Tales of Venice II

Vanacanze Veniziane

The days that followed settled into a rhythm as gentle as the Venetian sun itself. Each morning began in the cortile, beneath the great jasmine tree that still provided a few lingering blossoms. The air was heavy with its perfume, mixing with the faint mineral scent of the canal that lapped just beyond their quay. Lorenzo, as discreet as ever, brought a silver tray with coffee, fresh brioche, little bowls of figs and cherries when he had a moment to spare in the morning. Alfred, in his pale pyjama shirt rolled at the sleeves, would sit close, his hand often resting lightly on his knee as they ate. In the morning light, he was always wrapped in one of his silken robes, pale and shimmering, an apparition of quiet splendour at nine am as Alfred called it. Their conversation was never hurried, sometimes they read aloud passages from a book or a magazine they found interesting, 'more books is all you need..' Alfred remarked with a smile and often they simply sat looking at each other, listening to the hum of the city beginning its day as they sipped their morning coffee.

By late afternoon, when the light grew soft and the city slowed, they slipped into the ritual of aperitivo. They favoured elegant, tucked-away bars, some with a faint scent of tobacco smoke, others panelled in dark wood and marble. Inside, they would find a corner table and keep their sunglasses on, as though they were hiding from the world but simultaneously daring it to look. Campari spritzes arrived in tall goblets that caught the fading sun like flaming rubies. Alfred, all golden tanned, would lean close over the little dish of olives, brushing his hand as they reached. He in his astute ways always managed to look both amused and casually glamorous at once, sipping his drink as though it were the essence of summer distilled, as Alfred called it. They teased, whispered, and sometimes sat in complicit silence, their glances doing all the speaking.

In the evenings they often decided to make supper themselves at home. Alfred in shirtsleeves, and barefoot in his bermuda shorts, they prepared simple meals of grilled fish, a salad of fennel and oranges, and fresh bread. They carried it all out into the courtyard where the jasmine loomed above them, fragrant especially at dusk. They sat at the linen covered table, a candle glowing between them. With every bite and every sip of wine, their intimacy prevailed, moments of laughter, his hand suddenly finding Alfred’s across the table, Alfred’s foot brushing his under it. 'Do you realise,' Alfred murmured, eyes half-closed with delight, 'this is the loveliest dining room in Venice?' he only smiled, but his look said everything but eventually responded, 'because we never had supper yet in the inside dining room upstairs.'

Afterwards, restless with the soft night air, they walked out into Venice’s labyrinth. The canals lay glassy and dark, bridges illuminated in scattered lamplight. They wandered arm in arm, shoulders brushing, whispering to each other in the hush of deserted calli and canals. On one particularly beautiful corner, where the moon was reflected perfectly in the water, Alfred pulled him close and kissed him with such tenderness. 'Here,' Alfred whispered against his lips, 'I shall remember this place forever.' he smiled, lips curling in quiet amusement but his eyes shining with love: 'We have rather a catalogue of forever-places, haven’t we, dearest?'

As they walked on, they spoke of their impending return to London. The thought of autumn filled them both with anticipation rather than regret, evenings by the fire, the city’s air growing crisp, the drawing room overloaded with books, naturally his, lit only with minimal light and a glowing fire. He said he longed for the smell of woodsmoke, Alfred for the comfort of the London flat after so much wandering. Yet both agreed that Venice, in these last days of summer, would remain imprinted on them: golden mornings in the cortile, Campari afternoons behind dark glasses, jasmine scented suppers, and moonlit kisses over quiet canals.

It was, in truth, a little season unto itself, sealed, eternal, theirs alone.

On their lazier days, the boat would race them across the lagoon to the Lido, Lorenzo steering with the ease of one who had done so for decades. Though September’s heat had begun to fade, the air was still warm enough to be intoxicating. They would sit on their loungers in the sun, books open but mostly unread, letting the salty breeze and the faint laughter of children in the distance wash over them. At lunchtime they would stroll up to the restaurant on the beach, an elegant pavilion, white tablecloths fluttering slightly in the sea air, waiters in cream jackets, where they feasted on grilled fish, crisp salads, and carafes of cold white wine.

Afterwards, the sea beckoned. They swam carefree, as though they had been born to this element. Both sleek and bronzed, would dart away, him laughing as Alfred gave chase, until he leapt onto Alfred’s back in the shallows wrapping his legs around his waist as he swam, sending them both tumbling with shouts of delight into the gentle waves. Sometimes it was him who scooped Alfred up, carrying him through the water, arms linked until their faces tilted up together towards the sun, laughter dissolving into tender kisses. To any passer-by, they looked like two boys entirely untethered from the world, existing only for one another and for the shallow salt water shimmering around them.

When the sun began to lower, they left the beach for a slow walk along the grand viale, its rows of old plane trees stretching endlessly into the ambering sky. Him, elegant even in leisure, in his navy and cream beach pyjamas with the nonchalance of a 1930's beach go-er, their dark hair swept back, still wet from the sea. Alfred, equally radiant, walked with his hand brushing his, in his navy striped top. They paused at a gelateria to have almond granita, a ritual that always delighted him, Alfred teased him incessantly for eating his too quickly like a giddy child. The evening air smelled of the sea, faint tobacco smoke, and the sweet almond from their cups.

By the time Lorenzo met them at the quay, twilight was draping its violet shawl across the lagoon. Back at the palazzo, they changed into evening clothes. Together they set out for supper in town, gliding across the canals to a trattoria hidden away from the tourist paths. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and softly lit, wood beams above, tables set with flickering candles. They dined on delicate Venetian specialities, tagliolini with scampi, bitter green leaves dressed simply with oil and garlic. All the while their hands brushed across the table, their laughter mingling with the hum of the room.

But it was afterwards that the evening took on its final glow: a nightcap at a glamorous bar. Polished wood, mirrored walls, soft golden lamps, the kind of room where the clink of glasses seemed like music. They slipped into a corner banquette, ordered two martinis (served, almost iced), and settled into each other’s presence. Though they spoke of many things, books, friends from everywhere, plans for autumn in London, but their looks said far more. Alfred’s eyes followed his with unbroken tenderness, while he, in his quick charm, offered glances that were half-jokes, half-promises, fully declarations of love. Around them, the crowd could not help but watch: their elegance was restrained yet magnetic, two figures who seemed to have walked in, carrying their private universe with them.

They often lingered late, glasses emptied, voices low, until finally they slipped out into the Venetian night once more, their footsteps in harmony as they often skipped and danced in deserted calli and along canals, their glances burning with the silent knowledge that they were each other’s most cherished treasure.


An Announcement

The courtyard glowed in the late morning sun, the jasmine scenting the air with that almost creamy sweetness that seemed to belong only to this time of the year. Alfred, always meticulous even in the smallest of rituals, leaned over the table in his open navy polo, carefully slicing a peach. He transferred one perfect half onto his plate.

He, meanwhile, was leaning back comfortably in his chair, sunglasses sliding down his nose, his thumbs tapping over his phone in distracted concentration. He glanced at the peach, smiled vaguely, then, as though commenting on the colour of the sky, he set his phone down and said, 'Oh, we’re hosting a dinner party here on Friday.' Alfred’s knife froze mid-air. His head shot up, and his eyes, those great brown pools widened as though he had just announced an impending royal visit.

'In two days?'; Alfred’s voice trembled between disbelief and a half-laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. 'Dearest, you’ve just slipped that in like you’re telling me we’re out of milk. Who is coming?'

He lifted his coffee cup with usual calm, raised his eyebrows with a mischievous twinkle, and replied almost lazily, 'Oh, Henry and David are in town with George and Jerry who are delightful, they said they would be coming when I told them we are here. My cousin Arabella Arrivabene will be here too, and John, a former journalist, very clever, you’ll like him.' He spoke with such casual assurance, as if summoning figures out of the air and setting them at his table required nothing more than a wave of his hand.

Alfred blinked at him, still clutching the knife. 'That’s a guest list fit for a diplomatic summit. And you just, announce it, mid-brioche?'

