Once Upon a Time in Venice, page 2
Gina’s job title was simple: head concierge. In reality, it didn’t fully cover all her role demanded, or how fulfilling she found it. On paper, her task was to give her guests more than they thought they wanted, to exceed their expectations and leave them awestruck; in short, to make all of the guests’ dreams come true.
Whether that was a romantic dinner in a deserted palazzo, scuba diving in the Gulf of Venice, or taking a sunset helicopter ride over the city, Gina could arrange it all. But it was also so much more than that. Any good concierge could do most of the things she could, but there was one thing that she thought of as her special power, the one thing that made a difference.
Gina liked making people happy.
Over the years, she’d built up an extensive network and an insider knowledge of the most exclusive experiences in the city, and she adored what she did. The demands were crazy and the hours even crazier, but Gina was at the top of her game and a legend within the industry. Inevitably, making people happy needed nerves of steel, and getting exactly what her guests wanted had made her enemies along the way. She could be tough and uncompromising; she had to be. She could be hard to get to know, too, but she inspired fierce loyalty in those who were allowed into her inner circle, and many of her VIP guests came to regard her as a friend. She’d been invited to summer in the Hamptons with John Kennedy Junior and Carolyn Bessette; skied in St Moritz with Liz Hurley and Hugh Grant; and partied with Carla Bruni and Mick Jagger in Lake Garda.
Though she was still a way off her thirtieth birthday, Gina had been headhunted by major hotels across the world, from London to Los Angeles, Shanghai to San Francisco. But despite the six-figure salaries on offer, the golden handshakes and the prestigious job titles, nothing could entice Gina to leave the White Palace Hotel. Venice was in her soul; she would remain in the city until her dying day, she was certain.
‘She’s here!’ came a cry from one of the chambermaids, who was stationed by the window. There was a flurry of activity and excited chatter as Gina walked back into the living room. Her heart began to race, nerves churning in her stomach. She was never anything less than completely professional, but the imminent arrival of this particular guest was making her feel apprehensive.
‘Thank you everyone, great work,’ Gina smiled, her discomfort imperceptible as the staff filed out of the door.
Gina’s gaze swept around the room for a final time, ensuring nothing was out of place. Then she took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and headed for the lift.
Out on the Grand Canal, Lucia de Santis was causing a commotion as she crossed the water on the White Palace speedboat. In fact, she was doing absolutely nothing – merely sitting ramrod straight at the helm of the sleek, wooden Riva, and gazing straight ahead – but this didn’t stop a score of paparazzi vessels racing to keep up, their camera flashes lighting up the inky night sky. It looked as though Lucia was leading an army into battle, a veritable flotilla streaming across the lagoon.
‘Lucia, give us a smile,’ the photographers shouted.
‘You look so beautiful tonight. Is it for someone special?’
Lucia didn’t acknowledge the questions, yet she was acutely aware of the paparazzi presence, and delighted by all the attention. She wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, despite it being after dark, and she was swathed in a thick fur coat, decorated with an enormous diamond brooch that glinted in the headlamps of the boats. Her dazzling, platinum-blonde hair tumbled in waves from beneath a silk turban, and a Hermès scarf had been tied at her throat to protect those precious vocal cords, that exquisite voice she’d had insured for ten million dollars.
With her ruby-red lips and glowing skin, Lucia looked every inch the diva she was. ‘La Leonessa’, the press had christened her – the Lioness – and she revelled in the title.
Hers was a true rags-to-riches story. Born in a tiny village, tucked away on the slopes of the Italian Alps, Lucia had grown up in near poverty. Her voice and her talent had been her way out, her golden ticket to a new life. She’d won a scholarship to the illustrious Julliard School in New York, leaving home the summer she’d turned eighteen, and she had never looked back. Lucia was now the world’s most famous soprano, a true prima donna, feted by presidents, popes and kings.
Lucia had performed at every major opera house in every major role: Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro at the Palais Garnier in Paris; Rosina in The Barber of Seville at the Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires. And now she was returning to her home country in triumph, to perform as Violetta in La Traviata at Venice’s prestigious La Fenice opera house.
