‘Why now, suddenly?’ Zac asked, frowning.
‘Because I realized when I brought you out of Afghanistan that I was gonna end up like you in the not too distant future. I’m quitting before I become a basket case. Or get myself killed.’
Zac was silent, just nodded.
I said, ‘Once you feel that way you’ve got to leave. As I did.’
I had the feeling Zac was a little startled by Geoff’s words, and mine, but he did not show it. After a moment he turned to Geoff. ‘But what will you cover, if you’re not a war photographer? That’s what you’ve done all your life.’
‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ Geoff answered. ‘Right now, I’m planning to go to California to see my daughter, get a bit of R and R. I’m not making any special plans, it’s too soon. I wanna take it easy for a while.’
Zac’s expression was thoughtful.
I said, ‘You might want to create some sort of photographic series, Geoff. Harry suggested I should do that, since I do want to continue being a photographer. World famine was a subject I was considering.’
Zac glanced at me swiftly, and said very pointedly, ‘I thought you were writing a book about Tommy’s life.’
‘I am. Harry was just thinking ahead, looking for something I could do when I’ve finished the book.’
‘Don’t you want to run Global Images with Harry? After all, you own half of it now,’ Zac remarked.
‘I’ve no interest in doing that. Florence has been in charge since the beginning, and personally I think she should remain in charge. I’d only be a spare wheel. Besides, I don’t want that kind of job. Can you see me stuck in an office?’
‘No, I can’t,’ Zac exclaimed, and then laughed for the first time since I’d arrived in Venice.
Geoff and I began to laugh with him, and we toasted each other with the pink champagne, which the waiter had just brought to the table. And then a moment later, Zac startled us when he announced he was hungry.
‘It’s the fresh air,’ Geoff said. ‘Getting out, going to the barber’s shop, and the walk over here. It’s done you good, Zac – we’ll have to do this more often.’
‘How long are you staying?’ I asked curiously.
‘Another few days.’ Geoff gave me a knowing look, and picked up the menu. ‘I’m gonna have a bowl of spaghetti bolognese, but hey, Zac, the fish is good. Mind you, so is everything on the menu. What tempts you?’
‘Not sure. Maybe gnocchi, or lasagne. Mom makes the best lasagne … I grew up with Italian food, you know.’
‘Yeah, you told me before. So, look at the menu, and let’s order.’
Zac and I both followed Geoff’s lead and chose spaghetti bolognese as our main course, with tomatoes and mozzarella to start.
Much to my annoyance, Geoff ordered three more glasses of pink champagne when he asked for a bottle of sparkling water. But I kept my mouth shut, just sat back in my chair, picked up my half-empty flute and sipped it.
Geoff and Zac began a conversation about Italian food and their favourite dishes. Whilst this took me by surprise, I was pleased Zac was opening up in this way, talking again. His dissertation about Italian food was not new; he had had many with Frankie, when we had been at Rao’s for dinner.
Zac was half Italian. His mother, Lucia, had been born in Italy and brought to America as a baby, when her parents had emigrated. His father, Patrick, was of Irish descent. But to me it was his Italian side that appeared more dominant in him: he spoke the language fluently, and his dark good looks were Latin. His eyes were Irish, though; at least that’s what I thought. They were a luminous light green when he wasn’t exhausted.
For once Zac ate his lunch, and obviously enjoyed the food. Geoff and I did too. We skipped dessert, but had two coffees each, and Zac insisted on paying the bill when it was time to leave.
Before we left the restaurant, I phoned Harry in New York, checking in with him around three o’clock European time, as I usually did. It was nine in the morning in Manhattan. Harry was delighted to speak to Zac and Geoff, to hear both of them sounding well, and he was a happy man when he
hung up.
Geoff wandered off to the Bauer Hotel next door to the old palazzo, and Zac and I walked through the streets, heading for the Piazza San Marco. We didn’t say much as we strolled along, but at one moment Zac took hold of my hand, and squeezed it. I squeezed his, and looked at him. He stared back at me, and a soft smile played around his mouth, then he leaned in, kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks, Serena, thanks for coming to Venice, thanks for everything.’
‘I was glad to come, if a little concerned. I didn’t know what I was going to find.’
‘I haven’t been so bad, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t. Not too many nightmares. I was worried about you when you had that strange attack, when you were so icy cold last week.’
‘I’ll never know what that was,’ he answered, shaking his head, looking baffled. ‘Exhaustion, being very stressed out after leaving the front line, as you suggested.’
‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘Today you’re the best you’ve been since I got here. And I know now it was rest and food you needed, among other things.’
‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ he told me, and squeezed my hand again.
We had reached the piazza, and Zac said, ‘Let’s stop off at Florian’s and have a drink.’
‘All right. But not a drink, Zac,’ I replied. I instantly knew I sounded uptight, and I was annoyed with myself.
‘That was just a turn of phrase,’ he responded, his voice even. ‘So an ice cream, a Coke, a lemonade, a coffee, a glass of water. Anything. It’s just too nice to go back to the bolthole yet, and this square is full of memories for me. Isn’t it for you too, Serena?’
I did not speak for a moment, and then I said softly, in a low voice, ‘Very many memories, Zac,’ and I felt my heart lurch. I was suddenly a little afraid. Not of him but of myself and my reaction to him, and what might happen between us.
In the past, when we had been in love and together, Caffè Florian had been a favourite place. We had come here every day and now here we were again. Florian’s was still the same but we were not. We had changed.
Despite the sun it was a cool afternoon, and a wind had blown up, and so we sat inside at a cosy table near the bar. Zac ordered coffee, but I fancied a vanilla ice cream. As I ate it slowly, Zac couldn’t keep his spoon out of the dish, kept dipping it in and spooning dollops of ice cream into his mouth.
At one moment, he glanced at me, and asked, ‘Have you ever let another man eat food from your plate? Or, as in this instance, a dish?’
I shook my head, endeavouring not to smile, detecting a hint of normality surfacing – his jealousy about unknown men. Actually, nonexistent other men. ‘No,’ I said at last.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and murmured, ‘Good. It’s very intimate.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you mind? That I’ve always done it?’
‘No, I don’t … and listen, it’s a privilege only you enjoy.’
He gave me a funny little smile, sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve always loved