He smirked at Alfred, took a delicate bite of the peach Alfred had cut for him, and murmured, 'I have but few qualities, but hosting a tremendous dinner party is one of them.' Alfred let out a laugh, half exasperated, half helplessly in love. 'You’ll be the undoing of me. I thought we were having a quiet week and now I must steel myself for Arabella and co...'

'She probably adores you already,' he returned sweetly, eyes glinting over the edge of his coffee cup. 'She told me you look like someone out of a Sargent portrait. So you’ve nothing to worry about, I think.'

Alfred blushed, looking down at his plate with the shyest of smiles, before leaning over the table and pressing a kiss against his temple. 'Thank you for the peach, indeed, 'He teased, feigning solemnity, and Alfred rolled his eyes with fond surrender.

Soon after, Alfred rose, stretching his long bronzed frame, and announced that he would retreat to the bath with his book, something romantic, predictably. He, left alone in the courtyard, pulled a small pad of notepaper towards him with a sense of purpose. He began scribbling menus and placement cards with a flourish, already planning which set of silver would gleam under the candlelight, and left it to Alfred to decide what wine to drink, he's much better at that than I am he thought. The morning sun slid across the marble tiles, warming the courtyard, while from within drifted the sound of water running, interrupted occasionally by the turning of pages, and Alfred’s faint humming echoing through the palazzo.

The following morning, a sense of expectancy threaded through the palazzo. The handwritten menus and the ivory-toned placement cards, their edges elegantly tooled in gilt and dark navy, arrived from the printers. Lorenzo’s wife, discreet and efficient, had already set to work upstairs in the dining room at the far end of the corridor adjoining the drawing room. She dusted the Murano chandelier until it shimmered like frozen waterdrops, polished the tall silver candelabra on the table until each stem caught the light, and prepared the flatware so finely that it gleamed like small daggers of moonlight. She threw open the tall windows to let the sea-tinged breeze freshen the faded silk curtains.

Alfred wandered in after her, surveying the room with a smile tugging at his lips. He stood in the middle of the parquet floor, hands in his pockets, gazing up at the chandelier and the long oval table beneath it. 'A perfect stage for a dinner party,' he said warmly, amused at his unerring instinct for atmosphere. He leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss against his cheek, his eyes glinting with both admiration and affection.

The day unfolded in gentle rhythm. After their usual breakfast in the courtyard, they took Lorenzo’s boat and jetted to the Guggenheim. Inside the unfinished palazzo, the cool white walls were hung with the brash gestures of modernism, Mondrians, Picassos, Pollocks all clashing with the serene geometry of Venice outside. They spend most of the afternoon looking at the pieces and then wanderer about the streets eventually looking for a gelateria.

Alfred brow suddenly furrowed with curiosity, before turning towards him with a half-serious question.

'What do you think about modern art?' he asked.

He stood tall with his hands clasped loosely behind his back after putting his ice cream down. His brow creased, dark eyebrows knotting together as though someone had just placed a spoiled oyster in front of him. Finally, with exquisite disdain, he pronounced: 'A whole lot of bosh. I generally don't like anything that is made after the war. There are some exceptions, naturally.'

Alfred burst out laughing, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. 'They say one needs to understand it, to really… appreciate.'

He wheeled toward Alfred, his lips curving in mock earnestness. 'Understand it? My dear, I don’t want to understand any of it. If you haven’t the skill to make something actually beautiful, then move on and stop boring people to sobs with your catalogue of incompetence.' With that, he returned serenely to his pistachio gelato as though he had just delivered a definitive lecture and now savoured his pistachio and cherry ice cream.

Alfred’s laughter rose again, joyous and unrestrained. 'That’s precisely why I love you,' he said, his eyes shining.

He feigning modesty, gave a beatific, falsely polite smile as if accepting some tiresome compliment at a dull soirée. Then, with a sudden wink, he reached for Alfred’s hand and squeezed it. 'Give me a real painting any day, or I rather look at you' he said, his voice velvet with conviction. Alfred blushed and scooped up his ice cream.


They walked slowly, the late afternoon sun spilling across the square. The gelato accompanying them as they strolled past elegant shop windows, notebooks and marbled papers, fine glass, and antique jewellery and pens. Passers-by turned to watch them, one in cream trousers and a navy striped cardigan, the other tanned and glowing in a pink shirt, moving together with an ease that made them look less like tourists than like two men in possession of the city itself. Their clasped hands swung gently between them as they ambled on, entirely wrapped up in each other.

After their late supper that evening, the house lay in a kind of perfect quietness. The drawing room glowed with the soft, light of candles, their flames bending gently in the draft from the balcony doors, which stood open onto the murmuring night air. From somewhere down a canal came the faint sound of a boat passing, and beyond that, the echo of a someone's voice, more suggestion than sound.

He lay back lazily on the tartan sofa, one arm tucked under his head, the other lazily flicking through a magazine, his slipper dangling loosely from one foot. Alfred sat on the floor at his feet, his back resting against the sofa’s edge. He tilted his head back now and then into his absent caresses, fingers running idly through his hair, brushing his neck, a touch so casual yet so intimate. They stayed like that for a while, in that perfectly shared silence that belongs only to those who are perfectly comfortable with one another, not speaking, but aware of each other entirely.

And then, quite without warning, Alfred stirred. He got up, crossed to the gramophone, and after a moment of riffling through sleeves, dropped a record onto the turntable. A brassy, irresistible beat burst into the room: a rollicking Italian 60s tune, its cheerfulness almost absurd in the candlelit quietness of the house.

He startled, sat up, and let out a roaring laugh. 'What on earth possessed you to play this?!' he exclaimed, eyes dancing with disbelief.

Alfred, already grinning, reached for his hand and tugged him up from the sofa. 'Oh, I always loved this song,' he said with mock seriousness. 'And yesterday morning, rifling through your records, I discovered you had it tucked away here. A crime not to play it, really.' he continued. 'Those were my papa's, he loved these!' he replied.

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and within moments they were spinning around the rug. Alfred twisting with boyish abandon, him following, his silk dressing gown swirling around his legs, both of them in fits of laughter at the silliness of it all.

One song melted into the next, and then the mood shifted. Alfred drew him close now, their bodies pressed against each other, swaying in time of Senza Fine Alfred's long arms draped over his shoulders, not with the polish of ballroom elegance, but with the shy insistence of a teenager at a dance. He was surprised by the sudden intimacy, gave a little giggle, then rested his head briefly against Alfred’s chest, hearing the quickened heartbeat beneath the pink cotton of his shirt.

They swayed together, their laughter falling into quiet. Their eyes met, and in that gaze the room seemed to dissolve around them, leaving only the two of them moving slowly in each other’s arms.

'Now tell me this isn’t romantic,' Alfred murmured, his voice low, his lips just grazing his temple.

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled the faint almost floral-like scent that clung to Alfred, and then looked up at him with the smallest, trembling smile. 'All one can ever ask for, to be honest,' he whispered.

And with that, Alfred bent and kissed him, deeply, tenderly, passionately, a kiss that began in laughter and ended in something altogether more serious. The record turned on, the candlelight flickered, the canal murmured outside, and in that moment the whole world was reduced to two figures dancing, clinging, kissing in a gilded candlelit room above the water.



The following morning after their usual breakfast in the courtyard, shaded beneath the jasmine tree, Lorenzo’s wife approached with her quiet efficiency and a glint of excitement. She informed them that the chef would arrive at five o’clock sharp with his brigade of three waiters, and he informed her in turn that there were old livery jackets and waistcoats tucked away in one of the attic bedrooms for the waiters to wear once they had finished the preparations. She nodded approvingly, as though this detail alone assured the evening’s success. Alfred, watching him, smiled at the way he always seemed to glide into the role of host with ease and attention to detail, his mind already turning to candlelight and aperitivo.

They walked through the dining room together one last time to survey the preparations: the chandelier gleaming, the silver candelabra now dazzlingly polished, the long table dressed in white damask with pale green eighteenth-century porcelain from Bavaria and crystal glasses catching the morning light. 'Let's rethink the length of those candles he said to her before she left the room. They need to be slightly shorter.'  It was, as always, all under control. He gave a soft little nod of satisfaction and Alfred laughed, is there nothing that your eye doesn't pick up on?' He simply winked at him and they walked back downstairs.

