‘Choppy Waters’ by Mandy Robotham

19th March 2024

The choice is agonising, the dilemma unbearable, and on such a hot day, it’s like squatting fully-clothed in a pressure cooker. What should she do?

‘Erm…una pallina di fragole e uno alla vaniglia, per favore,’ Ruby says, effecting her best pronunciation. The ordering of Venetian gelato demands concentration, and one scoop each of strawberry and vanilla seems to satisfy all her desires in that moment, especially when served from among the oldest and best gelateries in the grandest of European cities.

‘Mmm.’ Her moue of appreciation is for the chilled velvet on her tongue, and the vista from an outside table at Café Paolin. After weeks living in this floating enigma of Venice, Campo San Stefano remains Ruby Devereaux’s favourite spot to sit and peruse. Just far enough from the tourist bustle of San Marco, it’s a sun-kissed piazza where elegant Venetians traverse with their tiny dogs, and she can feel moneyed, even if her purse doesn’t extend to boutique fashion. Her job in PR with a small Italian film company just keeps Ruby in cappuccino and pasta, but the beauty is both free and priceless.

‘Mi scusi, Signorina.’ A voice interrupts the joy on her tastebuds.

‘Yes?’  She starts, not yet attuned to responding in Italian.

Luckily, the speaker’s English is accomplished. ‘The man over there,’ he says, gesturing to smart-suited figure three tables away, ‘would be honoured to buy you a coffee, if you permit.’

The courteous approach alone is enough to attract Ruby, and the gentleman across the way is…well…intriguing. In his forties, she guesses, with a peppering of grey hair that’s expertly groomed, sporting designer sunglasses. He oozes sophistication. And Ruby Devereaux, for better or worse, is hopelessly drawn to that.

‘Thank you for joining me,’ he says, holding out a tanned, well-manicured hand in greeting, as the other man melts into the background. ‘My name is Francesco Parzi.’ It trips off his tongue like liquid gold.

‘I’m Ruby, delighted to meet you.’

And, it seems, he is thoroughly captivated by a British woman in her early thirties with a dark, blunt bob, and a sylph-like body dressed largely in high street London fashion of the early 1960’s. She’s no Sophia Loren, and yet the conversation flows, about her time in Venice, them both as guests in this real-life Atlantis. He’s from Sicily, he tells her, staying ‘at a friend’s place, enjoying some time away.’

Coffee turns to dinner, Ruby hastily borrowing an outfit from one of the Italian actresses on set. ‘He must be nice if you’re keen to dress up,’ Livia comments.

            ‘He is,’ she replies, surprised at how much Francesco beguiles over the next week with his knowledge of art and politics. Books, too, though Ruby is not entirely sure why she hasn’t revealed herself as writer just yet. Perhaps it’s down to not scribbling a word in months, viewing her present self as a publicist and temporary Venetian.

            One evening, dinner becomes a nightcap at ‘his place’, Ruby wide-eyed when the sleek motorboat draws up to a twinkling, opulent palazzo on the Grand Canal. ‘My friend is away and it’s more private than a hotel,’ Francesco explains casually. As they sip on the balcony with the poetic swish of the Laguna below, it’s as if she’s died and gone to Ruby heaven. Francesco even hints at meeting his family in Sicily.

            Cloud nine, however, is generally apt to burst in Ruby’s world. So, when Francesco arrives at the film set a day or so later on a whim, eyebrows are raised. Not in envy, but alarm.

            Livia shuffles Ruby into the women’s toilet. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ she hisses.

            ‘A businessman,’ Ruby replies. ‘Kind and courteous, too.’

            ‘Rich?’ Livia’s pencilled eyebrows arch.

            ‘Yes, but you know I’m not….’

            ‘Where does that wealth come from?’  Livia presses. ‘Oh, Ruby, you’re so smart, but you’re not Italian. He’s mafioso. One of the most powerful – and dangerous – men in Italy.’

            ‘Oh hell, Liv. How do I get myself out of this mess?’

Dinner that evening is on a candlelit canal side, the food sumptuous and the atmosphere dreamy.

            ‘So, Ruby, when can you visit me in my home?’ Francesco says, reaching for her hand.

            ‘Perhaps when I’ve finished writing my book,’ Ruby says casually.

            ‘Your book?

            ‘Yes, didn’t I say? I’m a writer, too, currently investigating British crime syndicates. After that, I’ll be casting around for a new subject.’

            ‘Oh.’

The bill is paid, Ruby is dutifully escorted to her bijou apartment, whereupon Francesco Parzi vanishes from Venice and her orbit, with the same rapidity that some of his ‘associates’ may well disappear from life.

            Seeing the wash of his vessel speed into the distance, she sighs – with relief. ‘Oh Rubes, you had a lucky escape there’

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