‘Lucia, is it true you’re dating Matteo Galliano?’ the photographers shouted, naming the playboy heir to a racing car dynasty.
‘Where’s Matteo tonight? Will he be coming to see you perform?’
Lucia remained sphinx-like as the boat drew closer to the hotel, aiming for the narrow channel on the eastern side of the small island. The photographers couldn’t follow in here; it was private property, with the waterway leading through a stone archway and directly into the hotel itself, so that guests could disembark in absolute privacy. In Lucia’s case, there was a separate elevator that led directly from the jetty to the Royal Suite, so she could bypass reception and the obvious stares of other guests.
It was only when Lucia was out of sight of the paparazzi that she allowed a small, mischievous smile to appear on those famous red lips. Everything had gone perfectly; she would be on the front page of every newspaper and gossip magazine tomorrow morning.
She removed her sunglasses to reveal stunning hazel eyes that sloped like a cat’s, and was gratified that the hotel staff had lined up on the dock to greet her, as though she were a nineteenth-century aristocrat returning to her country house. This was how she was treated now: with deference, respect, and even a little fear. The memories of her poverty-stricken childhood were all but erased, the old Lucia dead and buried. She was La Leonessa, and the rest of the world bowed down accordingly.
A short, balding man in an off-the-rack suit offered his hand to help her out of the boat. Lucia took it and felt grateful that she was wearing gloves; she avoided touching the common people.
‘Signora de Santis, I am Bruno Fiore, the general manager of the White Palace. We are delighted to welcome you here, and grateful that you have chosen us to be your home in Venice. We trust everything will be to your satisfaction, but if there’s anything further you need, it will be yours.’ He inclined his head and bent forwards so that he was almost bowing to her.
‘Grazie,’ Lucia said impatiently.
As though sensing this, Bruno said briskly, ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you up to your suite.’
Lucia swept after him on vertiginously high-heeled boots, her imperious gaze sweeping over the row of staff in their cheap uniforms. But Lucia’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly as she glanced Gina’s way, who looked away quickly, hoping that it wasn’t a look of recognition that she saw in Lucia’s eyes.
Gina took a discreet step backwards, all the better to blend into the shadows, which was exactly the way she wanted it.
Chapter 2
‘Oh, mia principessa, look at you!’
‘Do you like it, Papà?’
Eight-year-old Daniela DiMaggio spun round in giddy circles, her long skirt flaring out, clearly proud and excited. She was wearing a traditional Carnival dress in pink and white, with a silver mask and an incongruous plastic tiara that she’d spontaneously added.
Her father, Marco, sighed as he watched her, feeling a mixture of delight and sadness. She looked wonderful, her personality and style developing every single day, and she was growing up so fast. Tonight was her first Carnival party; yet another milestone that her mother, Stephana, wouldn’t be there to see.
‘My darling, you look beautiful,’ Marco said, suppressing his emotions.
‘I can’t wait for Sofia’s party. She’s going to have music and dancing and games. And look, this afternoon, Rosina and I made frittelle.’ Daniela bounded over to pick up the
box on the kitchen table. ‘Here, try one. We put slices of apple in them.’
Marco picked up one of the fried doughnuts, a traditional Venetian Carnival delicacy. ‘Mmm, these are delicious. I think I might have to steal them for myself.’
Daniela giggled, her tiara wobbling on her head comically. ‘Naughty Papà, I’ll leave a few behind for you instead.’
Laughing himself, he straightened his daughter’s wonky crown as her nanny, Rosina, emerged from Daniela’s room. She was a stout woman in her sixties, and looked like a traditional Italian nonna, with greying hair pulled up in an untidy bun. She tutted, fussing around her jiggling charge. ‘Don’t forget your coat, Daniela, it’s cold outside.’