The day unfolded lazily, a quiet contrast to the glittering evening that awaited them. By midday, desiring a change of scenery, they slipped out to a nearby bar for aperitivo. It was one of those tucked-away Venetian places where the tables were small, the crowd largely local, and the shelves groaned with aperitif bottles that looked as though they’d been there since 1954.

They took their places at a narrow marble-topped table, ordered two Campari sodas with thin slices of orange, and let the ease of the day enfold them. A few olives, some slivers of salame, and grissini were all they touched. He leaned back in his chair, nonchalant in a pale blue shirt with the collar turned up, sipping his crimson drink with the air of a man who had all the time in the world.

Alfred, stretching his long legs under the table, tilted his head. 'So,' he said with mock seriousness, 'what are we wearing tonight?'

'Dinner suits, of course,' He replied, lowering his glass with a faint smile of inevitability.

Alfred raised his brows in mock suspicion. 'I almost thought you’d say costumed.'

He shot him one of his devastatingly dry looks, lips curling into a knowing smile. 'That would never do nowadays. No one can execute a proper costumed party anymore. The last one worthy of the name was by C. de B., and most, if not all people who knew how to do that are now long dead and that, dearest, is the final word on the matter.' He pronounced this with such decisive elegance that Alfred burst into laughter.

'Well,' Alfred chuckled, leaning across to cup his cheek with a hand still cool from his glass, 'I rest my case.'

His eyes twinkling, winked at him before taking another sip. 'You see, I keep you informed,' he said sweetly.

They lingered there a while, talking idly of the evening to come, their fingers occasionally brushing across the table, their laughter folding into the hum of the little bar. Then, when the shadows lengthened and the air grew thicker with the scent of canals, they slowly made their way home through the labyrinth of narrow alleys. The water glittered gold in the late afternoon light, and as they walked side by side, Alfred occasionally reaching to squeeze his hand until they arrived at their their destination.



Familiar Faces

The afternoon slid into early evening with that golden glow, the kind that makes the walls of the palazzo gleam as if the air itself has been painted. Upstairs, preparations for the dinner party began in earnest.

He had bathed in water perfumed with oil, his skin gleaming faintly in the last streaks of daylight. Now, at his dressing table, he moved with purpose, his fingers fastening shirt studs of sapphire into the fine voile pleated front of his dinner shirt. The thin fabric clung to him just so, featherlight against his skin, as he wrapped himself in his impeccable double-breasted dinner suit. The suit, black, deep as ink, the lapels broad and sweeping, ribbed silk catching the light.

He slipped his stockinged feet, the powder blue shot through with faint pink threads, into the high gleam of his patent pumps, with flat grosgrain bows and clipped his art deco brooches on both lapels. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the bottle of his scent, the heady scent reserved for summer evenings: resinous, floral, laced with leather, it seemed to drape itself about him.

Alfred emerged from the bathroom then, hair still slightly damp and flopping forward as he moved, sleeves rolled up as he strode across the room to fetch his cufflinks. He was all earnest concentration as he leaned into the mirror, his fingers working meticulously at his bow tie, brows furrowed in focus. The sight stopped him mid-movement. He turned on the small stool, his hand falling idly on the dressing table surface, watching.

'What exactly is it that you are looking at?' Alfred asked, not quite turning, his voice touched with nervous amusement.

'Oh, do I make you nervous?' he answered, coy, rising in one graceful movement. He crossed to him, close enough to inhale that faint, floral-like scent that clung to Alfred now, and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. His lips lingered there for a moment before he drew back, his eyes glimmering with a smouldering look. 'I could look at you for hours.'

Alfred, his eyes softening though he tried for composure, replied tenderly, 'Well, that’s what we do most of the day when we’re here.' His hand lifted, thumb brushing his jaw, and he leaned in to kiss him fully, all thought of bow ties forgotten for a moment.

When they drew apart, they shared a small laugh, that private, conspiratorial laughter that belonged only to them. He adjusted Alfred’s bow in one swift movement, then gave him a smile of approval 'There you go. I know how nervous you get when it's not perfectly symmetrical.' Alfred brushed a lock of his hair tenderly back into place, his fingers lingering at his temple.

At last, they were ready. Together they stepped from their bedroom, They slowly descended the staircase, side by side, their shoes whispering against the stone, hands brushing as they walked.

The drawing room with it's candles already lit, and a tray of glasses at the ready, and as they entered, they paused for a moment to take it in. The chandelier above threw its light like a cascade of jewels across the silk walls. The anticipation in the air was palpable, yet between them it was softened, excited for their evening ahead.

Side by side, elegant beyond compare, they crossed into the glow, ready to welcome their guests, but already enjoying each others company.

The courtyard below glowed with a restrained splendour, lanterns placed just so to mark the pathway from the quay to the great oak door. Their light picked out the jasmine leaves still glossy in the night air and threw delicate patterns onto the old brick walls. Inside, the corridor, dimly lit by sconces that were specially lit for the occasion, seemed to elongate the approach.

Upstairs, he and Alfred sat momentarily in the drawing room, the air fragrant with jasmine, roses and the faintest trace of the incense smouldering in a bronze dish. A waiter in discreet livery hovered quietly, his presence unobtrusive, awaiting instruction. The champagne coupes had already been arranged on a silver tray, chilled bottles standing at attention in their buckets like soldiers in a parade.

They had only just settled when the sharp sound of laughter pierced over the canal. It was a laugh quite unlike any other, unmistakably David’s, high, bright, and well, rather loud. He tilted his head, his lips curving into a sly smile, eyes glimmering as he looked at Alfred.

'There they come,' he murmured, rising slightly, his voice pitched in mock gravity. 'Thank heavens the trees are still blossoming, and the arrangements have enough density to them. Otherwise we shall never hear the end of it.'

Alfred laughed out loud, throwing his head back, his shoulders shaking with amusement. The sound joined David’s merriment outside, a happy prelude.

Sure enough, a moment later came the clear metallic chime of the pull bell at the quay. Beneath it, the indistinct murmur of voices, warm greetings, the deep timbre of Lorenzo’s welcome, the shuffle of feet crossing the courtyard stones.

He straightened, a faint ripple of excitement dancing over his face, and glanced at Alfred with that look which said: and so we begin... Together, hand brushing against hand, they began their descent.

The staircase, lined with flickering sconces, seemed made for such entrances. Slowly, they glided down, their patent shoes whispering against the steps, Alfred’s gaze fixed on him and then on the little party gathered below. Their figures, poised in anticipation at the bottom of the stairs, looked up in wonder, Henry’s hand lightly placed at David’s back, behind them George and Jerry with glowing faces.

The effect was precisely as intended: an unveiling. The hosts, descending through the dimly lit corridor of history, to receive their friends as if from another world.

From below came David’s unmistakable cry, carrying up the marble staircase in a shrieking declaration:

'Daaaaarling! Let me look at you! How are you?!'

It rang out so roundly that he almost stumbled with laughter mid-step, Alfred giving a discreet squeeze to his hand as if to steady him. By the time they reached the bottom of the stair, David, face lit up with delight, fell, as was his custom to certain friends into a steady, floor depth curtsy as he took his hand and rose up again. They embraced warmly and he laughed, David enveloping him in a perfumed cloud of gaiety and affection.

'You AAAreee an angel for having us tonight,' David said, pulling back to inspect him from head to toe with a keen seriousness 'And you've got some colour on your cheeks!' He shrieked, 'Is that your doing Alfred?' he asked. Before Alfred could respond he went on, 'We didn’t even know you two lovebirds would be staying here so long, scandalous, really.'

'How could we not have you, when I knew you’d be in town?' he replied smoothly, his voice velvet and teasing David in equal measure. They embraced once more, David squeezing him tightly before, with a dramatic turn, he descended upon Alfred, who received him with equal fondness, albeit a shade more shyly.

