The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 11

It's early afternoon when they finally let Tom go. By now, he's way beyond hungry and thinks he'll fall over if he doesn't get something quick.

Venice is very different to eating cheap at his church vestry in LA and he's discovering his lunchtime allocation of fifteen euros won't buy much. The search is on for cheap pizza and, by the looks of it, he won't get it at the Grand Canal restaurant on Calle Vallaresso.

He stands on its elegant terrace by the waterside, watching waiters glide between tables in an exquisite culinary ballet. A menu behind glass makes his mouth water. If he had the money he'd start with salmon and swordfish tartare with lemon and basil. Maybe a glass of a local Barolo with a main course of rack of lamb and fresh garden vegetables.

'Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt ate here.' A woman's voice. One he recognises.

He turns to see Tina, the travel writer he'd met in Florin's. 'It's famous for its seafood,' she adds as she lifts a pair of fashionably oversized shades. 'And its prices.' Her blue eyes twinkle.

'You're right there.' Tom taps the menu glass. 'I can just afford the coffee.'

'You haven't eaten yet?'

'No. Not since last night. Can you recommend somewhere that suits a more modest – actually, a much more modest budget?'

She takes a long look at him, then smiles. 'I tell you what – let's get a table here. You buy the coffee – you said you could stretch to that – and I'll buy lunch.'

Tom is horrified. 'I can't let you do that-'

But Tina already has the eye of a waltzing waiter and doesn't feel like taking no for an answer. 'Lei ha una tavola per due, per favore?'

A white-jacketed ballet star in his late fifties grins at her. 'Si, signorina, certo.'

Tom feels embarrassed as he follows them to a table in the far corner. Even before the seat's been pulled out for him and the starched white napkin laid on his lap, he can tell that the view is magnificent and the meal is certain to be memorable. 'This is enormously generous of you. Really, I'm horribly ashamed. If I'd known how expensive Venice is, I probably wouldn't have come.'

'That really would have been shameful.' She studies his face and sees he's tense and awkward. 'Listen, I was going to eat here anyway. Every travel writer is compelled to eat somewhere cheap and somewhere as ridiculously expensive as the Grand Canal, so I'm simply putting you down as research.'

'"Research"? I don't think I've ever been called that before.'

His charm earns him a long sparkle of her flawless teeth. 'In return, you have to tell me your story. Who you are, why you're here, what you like and don't like about Venice – that's the kind of stuff I have to find out when I research fellow travellers.'

'Okay,' says Tom, 'you have a deal.' The waiter appears juggling two menus, a wine list, olives and a silver basket of bread. 'But,' adds Tom, 'it won't be the kind of story you're going to want to write.'