Perfect Happiness by Penelope Lively Read Free Book Online Page A

those striped T-shirts like everyone wears here.’ A bell clanged. ‘They chuck you out now, it's the end of visiting-time.’
    ‘I'll see you tomorrow.’
    Dusk was falling when she got back to the hotel. It was on the waterfront, along from the Doge's Palace, in a different part of Venice to that in which she and Steven had stayed, which she could no longer place. It existed now for her only as a room with blowing white curtains and the sound of slapping water, and the chiming of a church clock.
    She was very tired; everything seemed quite unreal. In the hospital, relief at seeing Harry and the realization that he was at least relatively all right had given her a temporary lift. Now, that feeling of instability returned; walking into the foyer she felt quite dizzy and had to stand for a moment holding on to the reception desk while she waited for her key. Upstairs, she lay down for a while; she could not sleep and such bleakness descended upon her that she got up in a kind of panic and decided to go out and have a meal.
    It was now quite dark. The Riva degli Schiavoni was awash with people. Brilliant ribbons of light quivered across the water. The air was still balmy and the stone of the bridge was warm to the touch. Everyone seemed to be laughing.
    She sat down at the café outside the hotel and ordered a drink. At the next table, she saw suddenly, was the American woman who had been in the launch from the airport. She looked away quickly, avoiding her eye. The boy came with the drink and she fumbled with a fistful of lire, trying to find the right amount. As she did so that dizziness returned, more forcefully; the lights swung and the pavement tipped and in slow motion she began to slide sideways. She heard the scrape of a chair and felt an arm round her. A voice said, ‘O.K., dear, just put your head down between your legs. That's it. You'll be all right in a moment.’ She hung, foolishly, over the pavement, and the tunnel down which she had been retreating faded and the arm held her down. The voice said, ‘Better? Try sitting up now. O.K.? Great.’
    Frances said weakly, ‘Thanks. Thanks so much. So stupid… I…’
    ‘I guess you've got one of these stomach bugs,’ said the woman. ‘A week in Europe and sure as anything I have the runs. You are English, aren't you?’
    ‘Yes. I don't think it is that. I only arrived this morning. I'm rather exhausted, that's all.’
    The waiter was still hanging around. The woman picked up Frances's bill, whisked a couple of notes from a purse. ‘ Grazie .’
    ‘Oh no, you mustn't…’
    ‘My pleasure. You're staying at this hotel too, I guess – I saw you get into the elevator. I just love all that gilt everywhere – you'd think they'd been around with a spray-gun. My shower has some kind of jinx on it but apart from that the room seems O.K. How long are you staying? I'm Ruth Bowers, by the way.’
    ‘My name's Frances Brooklyn. I'm not too sure at the moment – probably a week or so.’ She drank her Cinzano and felt firmer. The faintness had gone; it was better, suddenly, to be with someone than alone. Ruth Bowers had crisp grey bangs and wore a different pair of metallic-framed uptilted glasses and another crisply laundered trouser-suit. She was the kind of person from whom Steven, by now, would have quietly retreated. She was talking about the friend with whom she was travelling and who had gone off to Yugoslavia for a few days and would meet up with Ruth in Rome. ‘We agreed from the start to go our own ways from time to time. I can't get enough of Italian painting and Ellen's – well, she can have too much of it. So she's giving the Tintorettos a miss and doing a hop to Zagreb. We're both librarians. Baltimore. Have you visited the United States, Frances?’
    ‘I went there a couple of times with my husband. But not to Baltimore, I'm afraid.’ Frances felt pallid beside this woman's bristling energy. She must be at least sixty and exuded the physical charge