Shopaholic on Honeymoon (2 page)

I walk towards it, mesmerized. I’ve always wanted an art set, ever since I was a little girl. And this one is amazing. The case is velvet-lined. The brushes are polished wood. The paint colours are fabulous. It reminds me of my Urban Decay eye palette.

I run my fingers over the graphite pencils, experiment with the cantilevered lid and try out the biggest, fattest sable brush. I can’t tear myself away. It’s exquisite, and I’ve been
wanting
to get into art, and if I don’t do it in Venice, then where?

There’s an easel for sale, too. And some pads of smooth white paper that I’m already itching to draw on. I can feel a whole new exciting creative urge rising through me. Maybe I’ve got an artistic talent that I’ve never tapped into!

Plus, the easel folds up. I could easily get it on to a vaporetto. I could go and join the American art students in that little square! Yes! I have a sudden vision of myself arriving home from honeymoon with a portfolio of amazing art. Our new home will be lined with framed sketches from our travels, everyone will be so impressed …

I’m just manhandling the easel down off the display when Luke appears, holding one of the books.

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I think they’re pretty similar. I’ll just get this one. You don’t want anything, do you?’ His eyes fall in puzzlement on the easel. ‘What’s that?’

* * *

OK, we are in serious danger of having our first honeymoon row. A
waste of money
?

For someone who claims to be an ‘art-lover’, Luke has a surprising way of showing it. You’d think he’d
support
his wife’s artistic endeavours. You’d think he’d be
pleased
. Not say, ‘Drawing? You? Really?’ Not say, ‘
How
much?’ Not say, ‘What about just getting a box of paints for five euros?’ He
so
doesn’t understand anything.

Anyway, the lady in the shop took my side, so there. And the easel isn’t
that
heavy. Still, I might just stop and catch my breath for a moment.

‘Are you all right?’ says Luke, looking at me in alarm. ‘Becky, let me carry it.’

‘No,’ I say obstinately. ‘It’s fine. It hardly weighs anything.’

We’re on our way to the little tucked-away square where I saw the American art students before. I’m clutching my easel and pad of paper, with my art set slung over my shoulder by the long strap.

‘Becky, don’t be ridiculous.’ He’s trying to take the easel from me. ‘It’s clearly too heavy for you.’

‘It’s not! That’s not why I stopped. I stopped because …’ I look around for inspiration. ‘Because we’ve got to choose you a mask.’

There’s a mask shop to our left and I drag the easel towards the window, trying to hide the fact that I’m out of breath.

Luke laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘What about that one?’ I point to a mask in a red, gold and silver harlequin design. ‘Or one on a stick?’

I’ve bought two masks already, which are both stunning. One has peacock feathers and one has a glittery hood. (We
have
to throw a masked Venetian party when we get back home.) But Luke hasn’t got into it at all. He keeps trying to buy the smallest, simplest mask in the shop. Which is
so
not the point.

‘That one!’ I suddenly spot an elaborate masked headdress, in purple and black satin. ‘Go and try it on!’

‘You’re not getting me into that!’ Luke recoils.

‘Well, you have to buy something special before we leave. This is our
honeymoon
, remember.’

I pick up the easel and walk determinedly on, towards the square. As I arrive, I see all the American students gathered, drawing at their easels, and my spirits lift. Here we are! How’s this for an amazing, unique experience? Drawing in Venice!

The square is quiet and shady, with nothing but a solitary café, a church and a fountain. The students are all drawing the church, so I decide to do the same. I set up my easel alongside a girl with tangled blonde curls, and get out my art materials, trying not to look self-conscious.

‘You could sit there and read your art book,’ I suggest to Luke, gesturing at a nearby café table. ‘We could order a bottle of wine … you read … I’ll draw … we’ll just have a lazy afternoon.’

‘OK.’ Luke nods, but as he sits down I can tell he’s twitchy. He opens his book, looks at his watch, then shuts it again.

‘I want to see the Scuola di San Rocco before we leave,’ he says.

‘Right.’ I nod. ‘Well, shall we do that tomorrow? Or the next day?’

By now, I’ve clipped my paper to my easel. I get out a charcoal stick and hold it up, copying the girl with blonde curls. Then I notice that Luke is tapping his fingers.

‘Do
you
want to see the Scuola di San Rocco?’ he asks abruptly.

