Venetian Sunrise

Henry was about to turn 40. And George, his older brother, was coming all the way from New York to London to help him celebrate. Henry knew that this should make him feel happy. But it didn't. It made him feel anxious.

The problem was: as much as Henry wished that it were otherwise, he and George didn't really get on that well. They were fine for an hour or so. But anything more than that and there was usually some sort of argument. Henry did his best not to engage. But George was never satisfied until he had stoked a minor difference of opinion – usually something quite trivial – into a full-scale barney.

The one consolation (Henry told himself) was that George was bringing his wife, Rose. Henry liked Rose. He liked Rose a lot. There was a serenity about Rose that seemed to calm those around her. Perhaps she would be a calming influence on George. He could only hope so.

Henry watched the little red lights flickering across the mini LCD panel above the lift doors and waited for the chime that would announce his houseguests' arrival. Finally, he heard the familiar soft metallic 'bong'. The doors parted, and out stepped Rose, trundling a large navy blue suitcase.

Henry engulfed his sister-in-law in his arms and kissed her on her cool cheek. 'Welcome,' he said.

Rose smiled and pretended to shiver. 'Boy! And I thought it was cold in New York. What is this, Hal? Has London decided to have its own mini Ice Age?'

It was only at that point that Henry realised that Rose was all alone. 'No George?'

'Umm ... no. No George,' Rose said. 'Just me. Slight change of plan. I hope that's OK.'

'OK? Well, yes ... of course,' Henry said. 'Of course. I'm always glad to see you, Rosie. You know that.'

Henry waited for Rose to say something about why there was no George, why she was travelling alone, but she simply smiled and gave her brother-in-law another little hug.

'Well, come on in,' Henry said. 'Let's get you warmed up. A small Scotch perhaps?'

'You know, what I'd really love is a cup of tea. The tea never tastes quite right on planes, does it?'

Henry frowned. 'Umm ... no. No it doesn't. I know what you mean. Something to do with taste buds and altitude, I think. Anyway ... get yourself settled in, and I'll put the kettle on.'

'Thank you, Hal.'

While Rose unpacked, Henry made a pot of tea and then, noticing that the clock on the wall in the kitchen was showing 6:18, he poured himself a large gin and tonic.

'I was thinking,' he said, when Rose returned, 'given that it's just the two of us this evening, we could pop down to Lucca's for a bit of a snack. You know, that little Italian place just around corner; the one where George nearly started a riot?'

'How could I forget?' Rose said. 'Do you think they'll have us back?'

Henry chuckled. 'Oh, I think so. I think Lucca will be more than happy to see you anyway. He's always asking after "la bella signora". George, however ... now that might be a different story. But then he's not here.'

'No,' Rose said. 'Just you and me, Hal.'

Henry thought that, for a moment, Rose sounded a little sad. And again, just for a moment, Henry thought that Rose was going to say something about George's absence. But she didn't. And he didn't push it.

'So ... how are you feeling?' Henry asked.

'Well ... now that I'm starting to thaw out, not too bad. Perhaps a little tired.'

'Three and a half thousand miles will do that to a girl,' Henry said.

'The journey doesn't get any shorter, does it?'

Henry shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'And the messing about at either end just keeps getting worse. I'm sometimes a little surprised that anyone bothers to fly anymore. Mind you, I have to say, despite your marathon journey, you're looking great.'

And she was. At the age of 47, Rose was no longer a young woman. But she was still a very good looking woman. When Rose walked into a room, heads turned. Her earlier career as a dancer had served her well. 'Thank you,' she said.

'Have you been going to the gym or something?'

'Well ... not exactly a gym. But I have been doing a jazzercise class a couple of times a week. More for the company that anything else. Still, it does seem to have other benefits.' And to show her brother-in-law one of the other benefits, she lifted the hem of her skirt and proudly displayed her shapely dancer's legs.

'Well, you've always had great legs, Rosie,' Henry said. 'Not that I ...,' he added hastily.

Rose smiled, and then turned her back to Henry and raised her skirt again – this time, all the way to her waist. 'And an OK bum?' she asked.

Henry was more than a little surprised, but he tried not to let on. 'Oh, better than OK,' he assured her. 'There are plenty of 18-year-olds who would be happy to have a bum like that.'

Later that evening, Henry got an ever better view of his sister-in-law's pleasantly-toned buttocks.

After a light supper and a couple of glasses of wine at Lucca's, they had returned to Henry's fifth-floor flat where Henry had poured a couple of brandies. 'Help you to sleep,' he said.