She’d been Daniela’s nanny for three years now, since shortly after the accident that claimed her mother’s life. It had quickly become clear that Marco couldn’t cope on his own after Stephana’s death; he needed to go back to work, to keep his business going, to make it a success for Daniela’s future, and he needed a stable, caring figure to help look after his daughter while he did so. Rosina had gone above and beyond, and taken the place of the real grandmother she lacked. Marco was extremely grateful to her. They both adored her.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing tonight,’ Rosina continued. ‘I’ll take Daniela to the party, then collect her once it’s finished, and bring her back and put her to bed. I’ll stay over in the guest room, so you don’t have to worry about rushing home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But Papà, you have to start getting ready for your party, or else you’re going to be late. Come on,’ Daniela insisted, taking his hand and pulling him from his seat, dragging him along the corridor to his bedroom.
The apartment was large by Venetian standards, but each room was small and simply furnished, decorated in a traditional style with exposed stone walls, dark furniture, and polished wooden floors covered with rugs – though Daniela’s clutter strewn through every room gave it a warm and lived-in feel. Very little had been changed since Stephana’s death; Marco didn’t have the time or inclination to redecorate. The paint colours remained the same, the lampshades and curtains were the ones she’d chosen. They were growing a little shabby now, but Marco barely noticed; their familiarity was comforting.
In his room, his nobleman’s costume was hanging from the door of his antique wardrobe. Daniela went over to his chest of drawers, picking up one of the framed photographs that was displayed on the top. It showed her mother, Stephana, in a black and gold Carnival dress, Marco standing beside her with his arm around her waist, and the iconic vista of St Mark’s Square in the background behind them. The same costume Marco was wearing in the photograph now hung on the wardrobe. Daniela had chosen it because she wanted him to wear the same as he had in that happy moment with her mother.
She gazed at the photograph. ‘Do you think they have Carnevale in heaven, Papà?’
‘I’m sure they do, mia cara. The best. With as many frittelle as you can eat.’ He kissed her on the top of her head.
‘Are you excited for your party, Papà?’
Marco wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be as much fun as yours, I’m afraid. There’ll be lots of people talking about boring business, and it will probably be very dull. I’ll have to try not to fall asleep. In fact, I’m almost asleep now thinking about it,’ he confided in a whisper, pretending to nod off, making Daniela laugh again.
Marco was a senior partner at Elicotteri Conti – Conti’s Helicopters – a helicopter rental company that chartered flights for VIPs, organized sightseeing trips over the city, and had even provided choppers for movies. Marco himself was a trained stunt pilot, and his flying skills were in demand all over the world.
‘Don’t forget to take your blue eyes out, Papà!’
Marco laughed, remembering the blue contact lenses he was wearing changing the colour of his brown eyes. He was about to start a new project as a stunt double for Brad Redford, Hollywood’s biggest star. They had worked together before and had physical similarities, but the one thing they didn’t have in common was the same colour eyes. Brad was a stickler for detail. Marco had been trying out his new lenses ahead of the shoot to get used to them. ‘I’m bound to forget, bambina.’
It was an honour to be invited to the masked Guild Ball thrown by the prestigious Venetian Enterprise Guild, but Marco really didn’t feel like attending tonight. He was tempted to cry off, to head out into the city itself and get lost among the crowds while soaking up the atmosphere of Carnevale, but he knew he couldn’t. It was his responsibility to represent Elicotteri Conti.
‘Daniela,’ Rosina called. ‘Are you ready, bambina? It’s time to leave.’
Daniela looked torn – she was eager to go to the party, but wanted to see her father in his costume.
‘You go, darling. I need to take a shower, then get ready. Have lots of fun.’
‘All right, Papà,’ Daniela said reluctantly. She put the photograph of her parents back on the chest, then she put her hand out and stroked Stephana’s face. ‘Buona notte, Mamma,’ she said cheerfully.
Marco watched her, overwhelmed with love for his daughter and amazed at her resilience. She looked more like her mother every day, with her jet-black hair and deep brown eyes, her olive skin and dimpled cheeks. It was a tragedy that she had to grow up without Stephana. A tragedy that he wondered if time would ever heal, for either of them.