He had moved on to Henry, tall and ash-blond, elegant in his quiet way, his camera never far from his eye though it rested tonight. Henry smiled warmly and they embraced, the kind of embrace only old friends achieve. He murmured something conspiratorial about David, and Henry’s face softened into laughter.

Meanwhile, David had Alfred firmly in his grasp, patting his arm and exclaiming, 'Oh you precious thing, he’ll make quite a Venetian of you yet!'

Beyond them stood George and Jerry. Jerry sharp-eyed, astute, her smile radiant, George gentler, quietly affectionate. Jerry swept him into a fond hug, whispering something wicked in his ear that made him throw back his head in laughter, while George shook his hand warmly, squeezing with that old-fashioned sincerity that made one feel both welcome and seen. She was dripping in diamonds as she always was at such occasions and wore a sleek silvery satin bias cut dress that set off her tanned skin and thin frame.

The air filled with a buzz of delight, overlapping voices, laughter ringing under the arches. Alfred, ever gracious and discreet, raised his hand slightly and said with that soft, measured tone of his:

'Please, do come up. We’ll wait for the others to arrive.'

So, in a little procession, they ascended the staircase once more. David, naturally, stationed himself beside him and Alfred, speaking in bursts, gesturing, his words a cascade of opinions. Henry and George followed with smiles, Jerry’s laugh chiming up the stairwell as she spoke of the lanterns outside and the courtyard’s scent of jasmine.

By the time they reached the drawing room, the atmosphere had already taken flight. They settled into its glow, candles flickering, champagne, and the sound of the canal faint in the distance. The reunion had the warmth of old velvet, the sparkle of champagne, and above all, that quiet undertone of tender joy that only comes when friends meet again and time seems to fold itself in half.

They had scarcely settled in when the drawing room, aglow with candles and shaded lamps, revealed itself anew to their guests. Henry, ever animated when among good company, leaned in with George and Jerry, the three of them in bright conversation already on the tartan sofa, something about Venice, and a curious anecdote involving an ill-fated person. Jerry’s laugh was quicksilver, sharp and melodic, while George listened with the quiet sparkle of a man perfectly content to watch the interplay.

Alfred, looking deliciously boyish and earnest in his dinner suit, darted across the carpet to the record player, his bowtie slightly askew with gentle haste. With an affectionate glance back at him, he lowered the needle and let the room fill with the brassy, shimmering warmth of Glenn Miller. The first notes of Moonlight Serenade unfurled like silk and he saw the expression of happiness on his face and all at once the air itself seemed to hum with expectation.

He had meanwhile, risen from his canapé, his eye gleaming with quiet mischief as he gestured for the waiter. “What shall everyone have?” he asked with precision, though the answer was already decided in his mind. He knew the sparkle of champagne was what the evening required. And indeed, before they could reply, he had instructed discreetly 'Champagne, please, for everyone.'

David had been prowling the walls. He paused in front of a large, framed photograph on the far wall, his head tilted just so. 'Oh, my dear,' he said, 'you are very much like your papa here, the nose, the brow, but, heavens, you are almost a photocopy of your darling mummy.'

He gave a fond little smile, the sort of smile that was both amused and softened by memory. 'So I’ve been told,' he said smoothly, as the waiter placed a coupe in his hand. He passed it to David with a bow as if knighting him, which sent David into another gale of laughter.

The waiter moved round, offering coupes to Henry, to George, to Jerry. Alfred, ever attentive, took one from the tray himself and presented it to Jerry, who accepted with a broad smile, since she adored champagne.

It was at that very moment, the clinking of coupes, the soft brass of Glenn Miller swelling, that the bell rang once more. A faint echo from the quay, followed by the hollow thud of footsteps crossing the courtyard, then the murmur of Lorenzo’s voice welcoming the next arrivals.

He lifted his head slightly, like a cat catching sound before the others. He could already hear the measured tread on the staircase, ascending towards the drawing room. Another wave of anticipation, like the next page of a play waiting to be revealed, swept across the candlelit room.

The murmur of conversation from the drawing room drifted lightly through the landing, punctuated by Jerry’s bright laugh and the gentle clinking of coupes. As he and Alfred reached the top of the staircase, two familiar figures appeared ascending from below, their voices echoing warmly against the old stucco walls.

'Now it’s you standing there!' Arabella cried with her melodious laugh, her nearly black eyes glittering beneath the light of the sconces. 'How times change!' Her silk Fortuny like gown caught the faint gleam of candlelight as she hurried up the last few steps, embracing him with the quick and heartfelt warmth of family. She kissed him once on each cheek with audible affection, leaving the faintest trace of scent, violets, tobacco, and the rattling of rows of pearls.

John followed at a calmer pace, broad smile already in place, his presence solid and charming, the air of a man who carried both stories and secrets in equal measure as was his vocation. He greeted him with a fond embrace too, a softer 'Oh, Johnny, I'm so glad you could make it' murmured with delight before they all reached the landing together.

'Arabella, John,' he said, turning slightly so that Alfred was drawn into their little circle. 'This is Alfred.' he said with a sparkle in his eyes.

Arabella’s gaze fell upon him immediately, those near-black eyes, curious, piercing, even appraising at first, like a jeweller turning over an unfamiliar stone. But as soon as Alfred greeted her, softly, with that lilting Italian he had so carefully perfected, his charming vowels softened like velvet, her face broke into a luminous smile, warm and approving. Her hand touched his arm with sudden intimacy. 'Così tennero,' she murmured. 'How enchanting.'

John extended his hand with a genial bow. Alfred, slightly pink about the ears, shook it firmly but courteously, the corners of his lips lifting in that modest way that so often charmed people at once. Together they crossed the final steps onto the landing. Him walking alongside John, glanced once at Alfred, who in turn cast him a quick smile, nervous, possibly, but also amused, as though half-entertained by his own sudden immersion into the dazzling orbit of both him and "La Arrivabene."

The door to the drawing room opened with a little flourish, the low brass of Glenn Miller spilling out. The others turned as they entered.

'Ah, Arabella!' Alfred announced brightly, bringing her forward with the poise of a polished host. 'May I introduce you all' But David, charming as always, cut in. 'You don’t need to introduce such beauty, darling, she announces herself!' Already on his feet, coupe in hand, he swept towards Arabella with great gallantry, his eye caught at once by her unusual, raven-haired elegance.

Meanwhile, he, discreetly guided John into the circle. 'Alfred, darling.' he said 'You must all know of John: my usual purveyor of champagne, sometimes of gossip, and, occasionally, even of truths.' He gave a wicked wink. 'But always, always, of the most wonderful conversation.'

John inclined his head modestly, to the warm ripple of laughter that followed. Alfred leaned towards him, shaking his hand once more with a smile that was this time steadier, warmer. 'Then we have much to discuss,' Alfred said.

'Indeed you do,' he quipped lightly, slipping away as Arabella was swept into David’s admiration and Henry’s quiet interest. 'For Alfred knows everything about wine, and John, everything about champagne. You may never leave that corner of the room again!'

And with that, he left them where they stood , John, amused, Arabella dazzling, Alfred already engaged in conversation, as he moved across the candlelit room to gather his other friends, the perfect picture of effortless orchestration.

The drawing room, seemed suddenly alive, a carousel of wit, each corner glittering with sparkling conversation and laughter.

The light outside had softened into that Venetian violet that seemed to make the air itself shimmer, fading into deep blue where the canal shadows crept along the palazzo walls. The open balcony doors admitted the faint perfume of jasmine and the gentle splash of water, a counterpoint to Glenn Miller weaving warmly through the drawing room.

Waiters in livery jackets glided through the gathering, silver trays held aloft, replenishing coupes with champagne that fizzed like liquid light. Two vast platters of cicchetti made their circuit, tiny, artful works of indulgence: slivers of lobster dressed with lemon and herbs, delicate crostini glistening with anchovy paste, jewel-like olives in porcelain cups. The chatter rose and fell in waves, sparkling, effortless, a score of wit and intimacy.

