A Year at Hotel Gondola

by Nicky Pellegrino

Genres: Holiday books; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Perfect for fans of warm contemporary women's fiction from Jo Thomas and Adriana Trigiani, Nicky Pellegrino returns with a perfect summer read.

Janetta has never wanted to live a small, everyday sort of life. She's an adventurer, a food writer who travels the world visiting far-flung places and eating unusual things. Now she is about to embark on her biggest adventure yet—a relationship. She has fallen in love with an Italian man and is moving to live with him in Venice where she will help him run his small guesthouse Hotel Gondola. Janetta has lined up a book deal and will write about the first year of her new adventure, the food she eats, the recipes she collects, the people she meets, the man she doesn't really know all that well but is going to make a life with.

Still as Janetta ought to know by now, the whole point of adventures is they never go exactly the way you expect them to.

Release date: March 22, 2018

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group Limited

Print pages: 320

Sample

A Year at Hotel Gondola by Kat Black

CHAPTER 1

There is no sadder feeling than being jealous of your own life. Do you know what I mean? Have you ever been envious of the girl you once were? Looked back on your past and realised it was more exciting than your future is set to be? Have you ever felt that way? Because right now I’m doing my best to make sure I won’t.

My life has been pretty interesting since I took sole charge of it. Oh, I had the same dull start as everyone else. School and homework, late-afternoon cartoons, setting the table for a meal of soggy vegetables and chewy meat, then early to bed and lying awake for hours, staring at a crack of light creeping beneath the door, thinking and thinking. Somehow I knew better things were waiting. I just had to find them, or help them find me.

Childhood is such a waste of time, isn’t it? Mine seemed to drag on for ever. As soon as I was free of it – with my back turned on my northern hometown, with the train hurtling towards London Euston and a new life – I swore I wasn’t going to waste another moment.

Obviously we all have to do the laundry and vacuum the floor so I haven’t been living it large every single second. But I’ve tried to make the most of my time.

I’ve ridden on horseback over the Mongolian steppe and shared yak meat with nomads. Been fed seal blubber by Inuits in Greenland. Choked down fermented shark in Reykjavik. Breakfasted on crisp pancakes cooked by street hawkers in Shanghai and spicy dosa from a roadside stall in Mumbai. I’ve followed my appetite around the world. You may have seen the television shows I’ve made, read some of the articles or books I’ve written? Mine has been an adventurous life; at least so far.

Then I turned fifty and something shifted. I blame my mother. ‘Twenty good years,’ she said. ‘That’s what you’ve got left at your age. After that you won’t want to have adventures any more.’

I told her she was talking rubbish but after I’d put down the phone, I kept thinking about her words. Twenty good years didn’t sound like enough. What if my mother was right? Perhaps at seventy I might feel entirely different than I did right now. Maybe there was some threshold you crossed then started craving safety and comfort. How could I know for sure?

That night I woke up at three a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Fears always seem so much bigger at that hour and I hoped by morning this one would be gone. But the worry had found a space in my mind and moved in. I couldn’t get rid of it.

I rang my mother back. ‘You’ve never been adventurous,’ I complained. ‘So how would you know?’

‘Because everyone around me is old and all of us are the same,’ she replied. ‘We’re letting our passports lapse and surrendering our driving licences.’

‘God, how depressing.’

‘You can find pleasure in smaller things, you know, Kat. It’s rather lovely being a homebody. You’ll see.’

No, I won’t see. For me, life is what happens beyond my front door. It’s a packed suitcase and a purse full of foreign currency. I’m not saying that I don’t feel older. My left hip hurts a bit, I need reading glasses and if I didn’t make a monthly visit to the hairdresser there would be much more grey in my hair than brown. I can see the signs all right. But I’ve made myself a promise – even if I live till I’m a hundred I’ll never be a homebody.

I’m planning for things to get more interesting as I get older, not less. I won’t be wasting time. And I’m not going to be jealous of my own life. Not ever.









1

Kat Black hadn’t been sure if she should admit to being fifty. People pigeonholed you, didn’t they? Perhaps she could gloss over her exact age and let everyone assume she was still in her forties. But then the ‘twenty good years’ line wouldn’t work; and her mum actually had said that; and Kat had been rattled, just as she had written. Besides, it was a great first chapter and she didn’t want to change it.