‘Ciao, Papà,’ Daniela said, coming across to kiss him goodbye. ‘Have a good time at your party.’
‘You too, mia principessa.’
‘Don’t fall asleep!’
‘I won’t,’ Marco laughed.
He listened to the familiar sounds as Daniela got ready to leave, scrambling to find her shoes and her coat as Rosina gently chided her along. Then the front door slammed and everything went quiet, the silence ringing throughout the apartment. Marco sat for a few moments longer then, with a tangle of thoughts running through his mind, he headed for the shower.
‘Olivia!’
Olivia Booth swept into the grand lobby of the hotel in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, dressed head to toe in a cream suit, a set of diamond studs glistening in her ears and a vintage Tiffany & Co. watch on her wrist.
‘Gina, darling I’m delighted to see you. My goodness, you get more beautiful every day!’ she gushed. Olivia’s voice retained a hint of the Yorkshire village where she’d been born, the daughter of a miner. To anyone passing she looked like a wealthy, attractive woman of middle age, and the only thing that hinted at a different backstory was a stick, one with an engraved silver swallow handle, which she held discreetly to her side as the porter took her mountain of luggage through the lobby on a trolley.
‘You look wonderful too, blooming!’ Gina smiled, hugging Olivia tightly.
‘I feel wonderful, darling, it is sooo good to be back in Venice, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the old place.’
‘Where is Max?’ Gina asked.
‘He’s just paying the water taxi … Ah, here he is now.’
Max Hillman-Clark was a Queen’s Counsel in London, one of the country’s top barristers, but outside his day job he was also a renowned collector and expert in Venetian art. As if that wasn’t enough, he was the son of a baronet and came from one of the wealthiest families in England.
‘I can’t wait to see the suite, darling, is it just as I remember it?’ Olivia enquired, her eyes dancing with excitement.
‘We haven’t changed a thing,’ Gina reassured her. ‘Well, not so as you would notice anyway,’ Gina winked.
‘I don’t doubt that you have had it completely refurbished, repainted and refurnished, just so it can look exactly as it always has done,’ Olivia said.
‘You know us so well!’
‘Darling, it is the only place in Venice that Max and I would choose to get married, isn’t it?’
Max leaned in and gave Gina a warm embrace. ‘Are there any other hotels in Venice?’ he teased.
‘I promise you both, everything is just as you wanted it. You really are my favourite guests, and possibly my favourite people on the planet. I’m organizing everything myself, and you are going to have a day that you will never forget – one that Venice won’t forget, in fact.’
Gina made a discreet nod towards one of the concierges standing close by, who hurried over. Gina took two room keys from him. ‘Carlo will be looking after you today, and he is under strict instructions to give you anything you need.’
Max kissed her cheek, ‘Gina, where would we be without you?’
‘You’re our guardian angel, Gina,’ Olivia agreed.
‘Carlo is going to take you up to your suite now. We can catch up on all of your news when you’ve settled in.’
‘Oh I insist on that!’ Olivia said, ‘I want to hear all about that singer, Lucia de Santis. I’ve heard she’s quite the diva!’
You have no idea …
As Gina watched Olivia and Max head towards the opulent old-fashioned lift, she felt an inner warmth. She had first met Olivia five years previously, when she was still quite new to the hotel herself, and Olivia’s circumstances had been very different indeed.
Olivia really did deserve the very best that the White Palace could offer, and Gina was going to make sure she got it.
After a busy afternoon, Gina looked at her watch and realized she was running late for the most important date in the Venetian calendar. She had been so busy she hadn’t even had time for her usual one hundred laps in the White Palace pool, which helped her to de-stress and clear her mind of her intense schedule. Now she had to rush; she needed to get back to her apartment and prepare for Carnevale.
She lived in a beautiful old building in the Dorsoduro area of Venice, only a short boat ride away from the hotel, but a world away in terms of style and attitude. Where the White Palace was grand and prestigious, Dorsoduro was the university district. It had a laid-back, unpretentious feel, and was famed for its museums and galleries.