Alfred and he moved gently, gracefully, through their guests, in that steady rhythm of hosts who instinctively knew when to alight upon a conversation and when to float on. Alfred, elegant in his dinner suit, spoke in low tones to George and Henry, listening intently, occasionally letting slip that quiet laugh that made his eyes crease like dark silk. He, all pale glamour in his double-breasted suit diamond clips and sapphire studs, leaned towards Jerry with conspiratorial delight, his coupe raised just so. Yet across the span of the room, over rims of champagne, their eyes found each other again and again, tender glances like private threads of light weaving through the general brilliance.

David, of course, could not resist Arabella’s pearls. He lifted the heavy ropes with his fingers as though weighing treasure, declaring them 'positively indecent in their magnificence,' which made Arabella roar with her throaty laugh. John, leaning against the mantel, observed the whole scene with a smile of feline amusement, swirling his glass delighted by the bustle of it all.

At one moment, his own voice rose above the chatter as he drew the others’ attention. 'And here..' he said, gesturing with his coupe, 'is the man who photographed me as no one else ever has.' He indicated Henry with affectionate pride, his eyes gleaming. 'Just like those great 1930s photographers, he made of me something quite extraordinary.' His guests murmured approval, and he with his usual mix of modesty and mischief, added, 'Though of course, one does one’s best to provide adequate material.' A ripple of laughter circled the room, champagne bubbles catching the lamplight.

The waiters returned with a second platter, this time lobster cicchetti gleaming, passed as coupes were refilled yet again. The hum of conversation grew more luxuriant and witty as they went on.

At the record player, Alfred exchanged Glenn Miller for Cole Porter, the lilting notes of Night and Day spilling like velvet into the air. It was as if the room exhaled. Henry, Jerry, and George had half-sunk into the green tartan sofa, their laughter spilling over each other’s sentences. Arabella leaned languidly in a chair, dark eyes darting everywhere, while David, as always held court, flamboyantly sprawled across the arm of a canapée.

And there, in a scene like some dreamlike tableau, he sat with Alfred, together for once, side by side upon the verdigris canapé. His leg crossed, coupes raised; Alfred leaning just slightly towards him, his gaze flicking adoringly whenever he spoke. Around them the circle of friends glowed in lamplight and laughter, the whole picture one of those perfect, suspended evenings when glamour, intimacy, and love align as if orchestrated by the stars.

It was then, as Alfred shifted his position, that he glanced down and caught sight of their stockinged ankles. A quiet smile spread across his lips, his great brown eyes widening with boyish delight. Both were wearing precisely the same socks, powder blue, shot with a faint shimmer of pink. Neither had noticed until now. Alfred’s eyes twinkled as he looked back up at him, unable to resist a small, wicked grin. He, catching the glance, arched one brow in mock surprise and then bit his lip to suppress a laugh. The discovery was their own tiny secret amidst the splendour, a quiet thread of intimacy, woven into the golden tapestry of the evening.

Alfred chuckled low in his throat, the corners of his mouth betraying both amusement and adoration. He whispered back, 'I rather like it… as though we conspired without saying a word.'

He tilted his head, lips brushing dangerously near Alfred’s ear, and replied with languid mischief, 'Or perhaps, my love, it is fate’s way of proving that even our ankles are destined to be in harmony.'

Alfred bit his lip and shook his head with a delighted laugh. Their eyes locked for a moment, full of shared tenderness and secret amusement, that the glittering company around them seemed to dissolve into little more than candlelight and song.



Monsieur est servie

Lorenzo appeared with the smooth discretion waited ever so slightly at the door of the drawing room.

'Signore, la cena è servita.'

His eyes lit up immediately, a sparkle that made Alfred’s heart swell. He placed his coupe carefully upon the little table, rose, and with a gracious glance towards Alfred asked in his smoothest tone:

'Shall we go through?'

The guests, already humming with conversation and champagne, rose in unison, chatter spilling into little bursts of laughter. David adjusted his silk scarf, Arabella took Alfred lightly by the arm for a moment, and John murmured something witty to Jerry as they fell into procession.

The corridor was dimly lit by sconces, each casting a soft glow along the silk clad walls. The polished parquet beneath their feet creaked in that comforting familiar way, echoing centuries of footsteps. Ahead, the doors of the dining room stood open, the great space filled with a dimmed hush.

They entered slowly. The Murano chandelier above shimmered like a constellation caught in crystal, its facets catching the last of the fading day through the tall balcony doors. Beyond, the lagoon was turning a mysterious, inky blue, the last streaks of gold and violet melting into dusk. The air, soft and still, carried a faint salt tang that drifted in through the open doors.

The dining room glowed with that unmistakable dimmed hush. The hush of memories and conversations gathered in fabric, glass, and firelight. The deep green marble dados along the walls caught the flicker of the candles, their polished surfaces gleaming like pools of still water. At either end of the room, great seventeenth-century tapestries unfurled their muted dramas of hunts and allegories, their tones softened by age yet still rich, crowned above by colossal Venetian mirrors in gilded frames, each reflecting the other in a dialogue of glimmer and shadow.

At the centre lay the great rectangular table, a stage upon a vast Persian rug of faded crimson and blue, its patterns worn yet vivid. The table itself was dressed in a heavy white damask cloth that fell in weighty folds to the floor, its subtle sheen echoing the silken gleam of the matching napkins. Each place was set with his grandmother’s green Bavarian porcelain, edged in silver. The engraved silver knives and forks, gleamed like small relics of ceremony. Around them stood countless glasses, Venetian and crystal mingled, each cut to catch the flame of the candles in a different note of fire.

Before every chair rested a handwritten placement card and menu, both bordered in navy and gold, the calligraphy deep and flowing in dark blue ink. It was the hand of another age, deliberate, setting the tone that this evening was not only dinner, but ritual.

At the centre of the table stood two grand silver candelabra, their candles burning steadily, giving off a light both flattering and ceremonial. The flames licked their reflections into the mirrors at either end, multiplying their glow until the whole room seemed alive with golden movement.

Beyond the balcony doors, the Venetian sky had all but surrendered its last light; the lagoon was a field of inky velvet, pierced only by the faintest glints from passing gondolas. Against that encroaching darkness, the dining room glowed like a private universe, sumptuous, intimate, and timeless, a world away from the clatter of the present.

The guests entered in a gentle murmur of admiration, their footsteps softened by the Persian rug.

'Oh this isss gooorgeous!' David cried, his vowels elongated with delight as he clasped his hands together in approval. Arabella turned her head slowly, smiling with her feline elegance, and bestowed upon him a compliment with that quiet, conspiratorial amusement. She floated toward the table, her pearls catching fire from the candelabra, pausing here and there to take in the gleam of the silver and the shimmer of the damask as if inspecting a jewel box. 'Antonietta and your Papa would be proud' she whispered to him, he smiled, 'Well, she was his favourite sister. Remember how they always danced together at parties?' their eyes twinkled with memories.

Henry and John, meanwhile, had been drawn to the balcony doors, where the last blues of twilight hung like velvet. They stood side by side, murmuring about the beauty of the view.

At the far end, Alfred moved with that quiet assuredness of his, slipping a record onto the record player, the soft hiss and crackle yielding to the rich swell of music. The familiar brass filled the room with warmth, as if gilding the very air.

David and Jerry bent together over the table, admiring the placement cards, tracing the gilt borders with appreciative fingers. 'Look, Jerry,' David whispered gleefully, 'Isn't the ink just perfect, and navy, navy, of course.' Jerry only smiled knowingly, adjusting the fall of her diamond necklace so it caught the candlelight like frost.

He had been quietly watching, 'Shall we?' His voice invited and the guests drifted into their places, a small bustle of chairs with green velvet seats and murmurs, the glow of anticipation mingling with candlelight. He waited until all were settled before taking his seat, Alfred opposite him at the head of the table.

For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of stillness, of simply looking. Around the long expanse of damask stretched a tableau drenched in flickering gold: Arabella’s long ropes of pearls glowed like liquid moonlight against her dark dress; the sapphire clips at his own lapels glimmered back at him from the mirror. Alfred’s gaze, steady and ablaze met his and held it, needing no words. Across the way, David’s smile was as radiant as a chandelier, his joy spilling into every line of his face, while Jerry’s necklace shimmered as if woven from candlelight itself.