Rose said that she wasn't expecting to have any trouble sleeping. But she accepted the brandy anyway. And, for the next half an hour or so they sat chatting and sipping and watching the lights of the steady stream of aircraft passing over Docklands on their approach to London Heathrow.

Eventually, Rose announced that she was off to bed. But before she left the room, she gave Henry yet another hug. 'I really appreciate this, Hal,' she said. 'I really do.'

Not for the first time that day, Henry told her: 'You are always welcome, Rosie. You know that.'

After Rose had gone, Henry tidied up the living room, rinsed the brandy glasses, and checked his email. Then he too headed for bed, being as quiet as he could be in order to avoid disturbing his sister-in-law.

As he passed her room, the door was slightly ajar, and it seemed that Rose had fallen asleep with the light on. But then Henry realised that she had not yet made it as far the bed. She was standing there, stark naked, with her back to the door. Henry hurried on by. Quickly and quietly. But not before confirming that she certainly did have a very fine body for a woman of 47.

When a rather less tired Rose reappeared the following morning, it was almost 9.30. Henry had already managed to fit in a couple of hours of work and was onto his third cup of coffee. 'So, is there anything you particularly want to do while you are on this side of the big pond?' he asked.

'Funnily enough, there is,' Rose said. 'I'd like to go to the Tate.'

'Modern?'

'No, the National. I think it's time I was reacquainted with the works of JMW Turner.'

Henry smiled and nodded. 'Well now, there's a coincidence. I was there just last week – for a function – and I thought to myself: I really must come back and spend an hour or two with Joe Turner's fine pictures. We could pop over there today, if you like.'

And so it was that, shortly before midday, they were standing arm in arm in front of Sun Setting over a Lake.

'I really love this painting,' Rose said.

Henry nodded. 'I know what you mean. It's so ... ethereal. Almost abstract, isn't it. I mean, I can see that he started out with a real lake. And a real sunset. And are those snow-covered mountains on the right? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps it's just ... well ... light. But it's just wonderful. It just goes off into a whole new dimension, doesn't it?'

'Yes. It's amazing.'

For the best part of a minute they just stood, silently, in front of the painting, letting its tranquil beauty wash over them. And then Rose said: 'You know, I think my other favourite has to be that really simple watercolour of Venice, the one with the sun just starting to come up.'

Henry frowned for a moment. And then he nodded. 'Oh yes. I know the one you mean. Sunrise from Giudecca. I'm not sure if that's the exact title, but it's something like that anyway.'

Rose nodded. 'That's the one. But that's not here, is it?'

Henry shook his head. 'No. British Museum ... I think.' And then, after another minute or so contemplating Turner's masterpiece, Henry asked: 'So ... let me get this straight: is my brother going to join us at some stage?'

'No. No, it's just you and me, Hal.'

'I see,' Henry said. Although, again, he didn't see. 'Well ... in that case, why don't "just me and you" give ourselves a little birthday treat and go and see the sunrise from Giudecca?'

'That would be great,' Rose said. 'We have to pass the British Museum anyway, don't we? On our way back to your place.'

'No. I mean why don't we go to Venice? Why don't we celebrate my birthday watching a real Venetian sunrise? We might even be able to stay on Giudecca. Bookings shouldn't be too bad at this time of the year.'

'Are you serious?' Rose asked.

'I'm seriously serious,' Henry said. 'I mean ... hey, why not? Let's see if we can go tomorrow. I need to go to Milan sometime in the next two or three weeks anyway. If we went to Venice via Milan, I could probably squeeze in an hour or so of work, and that might even pay for the trip.'

Rose smiled. 'You are serious, aren't you?'

From London City Airport it was just a two hour flight to Milano's Linate airport. And, with the time difference, Rose and Henry found themselves touching down shortly before five o'clock local time. At the airport, a car was waiting to take them to the Hotel Spadari, an elegant boutique establishment near the Duomo.

'I think you'll like the Spadari,' Henry said.

'It certainly looked very nice when I looked it up online,' Rose said. 'Although I also noticed there were some very good deals at the Hyatt.'

Henry gave Rose's hand a little squeeze. 'Don't get me wrong,' he said, 'the Hyatt is very nice. But the Spadari is special. Wait until you see their art collection.'

When they arrived at the hotel, Giovanni, the doorman, greeted Henry like a long-lost friend. 'E! Buon giorno, Signore Thompson. Welcome back.' He then turned to Rose, bowed, took her hand, smiled warmly, and in a lower, softer voice said: 'Buon giorno, signora.'