I’ve never even heard of the Scuola di whatsit, not that I’ll admit it.

‘Not particularly.’ I shrug.

‘Well, I’ll go along there now. Get it done. I’ll catch up with you later. He gives me a kiss, then strides off, already consulting his map of Venice.

I watch him go, feeling a bit hurt, despite myself. Didn’t he want to spend a lazy afternoon with me? What’s some old building got that I haven’t?

Anyway. Never mind. The important thing is, I’m here with my easel and my gorgeous art set, and I’m going to have a lovely afternoon being creative. The girl with tangled blonde curls looks over and smiles.

‘Hi again,’ she says. ‘You decided to join us!’

‘That’s right.’ I draw a brisk, confident stroke across my page. ‘Just going to do a bit of sketching.’

I draw a few more lines, letting my artistic instinct take over, then shade a bit, then step back to look.

Oh God. I must have defective instincts. I’ve basically just drawn a triangle with a bobbly bit.

Right. Let’s start again.

* * *

After an hour my arm is aching and my head is throbbing and I’m feeling a bit discouraged. This art business is harder than I thought. I know what I
want
to draw, it’s just … it doesn’t seem to be happening on the page.

I’ve used all my charcoals, all my pastels, all my gouaches and fourteen sheets of paper. Now I’m on to the graphite pencils, but every time I draw a line I immediately rub it out.

The other problem I hadn’t foreseen is, it’s so
public
here. Tourists keep coming up to have a look, which puts me off my stride, and one little boy even burst out laughing, which was totally uncalled for.

I need a whole new approach. I screw up my fifteenth piece of paper and take a deep breath. Forget perspective and shading and all that. I’m going to do modern art. I draw a thin blue stripe down one side of the paper, and add a red spot next to it. I stand back and look at it admiringly.

Brilliant. Now I just have to think of a fancy title that sounds deep and meaningful, which is easy-peasy. I can think of about ten off the top of my head.

Falling 63.

The splinter leaves the body.

In Vietnam.

I quite like that last one,
In Vietnam
, although what it has to do with a stripe and a spot, God only knows. But it sounds cool and arty. I write ‘
In Vietnam
’ in pencil at the bottom of the page and add a flashy signature.

Perfect! And it took about thirty seconds.

The girl with tangled curls comes over and says, ‘You mind if I have a look?’

‘Go ahead,’ I say nonchalantly.

‘Right.’ The girl stares at the paper for a while, nodding slowly. ‘I like your use of vertical space.’

‘Thanks,’ I say modestly. ‘Yours is nice too,’ I add, wandering over to her sketch.

Hers is pretty expert, I have to admit. It looks exactly like the church and is all cloudy and shady. But she hasn’t got a fancy title like
In Vietnam
, has she? I’m about to offer to think of a cool title for her when I see Luke walking across the square.

‘Hi!’ I wave at him. ‘That’s my husband,’ I add to the girl. ‘We’re on honeymoon.’

‘Oh, awesome! How long are you here for? Are you going to the masked ball next week?’

‘Masked ball?’ I stare at her, riveted. ‘I didn’t know there was a masked ball.’

‘Oh, sure. You can buy tickets at the kiosk in St Mark’s Square. It’s next Saturday.’

This is so cool! A masked ball! I have a vision of me and Luke in amazing masks and evening dress, whisking along the Grand Canal in a candle-lit gondola. We have to go. We
have
to.

‘How did you do?’ Luke comes up, kisses me, then surveys my paper. For a few moments he doesn’t speak. When at last he turns, his mouth is twitching.

‘
In Vietnam
,’ he says.

‘That’s right.’ I nod carelessly. ‘It’s conceptual.’

‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘What’s the concept?’

For a moment I’m silenced.

‘I don’t have to tell you the concept,’ I say at last. ‘It’s private.’

‘
Private
?’

‘Yes. It’s very personal and profound. Actually.’

I hastily fold up all my discarded bits of paper before he can look at them.

‘So, will you be working every day?’ Luke lifts his eyebrows. ‘Do we have to structure our holiday round your creative impulses?’

‘We’ll see,’ I say evasively.

I’m going off art a bit, to be honest. I mean, I still love all the stuff – all the pencils and brushes and cute little pots of paint. It’s just the actual
doing the art
, which …

Well. It gets a bit samey. I bet this is an open secret among artists which no one ever admits. I bet Picasso sometimes used to think to himself,
God, not another bloody cube.