It was intimate and grand all at once, a circle of faces caught in flame’s embrace, a family of friends, a chosen court gathered in a Venetian palazzo. His heart swelled with contentment. This was not merely dinner, but something more precious: the act of living beautifully, together.

The double doors opened, three waiters stepped in unison, their silhouettes framed against the candlelight. Each wore black tailcoats, brass crested buttons catching points of fire. Across their chests ran waistcoats of deep navy and gold stripe, brass buttons glinting like medals; their bowties sat neatly at the neck. They moved like clockwork, polished and wordless, bearing aloft the first bottles of wine.

The hush of expectation was broken only by the gentle splash of a silken burgundy into crystal goblets. Its red hue, almost black in the low light, shimmered with hints of garnet. Then, as though a cue had sounded, they moved round again, each setting down before the guests a porcelain bowl into which nestled a delicate circle of truffled tortellini, bathed in clear golden chicken consommé. Curled shavings of parmesan floated like pale ribbons on the surface, releasing their warmth as the steam curled upward.

As the bowls were set down before him, Alfred cast him a private wink, the smallest flick of tenderness in the candlelit formality. David caught it, of course, his eyes widening, lips parting into a conspiratorial smile. 'A familiar dish,' he announced with relish, his voice carrying down the table.

The others looked up, curious. He allowed himself a smile, his tone touched with something softer than usual. 'Yes, my father’s favourite. He served it every Christmas without fail.'

There was a brief stillness, a sense of reverence in the air. Then the moment passed lightly back into laughter and conversation, as if memory had slipped gracefully into the present.

Spoons chimed gently on porcelain. Aromas of broth, truffle, and cheese rose in waves of comfort. Glasses were lifted in small toasts, the candlelight catching in their ruby depths.

'It tastes exactly like the ones you made for me and Maxim one Christmas,' David remarked after his first spoonful, tilting his head with fondness. He smiled directly at him, and he returned the look with a conspiratorial warmth that was more than nostalgia, it was shared history, threaded into the meal.

Around them the hum of music softened the edges of the room. The tapestries on the walls glowed faintly, the marble dados shining with the reflection of candelabra flames. Voices overlapped like instruments in an ensemble: Arabella leaning in with a rich laugh; Jerry’s necklace glittering as she bent her head in conversation; John sketching a story with his hands, drawing Henry and George in.

Then, as though orchestrated by an unseen conductor, the waiters reappeared, clearing plates. The main course was ready. Conversations ebbed for a moment, the air filling with anticipation, with warmth, with that glow that only comes when food, friends, and memory join together.

The plates from the first course were lifted with a seamless choreography, and their tall-stemmed glasses were filled with a pale golden white Burgundy. It glowed softly in the candlelight, casting reflections onto the damask cloth like liquid sunshine. The conversation swelled again as though lifted by the wine itself.

David, now thoroughly in his stride, leaned forward with sparkling eyes. 'The jasmine tree I passed on my way in, magnificent. And the density of the flowers in the corners of the room! Not a bare patch, not one.' His tone carried the solemnity of a horticultural sermon.

He caught Alfred’s eye across the table, and could not resist. Their lips trembled into stifled smiles, shoulders quivering as they snickered quietly, David oblivious to the laughter his botanical enthusiasm provoked. Alfred’s eyes danced, a boyish glimmer beneath his usually composed demeanour, while he, with his head tilted just so, managed to mask his laughter behind the rim of his glass.

And then, almost invisibly, the next act began. Waiters glided in with silver trays that caught the shimmer of the candelabra. As they approached they released a perfume of veal in a delicate tarragon cream sauce, the fragrance lush and silken. Alongside, asparagus spears gleamed, wrapped in prosciutto like slender gifts, and pale clouds of the creamiest potatoes.

'I hope this veal is a week old?' David quipped suddenly, his smile wicked.

Without missing a beat he leaned back, his eyes glittering dangerously in the candlelight. 'I have no use for elderly animals,' he replied, his tone dry as the Burgundy served. 'Not in life, in my wardrobe, or in the kitchen.'

There was a heartbeat of silence, then the entire table erupted. Arabella’s laugh like dark velvet, Jerry’s diamond necklace flashing as she threw back her head, Henry chuckling low, John positively roaring as he was no stranger to wicked remarks. Alfred, eyes warm and shining, shook his head in mock reproach. 'How wicked you are,' he remarked, his smile unable to hide his admiration.

'Yes,' he replied sweetly, his lips curling into a feline smile, 'but you love me.' He punctuated the remark with a conspiratorial wink across the table.

Alfred leaned back, his smile broadening, and with a little gesture blew him a kiss. He caught it deftly in mid-air and pressed it to his lapel, where his sapphire clip winked back in the candlelight.

They dined. They talked. Forks lifted veal that melted with cream and tarragon, prosciutto cradling asparagus tenderly, potatoes smooth and rich enough to make conversation pause, just how he liked it. The Burgundy flowed like silk. Around them, voices overlapped with a low music of wit and affection, punctuated by bursts of laughter that rose and fell like notes in a jazz refrain.

Outside, the sky had turned ink-blue, pressing against the balcony doors like velvet. One by one, stars pricked through the dark canopy, their faint silver glimmers mirrored in the Venetian glass of the chandeliers. Within, the table itself became a constellation: pearls, diamonds, crystal, and eyes that shone with warmth. Their own milkyway of joy, love, laughter and conversations.

The veal had been finished to the last delicate morsel, silver cleared once again with a synchronicity that made the waiters seem like dancers. The table glowed now, as the conversations slipped into talk of what lay beyond Venice, London, Paris, little excursions, vague plans of weekends away that seemed infinitely promising in the candlelight.

'I’ll have to slip to Paris before long,' He mentioned almost idly, though Alfred, catching it, nearly sat up straighter, his brown eyes suddenly alive with excitement. 'Paris,' he echoed softly, as though the word itself were a whisper.

It was then that the next act unfolded. Champagne was poured, the golden stream catching the flames of the candelabra until it seemed liquid fire. And then, a collective sigh, as plates were placed before them: millefeuilles so delicate they seemed built of air and whispers, filled with almond cream pale as ivory, crowned with cherries that gleamed like ruby cabochons.

Even he, usually unmoved by dishes he did not personally devise, felt a small, pleased smile curve his lips. The layers glowed in the candlelight, and he leaned back to survey the table with quiet triumph.

'Oh darling, you outdid yourself!' David cried, throwing up his hands in mock despair, his laughter ringing down the length of the table. 'I was wondering when you would bring rubies to the table, and whether you would attempt to poison us with arsenic-laced cream.'

A ripple of laughter. he arched a brow, sipping his champagne with feline grace. 'Well, that is my custom,' he replied silkily. 'You of all people should know that. Always almond cream, occasionally Arsenic' he added.

David clutched his chest with mock horror, then laughed so loudly poor Henry nearly spilled his glass and rolled his eyes in mock despair.

He leaned forward, his sapphire studs and clips winking in the candlelight, his smile wicked. 'But perhaps only one of them might be poisoned. I shall leave you to discover which.' He punctuated it with a languid wink, which sent Arabella into a low, delighted chuckle.

'The host with the most,' Jerry declared warmly, her diamonds flashing like sparks.

'Yes, the most stocked bookshelf of murder mysteries to be inspired by,' David retorted with perfect timing, his eyes dancing.

Cackles and champagne glasses chimed; bubbles sparkled like laughter itself.

The pudding was tasted, and for a brief moment the table fell into the reverent hush that only true culinary pleasure can enforce. He, lifting a forkful of millefeuille, closed his eyes half a beat longer than usual, savouring the almonds, the faintly bitter jewel-toned cherries, the perfect crisp of pastry. He opened them again to meet Alfred’s gaze, those impossibly wide brown eyes fixed on him with tenderness.

He raised his glass. 'In my opinion,' he said softly but clearly enough for the table, 'this the best part of the meal. Apart from you lot, the best friends a person can ever wish for. And to Alfred who puts up with most of my nonsense and still adores me.' His eyes flickered to Alfred for a heartbeat longer. 'Perhaps even better than the week-old veal.'