'Buon giorno,' Rose replied.

And then to Henry, Giovanni said quietly: 'E' bello infine soddisfare ogni vostra bella moglie.'

Henry just laughed.

Rose turned to her brother-in-law with a quizzical expression. 'What did he say?' she asked.

'Giovanni says it's nice to finally meet my beautiful wife.'

Now Rose laughed. 'Oh, sweet,' she whispered as they followed Giovanni to the front desk. 'He thinks I'm your wife.'

'Umm ... possibly,' Henry said. 'But I think it's more likely that he thinks you're my mistress.'

Rose laughed again. 'I think I like that idea even better,' she whispered.

The staff at the front desk also seemed to assume that Rose was Henry's beautiful wife (or possibly his beautiful mistress?). Of course, their assumption may have been influenced by the fact that Rose – who had made the booking on Henry's behalf – had only booked one room.

'I hope you don't mind sharing,' she said to Henry, as she began unpacking. 'But it seemed silly to get separate rooms when it was just you and me. Mind you, I was expecting two beds.'

Henry just smiled and nodded.

That evening they dined at a small restaurant not far from the famous opera house. And Rose was full of mischief. 'I'm enjoying being your mistress,' she told Henry. 'It feels very nice.' But then, later, she suddenly seemed sad again for no apparent reason. Henry was about to ask why, but decided against it. It wasn't Henry's way to intrude.

When they eventually arrived back at their shared hotel room, Henry took a long look at the king-sized bed. Ah well, not a problem, he told himself. It was certainly big enough for both of them with plenty of space in between. Henry was also pleased that he had at least remembered to pack a pair of pyjama pants. He didn't usually.

'Which side of the bed do you want?' Henry asked.

'I'll leave that to you,' Rose replied.

It wasn't the answer Henry had hoped for. But he nodded anyway. 'I'll, umm, let you have first use of the bathroom,' he said. 'I just need to check a couple of things for my meeting in the morning.'

Five minutes later, when Rose emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing a slinky calf-length cappuccino-coloured satin and lace nightdress that did little to conceal the shape of her beautifully-toned dancer's body.

'The bathroom's all yours,' she said.

Trying his best not to look directly at his sister-in-law, Henry scuttled off. Well, at least she would be under the covers by the time he returned to the bedroom, he thought.

But she wasn't.

'Oh. I thought you would have been ... you know,' he said, once again trying hard not to look at her partially exposed breasts.

'You didn't tell me which side you wanted,' Rose said with just the hint of a mischievous smile.

'Oh yes, sorry,' Henry mumbled. 'Maybe, umm ... that side – if that's OK with you.' And he nodded towards the left hand side.

'I also thought that you might like to give me a little goodnight hug.'

'Umm ...'

'It's OK, Hal,' Rose said. 'It's just you and me.'

And it was just the two of them. But Henry was also very conscious of the fact that there would be just a sliver of satin between his bare torso and his sister-in-law's otherwise naked body. Still, he took Rose in his arms and hugged her. Gently. Tenderly.

'Thank you,' Rose said softly. 'Thank you for a lovely evening. And thank you for being you.' And she kissed him gently on his bare chest.

'Yes, it was a lovely evening, wasn't it? But I think that was mainly because of you, Rosie. So thank you.'

During that first night that they shared a bed, Henry woke twice. The first time, he awoke to feel Rose snuggled into his back. So much for the bed being big enough for both of them with plenty of space in between.

But on the second occasion, Rose had returned to Outer Mongolia. And Henry wondered if he had heard her faintly sobbing. It was hard to tell. It may just have been her breathing. He couldn't be sure.

The following morning, Henry awoke early and, as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb Rose, he showered and dressed for his breakfast meeting. And then, just as he was about to leave the room, Henry suddenly had an urge to kiss the sleeping Rose. But he didn't. And he had no idea why he didn't.

I really should have, he told himself as he walked out through the lobby towards a waiting taxi. I really should have.

It was only just after 9.30 when Henry returned to the room. Rose was up and dressed and sitting at the window watching the world go by. Henry thought that she looked a little sad, a little wistful perhaps. But then, almost with the flick of a switch, she was once again the Rose he knew and loved.

'Well ... that was quick,' she said.

Henry smiled. 'I didn't think it would take too long,' he said. 'Pietro likes a face-to-face meeting, but it doesn't have to be a long meeting. He just likes to reassure himself that the people he's doing the business with are real people. And I suppose that's understandable.'

