adam would know, pipes up a voice in my head.
I feel a familiar lurch in my stomach. I’ve been trying not to think about him, but now his face pops into my consciousness and my mind spools back to that first time I saw him on the street, with a camera and a furry microphone. To the time in the MoMA, talking animatedly about his love of films. To the night we met in the art-house cinema and how excited he was to be sharing his favourite movie with me. He’d love it here, I reflect, glancing around, feeling the buzz of the festival.
For a split second I think about calling him, telling him where I am.
But of course there’s no point, is there? I doubt he’d even pick up the phone. Even if he did, how would I explain what I’m doing here? Oh, hi, I’m here at the Venice Film Festival with Nate, trying to break an ancient legend. Wish you were here!
Yeah, right, Lucy. Great move.
I keep walking. Sadness aches and I try cajoling myself. Perhaps once this is all over we could start where we left off . . . but I know that’s not going to happen. He’ll never trust me again, and why should he? Anyway, let’s face it, it was over before it had even begun. What was it? A couple of kisses, two dates, that’s it. He’ll move on, so will I. It’s no big deal.
Only it felt like a big deal. It wasn’t just about a couple of dates; it was about more than that. It was about listening to him talking and thinking he reminded me of someone and realising it was me. It was the feeling I got when he walked into the police station that night and I discovered there was no one I’d rather see than him.