Laughter erupted anew, champagne flutes clinking in a merry conspiracy and they finished their millefeuilles and champagne.

Eventually the small procession glided through the dim corridor, laughter and low chatter mingling with the rustle of gowns and the click of polished shoes on marble. Alfred, the moment he found himself close enough, slid his hand around his arm, leaning in with a boyish urgency.

'I'm so glad I can talk to you for once...' he whispered, his voice low and warm, as though confessing some grievous neglect.

He smiled sidelong, his dark eyes flicking wickedly up at him. 'You’re being an excellent host, not that I had any doubts.' he whispered back, before darting forward to kiss the very tip of Alfred’s nose, quick as a secret, but enough to make Alfred flush crimson with delight.

The drawing room was waiting for them, its glow undiminished. The candles had been replenished until every gilt frame and lacquered surface shimmered as though steeped in honey. They sank into their familiar little groups: Henry and George tucked neatly into the tartan sofa talking about their spouses, Jerry drawing Arabella toward the portraits and demanding histories behind each stern face, and David already throwing himself into a bergère with all the grandeur of a dying tenor.

It was there the earlier mischief began again. David, already laughing, declared that if he did not have an Armagnac in hand within two minutes, he might collapse of sheer neglect.

'You would make a very dramatic collapse,' Jerry remarked dryly, diamonds catching the light as she leaned back. 'I imagine Venice itself would weep.'

'Venice weeps enough when you arrive,' David shot back, quick as a whip, the whole room laughing as the banter rang against the mirrors and paintings.

Arabella, resplendent in her ropes of pearls, turned with a smile and observed that perhaps David should faint more often, if only to be revived with champagne. 'We should keep a bottle perpetually on ice just in case.'

'I’ll faint now if you like,' David threatened, clutching at his breast in mock peril.

'You’d never waste good champagne on theatrics,' he interjected silkily, his smile sharp as glass. 'Not in my house.'

At this, even Alfred laughed, though his eyes strayed back to him, so transparently filled with tenderness that it undercut all the wit with a tenderness only he noticed.

And then the coffee arrived. Lorenzo himself bore the great silver pot, steam curling like incense from its spout, and the waiters followed with small ivory and gold cups. Alongside came a tray of iced maraschino and almond liqueur, little glasses frosted with condensation, and a silver dish of glossy chocolates. The scent of coffee and sugared almonds mingled with the faint incense that lingered from earlier, a haze of comfort beneath the cloak of darkness.

'Ah,' David sighed again, taking his cup. 'The only thing better than a good meal is the promise of coffee and gossip after it.'

'Or gossip during it,' Arabella added with a quick wink, drawing a laugh from Jerry, who was already reaching for a chocolate.

The room glowed with that rare alchemy: wit and warmth, glamour and intimacy. And at the centre of it, though separated by guests and conversation, he and Alfred caught each other’s eyes, a look across the lamplight, across the silver tray and coffee cups, a tether of quiet devotion amid the sparkle.

Eventually the night had drawn itself into a soft hush, as though even the house itself were exhaling after its glittering exertions. The last drops of maraschino glowed in the bottoms of their glasses, the silver tray of chocolates reduced to a few scattered wrappings, and the final notes of music had long faded into silence. Only the candle flames remained lively, trembling, dancing faintly as though reluctant to admit the party was at its end.

He leaned tenderly against Alfred, his head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, a gesture as natural as breathing. Alfred’s arm curved protectively around him, their fingers intertwined against the velvet of the canapé. Together they spoke lazily with David and Jerry, who were still sparring with the same amused sharpness as at the beginning of the night, though softened now by the mellowing glow of coffee and companionship. David, ever dramatic, was recounting some anecdote about a dreadful dinner in Suffolk, Jerry countering each flourish with a dry, surgical wit that sent them all into little ripples of laughter.

On the tartan sofa, Henry leaned discreetly toward George. With a glance toward their spouses and the faintest tilt of his head, he suggested it was time to bring the evening to its gentle close. George nodded, and as if on cue, the whole company began to stir. Arabella adjusted the clasp of her ropes of pearls; John stood and looked at the others. There was that subdued, elegant rustle that always accompanied the winding down of a perfect evening, silks shifting, shoes pressing into the Persian carpet, glasses set down with finality.

At that moment, Lorenzo appeared quietly at the drawing room door. He leaned slightly towards him, murmuring in that low tone of his: 'Signore, the boat for la Signora Arrivabene is waiting.' His words, practical though they were, seemed to carry with them the inevitability of the night’s close.

Arabella, radiant still though her laughter had softened into a velvet warmth, rose with a smile. She gathered John with her 'We shall drop you on the way, won’t we?' she said with a gracious hand on his arm, and they made their way toward the door. The boat, gleaming faintly under lantern light, waited in the courtyard to bear them through the quiet canals.

The others too began to rise, David exclaiming how divine the night had been, Jerry with her sharp little compliments, Henry warmly squeezing Alfred’s hand as they passed. Lorenzo murmured that their boat was also ready, to take them back to their hotel across the water.

They drifted together down the darkened corridor, voices echoing softly against the marble, the faint gleam of lanterns catching in diamonds, stones and ropes of pearls. The descent of the staircase had about it the air of a final, gracious act in some private play. At the bottom, the party paused in the hush of the great hall, where the doors to the courtyard stood open and the night air moved gently in.

He leaned toward them all with a smile. 'I cannot wait to see you again in London, it'll only a few weeks from now,' he said warmly.

David, always incapable of understatement, flung out his arms. 'Oh, you Aaareee an angel, darling' he exclaimed, and then, swept up in his own excitement, added, 'I found it all simply marvel-lous!' He left on Henry’s arm, the latter attempting composure though clearly amused.

He gave Jerry a long, affectionate embrace, she squealed with laughter at something he whispered, her diamonds glittering as she threw her head back. He shook George’s hand warmly before pulling him into a brief embrace, and then turned to Henry with a conspiratorial glint. 'Please, Henry, don’t let him drown in a canal. That’s all he needs…'

The entire party roared with laughter. David, halfway out the door, swung back dramatically: 'Oh come, darling, it’s not thaaat bad!' His vowels rolled around the courtyard.

Arabella received her farewell with her usual poise, a kiss to each cheek and a murmured, 'We’ll see each other very soon.' Her eyes softened as they fell briefly on Alfred, approval, curiosity, and affection all shimmering there, before she swept out with John behind her.

John, ever the entertaining guest, patted him on the shoulder. 'Since I’m only around the corner, I expect you’ll see me whether you want to or not,' he teased 'Here or in London.'

They all filed into the courtyard, their voices trailing into the night as the lantern light played across water and stone. Him and Alfred lingered just within the doorway, standing close, watching as Lorenzo ushered them gently into their waiting boats. The laughter and farewells floated back once more, then dimmed.

At last the courtyard grew still again, the ripple of water against stone the only sound. The heavy door closed with a deep, deliberate hush, leaving him and Alfred in the soft-lit quiet of the hall, alone once more in their palazzo.

They ascended the staircase slowly, the hush of the palazzo now theirs alone. Alfred’s hand brushed along the carved balustrade before he turned his gaze to him, eyes glimmering with warmth.

'Well, that went very well, I thought,' Alfred said softly, his voice tinged with relief and joy.

He gave a delighted chuckle, squeezing his hand. 'You did so well, dearest. Thank you for enduring my wild and wonderful friends,' he teased, though the affection in his tone was unmistakable.

Alfred’s smile deepened; he tightened his grasp of his hand as they entered the drawing room again, where the candles still glowed low and steady. They sank into the sofa together, and with a sigh Alfred tugged at his bow tie, slipping it loose. He leaned closer, pulling him towards him and his eyes running tenderly over his face.

'I hardly spoke to you tonight,' he admitted. 'I only watched you sparkle, in your clips, in your eyes, in the way you spoke.' His voice trembled with the weight of sincerity.