'Well you're certainly real, Henry,' Rose said.

And then it was time to head for Venice.

As Giovanni supervised the loading of their luggage into the taxi that would take Rose and Henry to the railway station, he gently squeezed Signora Thompson's hand and instructed her to make sure that Signore Thompson brought her to Milan more often.

'Maybe every time?' he suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

Rose nodded. 'Grazi, Giovanni. I'll do my best,' she promised.

The train journey from Milan Centrale to Venezia S Lucia took just under three-and-a-half hours and, by early afternoon, they were on their way by water taxi to the Hotel Cipriani. ('If we're going to stay on Giudecca, then it may as well be the Cipriani,' Henry had said.)

'Do you remember that time we all came down for the Carnival?' Rose asked.

Henry grimaced. 'How could I forget?'

'It wasn't your fault, Hal. George was just in a particularly difficult mood that weekend.' And then, after a moment or two, she added: 'Well, that weekend and several other weekends too.'

'Hmm. I do sometimes seem to bring out the worst in my brother,' Henry said. 'I try not to. God knows I try not to. But he can be a cantankerous bastard when he wants to be. Obviously you've worked out how to manage him, Rosie. I should get you to give me lessons sometime.'

They were sitting side by side in the water taxi, watching the picture-postcard San Marco shore slide by, when this conversation took place, and so Henry didn't notice that Rose was shaking her head. But she slipped an arm around her brother-in-law and gave him a little hug anyway.

And then, after a long pause, she asked: 'Do you ever hear from Monica?'

'No, not really,' Henry said. 'One of us sometimes picks up the phone. Or at least we used to. But, no, not for a long time. I suppose you just gradually end up with less and less in common, less and less to talk about. Why do you ask?'

'I just wondered,' she said. 'You two were together for a long time.'

Henry shrugged. 'Yes. Twelve years. Something like that. But people change, Rosie. It's what happens. And anyway, she spends most of her time on your side of the pond these days. In some ways, I'm surprised you haven't heard from her.'

Rose nodded but said nothing.

If their room at the Spadari was tastefully modern, then the junior suite that Henry had booked for them at the Cipriani was tastefully traditional, with period furniture, a half-canopied king-sized bed, and a balcony that overlooked the canal.

'This is lovely,' Rose said. 'I feel as if I'm a princess.'

'You seemed to have a preference for sharing a room,' Henry said. 'So, I thought we might share again. Just for economy reasons, of course.'

Rose smiled. 'Oh, of course,' she said.

Once they had unpacked, there was still an hour or two of daylight left, so they took the boat across to San Marco and strolled, arm in arm, through the narrow lanes behind the square.

'You know, I don't think I ever really appreciated Venice when I came here before,' Rose said. 'It feels very different this time.'

'A bit quieter at this time of the year, perhaps? Fewer tourists?' Henry suggested.

'Hmm. Maybe. But there's also a sort of magic that I hadn't noticed before.'

They were crossing one of the smaller bridges and they paused, midway, to watch a workboat passing beneath.

'Personally, I've always felt that Venice was one of those places that responds to your mood,' Henry said. 'Perhaps you're just in the mood for some Venetian magic this time, Rosie.'

Rosie nodded. 'Umm ... perhaps,' she said. But then Rose suddenly seemed sad again.

'Is anything the matter, Rosie?' Henry asked.

Rose sighed. 'Maybe a bit tired,' she said. 'I'll be OK.'

Henry wasn't entirely convinced. But he didn't push the matter. 'Tell you what,' he said, 'why don't we grab an early supper and have an early night. If we do that, we might even feel like getting up bright and early to catch the sunrise tomorrow.'

Rose gave him another little hug. 'Sounds like an excellent idea. Yes. Why don't we do that?'

As they walked back across the square towards the landing stage, a slight mist was beginning to roll in. The other, softer, Venice was starting to reveal itself. A magical mystical mist, Henry thought. But he still worried that Rose seemed to be carrying some sad secret.

Back on Giudecca they found a simple trattoria – well, as simple as any trattoria in Venice was ever going to be. They ordered an antipasto followed by the pesce del giorno. They also ordered a flask a local Soave – which turned out to be surprisingly good.

Towards the end of the meal, Henry's cell phone rang. It was George.

'I'm just at the airport. On my way down to Houston. Thought I'd give you a quick call to say happy birthday, little brother.'