‘I was just hearing there’s a masked ball next Saturday,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘We have to go. It’ll be amazing!’

‘Next Saturday?’ Luke’s face crinkles in a way I don’t quite understand.

‘Yes. Don’t worry, I’m sure we can extend our stay by a week or two.’ I start packing up my easel. ‘Let’s go for an ice-cream.’

* * *

We go and eat the most scrumptious gelati, sitting by the side of a canal with the late sun shining on the water. It’s basically your perfect honeymoon scenario – but Luke’s face stays crinkled.

Why is his face crinkled?

Also, a couple of times he starts to say, ‘Becky …’ then stops. And when I say ‘What?’ he replies, ‘Doesn’t matter,’ which means it
does
matter, but he just doesn’t want to say it.

What doesn’t he want to say?

As we head back to the hotel in silence, I feel increasingly fretful. And it isn’t just because this easel is a complete pain and keeps bumping against my legs and I wish I’d never bought it.

It’s Luke. He isn’t being honeymoony. He isn’t being joyful. He isn’t behaving like someone embarking on the biggest adventure of their whole life. He looks harassed.

It makes no sense. I mean, he’s not even organizing the trip. All he has to do is come along for the ride. All he has to do is remember his passport. If someone was taking me round the world for a whole year, I’d be on cloud nine! And my face would definitely
not
crinkle.

I’m going to confront him, I decide. As soon as I’ve got rid of this bloody easel and we’ve got upstairs to our room. We head up the steps into our hotel, and I practically shove the easel at the receptionist.

‘Could you please ship this to England? Same address. Thank you so much.’

‘Is the art career over already, then?’ enquires Luke, but I ignore him.

‘And we’d like to extend our stay,’ I add to the receptionist. ‘We’d like to stay at least another week. Will that be possible?’

‘Becky.’ Luke’s face is crinkling harder than ever. ‘Hold on a minute.’

‘It’s fine!’ I reassure him. ‘The air tickets are totally flexible. I’ll sort it all out. You don’t have to do anything.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The receptionist is looking from my face to Luke’s, bewildered. ‘You want to stay for longer? I thought you wanted to check out early.’

‘
Early
?’ I stare at her. ‘Why would we check out early?’ The receptionist doesn’t reply, just looks questioningly at Luke. ‘What’s going on?’ I turn to him. ‘What’s she talking about?’

‘Becky—’ He stops. ‘I’ve been thinking. We need to talk about this holiday.’

‘Honeymoon,’ I correct him.

‘Honeymoon.’ He nods. ‘Let’s go and …’ He gestures to a nearby seating area with two love seats. The receptionist takes the easel, and I follow Luke, feeling more agitated than ever.

‘OK,’ I say, as soon as we’re out of earshot. ‘What’s up? Why are you being all weird and saying we want to check out early?’

‘I’m not being weird,’ he retorts. ‘I just think we should crack on if we want to get to Prague and all these other places.’

Crack on
? That has to be the least honeymoony term in the world. We’re not in a meeting. We’re not meeting some time-efficient objective, or whatever he does at work. He has to get out of that mentality, and then he’ll start enjoying himself.

‘We’re supposed to be relaxing, remember?’ I point out. ‘If we want to spend three weeks in Venice, we can. Why not? We’ve got all
year
.’

There’s silence. Something about Luke’s expression is wrong. And now he won’t meet my eye.

‘Haven’t we?’ I say at last, and he sighs.

‘Becky … I know you wanted to take a year.’

My heart instantly drops. No. No. He cannot be doing this.

‘You wanted to take a year too,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘We agreed. Luke, we
are
taking a year!’

‘A
year
? Seriously? Becky, I have a business to run. I have commitments. I can’t just duck out of life.’

This is why he went to the Scuola di whatsit this afternoon, I suddenly realize in dismay. He was trying to hurry things up.

‘But we agreed! Michael’s taking over while you’re away, everything’s arranged, we set it all up …’

Luke’s shaking his head. ‘
You
set it up. I didn’t have the heart to argue when you landed it on me. But you must realize it’s not feasible.’

‘It
is
feasible!’ I grab his hands. ‘Luke, it’s
essential
. You need some time out. You were practically having a nervous breakdown before the wedding. The company will be fine, the tickets are booked … we’re doing this. We’re
doing
it, OK?’