He blushed faintly, his lips curving into a secret smile, he hardly ever blushed, only with Alfred. 'Yes, I looked at you too. And you did so very well. It was a wonderful evening, and not to mention the wine...'

They sat close, words trailing into affectionate silences, the deep toll of the clock striking one o'clock folding into the quiet around them. He stretched languidly and murmured, 'Perhaps it is time for bed…'

But Alfred shook his head, his gaze locked on him. 'Not yet.'

He rose, crossed to the gramophone, and placed a record on the player. The crackle gave way to the dulcet tones of a 1930s crooner, slow and velvety. Alfred extended a hand, and he, with a mischievous half-smile, allowed himself to be pulled up.

They swayed together in the soft glow, bodies pressed close, the world shrinking to the rhythm of their hearts. His eyes lingered on Alfred’s face, brimming with quiet admiration. 'You’re the best,' he whispered, smiling through the candlelight.

Alfred bent and kissed him, long and tender, before he rested his cheek against Alfred’s shoulder. They moved together in a slow, dreamy shuffle, holding each other as if they were the last two people in the world.

One by one the candles burned down and went out, the last flicker yielding to darkness, and still they danced in each other’s arms, glowing in the hush of the night.

                                     

Home bound

The next few days unfolded at a slower pace, as though Venice itself knew that the golden summer was slipping quietly into memory. The skies turned paler, the evenings cooler, and the air carried that faint wistfulness of seasons changing.

Their days were spent gliding lazily along the canals in their boat, the water shifting from aquamarine to slate as clouds drifted across the sun. One afternoon they made one final visit to the Lido, braving the cooler air for a swim. Alfred carried him out of the water the water with mock ceremony, after they together had floated and laughed in the shallows, their bronzed limbs glistening in the low sun. Later, they strolled the length of the Gran Viale, he still in his flowing beach pyjamas and Alfred in his striped top and shorts, sharing gelati in paper cups, the sweetness mingling with the salty breeze of the Adriatic.

Evenings belonged to Venice at her most romantic. They dressed with quiet ceremony, walking arm in arm through lantern-lit streets and along canals to a favourite trattoria where the food was simple but divine, the wine mellow, and the waiters indulgent. Afterwards they would slip into their bar of choice, its wood dark and glossy, its candles glowing low. There they sat across from one another, or side by side, their bronzed faces made even warmer by the candlelight, their hands linked under the table, their glances betraying an intimacy words could never quite capture.

In those moments, amidst the clinking of glasses and the gentle hum of Venetian evenings, they seemed not merely to dine or drink but to link with each other, the aftertaste of summer, the glow of love that grew deeper even as the season waned.

The next evening the drawing room glowed softly, lit only by a few scattered candles and the faint shimmer of moonlight drifting in from the canal. They had traded dinner jackets for pyjamas, silk and soft cotton that whispered of comfort and closeness.

'Are you all ready and packed?' he asked, his voice quiet, as if unwilling to disturb the spell of their last evening in Venice.

Alfred shifted closer with a smile, nestling his head into his lap. 'Yes, all ready,' he murmured, his deep brown eyes looking up with tenderness. His fingers moved gently through his dark waves, caressing in those floppy locks of hair that made him chuckle.

'To be honest,' he said after a pause, 'I’m quite happy to return to London now.'

Alfred’s lips curved in agreement. 'Me too,' he whispered, his voice tender. 'Back to our bed and our rituals, and to kicking through the falling leaves in Hyde Park as we make our way home… and watching the sun set behind St James’s Palace.'

The image hung between them, warm as an embrace. His lips curved in a smile, eyes glistening with affection. 'I want to wear my jumpers and gloves,' he added with a soft laugh, the mischief twinkling through.

Alfred chuckled, nuzzling closer, his voice muffled against his silk-clad lap. 'And I want to watch you in them. Every single one. Especially when you pretend to be cross about the cold, and I know you’re not.'

Their laughter floated lightly into the drawing room, echoing faintly against the paintings and beyond the balcony. The room seemed to listen, its pictures carrying the sound away like one more story before their return to London.

The morning broke soft and pale, the lagoon beyond their windows washed in the faintest silver mist. Their suitcases were already lined neatly in the courtyard below, Lorenzo waiting with patience beside the boat that would take them to the airport. Upstairs, the rooms of the palazzo still held the hush of their last night.

He moved slowly about, his eye drawn again and again to familiar things, the paintings whose varnish seemed to hold centuries of light, the photographs that smiled back with echoes of family summers past. His fingers drifted along the cool marble top of the commode, then over the cushions of the green tartan sofa that had borne so much laughter only nights ago. He stood a moment longer, taking it all in, as though pressing the very texture of the room into memory.

Alfred appeared at the doorway, jacket already buttoned, a faint glow in his eyes despite the early hour. 'Are you ready to go?' he asked softly.

'Yes,' he replied with a smile that carried resolve.

Alfred studied him with quiet tenderness. 'I’ll give you a moment,' he said, voice low, as though reverent of his silence. 'I’ll wait at the stairs for you whenever you’re ready.'

His heart jumped at that gesture, Alfred’s endless patience, his understanding. He returned the smile, grateful, and turned once more to the room. His gaze lingered on the gilt frames, the dark sheen of wood, the faint traces of their evenings together, the wine glasses, the scattered books. Memories folded gently into memory of childhood summers: long lunches beneath the jasmine, laughter echoing in the courtyard, the sound of boats drifting past and he playing there as a little boy in his swimming trunks and striped top with his beach paraphernalia waiting for his parents. How lucky he had been then, and how infinitely lucky now, to stand in the same place with Alfred waiting for him, ready to carry those memories into their future.

A small, private smile played across his lips. He walked to the door, pulled it closed behind him with care, and turned. Alfred was waiting at the top of the stairs, his brown eyes warm, alight with love.

'Ready,' he said quietly.

Hand in hand, they descended the great marble staircase, each step echoing softly through the palazzo. At the bottom they paused together, instinctively turning back to take in the house one last time. The chandeliers hung still, the walls breathing faint shadows in the morning light. He looked up along the staircase, and thought, and as they always did when they left he said to himself, arrivederci nonna! ci vediamo l'anno prossimo! With a final glance, they stepped through the doorway, closing it behind them, leaving the palazzo to its silence, its echoes, and its happy memories, while carrying its essence within them.

The boat skimmed lightly over the lagoon, its engine a steady hum beneath them. The sun was already high, gilding over the water in quicksilver ripples. Venice lay behind, the domes and campanili slowly dissolving into the horizon, that dreamlike silhouette fading into the haze of late summer.

In the back of the boat, they sat close together, the warm wind tugging at their hair, the salt air brushing their faces. Alfred clasped his hand tightly, as if the very speed of their departure intensified their feelings. He leaned close, his voice coloured with wonder and affection.

'I can’t believe we sleep in our bed tonight. You and I!'

They both laughed, the sound carried off by the wind. He turned, kissed Alfred softly. Alfred’s smile lingered, his gaze steady. 'You know,' he continued, 'I love to go back to real life, with you. The comfort of our own things, our rituals. Just us.'

He tilted his head, his eyes luminous, the light dancing in their depths. 'Holidays are magical, it doesn't matter if you're a child or a grown up' he said, voice lower, almost reflective. 'They free the mind, but they also give you perspective.'

Alfred raised an eyebrow, amused but intrigued. 'Perspective to what, exactly?'

'To what,' he replied, looking at Alfred intently, 'and to whom is important in life, sometimes you need to step away from the daily and the mondain to truly see it, to recognise it.'

The words hung in the air, carried by the wind and the scent of the sea, but they needed no explanation. Alfred’s hand tightened around his. Their eyes met, brown and dark and in that gaze lay every answer, every vow unspoken yet deeply known and understood.

They smiled, each understanding without words, their souls joined in the quiet, profound knowledge of having found what mattered most.

The boat surged on across the shimmering lagoon, Venice receding behind them, the future opening before them, and with it, the promise of London, of autumn leaves and shared rituals, of nights in their bed together. Theirs was no longer just a summer’s idyll, but a life ready to slowly unfold itself.

FIN