What was the point anyway, her age was already beginning to make a difference. Wasn’t it the reason the network hadn’t been interested in another series of her travel and food show Black of Beyond? Perhaps it was even why her publishers had halved the advance for her new book? Her agent claimed the same thing was happening to everyone, but Kat hadn’t been convinced. It seemed more likely that her career was contracting. She had worked so hard and achieved so much but she could smell change in the air.

She stared through the window. From here she couldn’t see much unless she opened it up and leaned out. The guest suites in the Hotel Gondola boasted all the best views. The room Kat lived in was up a steep staircase, beneath the eaves, and looked out towards the window of the hotel opposite. Still she loved it here, right in the centre of Venice, all its life humming around her. This was such a different city to live in than to visit. Everything was different now; that was the whole point of coming.

Kat stared at her computer screen, checked the word count and sighed. The beginning of a book was always the hardest part, and this one was going to be even trickier, because she was living the adventure as she was writing it.

A Year at Hotel Gondola; she had been surprised how much her publishers liked the idea. She’d had to promise recipes, of course, which were always hard work, with all the testing required and making sure she measured things down to the last teaspoon. It wasn’t the way Kat preferred to cook but she could tell it was going to be a deal-breaker.

‘This is going to be my biggest adventure yet,’ she had promised when she was pitching the concept. ‘Kat Black experiences the one journey she has never taken before – a relationship.’

It wasn’t strictly true. She’d had plenty of boyfriends, but the longest Kat had managed to stick with one was eight months, and he was a photographer who travelled almost as much as she did, so it hardly counted as a proper relationship. She and Massimo Morosini, though; that was different; at least it had better be because there was so much more at stake this time.

Kat closed her laptop, stretched her arms and yawned. Perhaps if she took a walk it would clear her head. She needed to explain how she had ended up at Hotel Gondola and wasn’t sure how best to tell the story. Massimo’s mother would read this book and so would her own. Some of those ex-boyfriends might pick it up, and hopefully thousands of strangers would buy it. All those eyes turned towards her personal life. Sometimes Kat wondered why she’d ever thought it was such a great idea.

Cramming her laptop into her bag, Kat found sunglasses and a hat. She was cautious as she opened the door to her room, stopping and listening before setting a foot outside. The hotel was full of guests and on no account did she want to meet any of them. There were always questions to answer, problems to solve. They needed directions to the Lido or an extra pillow or ideas for where to eat that night. So Kat had taken to creeping out of her room, then taking the stairs as quickly as possible, head down, sunglasses on, hat brim pulled low. If she could get through the reception foyer without being stopped then she was almost in the clear, but she never fully relaxed until, turning off the quiet fondamenta, she knew the Hotel Gondola was out of sight.

Kat had only been in Venice for a short while but already she had found places she was starting to think of as her own. In search of tall, leafy trees she often walked to the Papadopoli Gardens. Even now she still got lost on her way; it only took one wrong turn, one moment of distraction. But those were the times she would stumble across some hidden spot she had heard about but never managed to find before. The little osteria with the handwritten menu, the bar where they served paper cones of hot fried polenta, the family-run restaurant that was always full of locals. Massimo kept telling her half the joy of Venice was discovering its secrets for herself. But this was his city; he’d been walking through it most of his life, and often had reasons not to join Kat on her daily strolls – too much work, too many commitments. So she explored alone, the way she always had.

Today Massimo was in his cubby of an office, frowning at spreadsheets filled with numbers. He owned and managed the Hotel Gondola and took his work seriously. Kat was meant to be working too; the weight of the laptop in her bag was a reminder of that. But she had never been good at thinking while she was sitting at her desk. Besides, she had a whole year ahead of her to finish this book and surely it was better to be out experiencing things, finding colour and adventure to fill it with, so she could bring Venice alive for people, make them feel as if they were actually here as they read her words.

A year in this watery, shadowy city; learning to be Venetian, to eat and love like them. When Kat had dreamed up the idea it seemed the answer to her problems. Now she wondered if all she had done was create a whole lot more. A book to conjure out of nothing was one thing; a relationship to negotiate quite another – particularly as she and Massimo were so new to one another.

‘Excuse me, excuse me.’

Kat turned at the sound of the English voice and recognised the woman speaking as a guest from the Hotel Gondola. She had noticed her earlier in the reception area, sitting beneath the chandelier, puzzling over her guidebook.

‘Are you OK?’ the woman wondered.

‘Yes, why?’ asked Kat, a little too abruptly.

‘I’m sorry. There was something about your expression.’ The woman removed her sunglasses and gazed at Kat with bluish-grey eyes. ‘I thought it was best to check there was nothing wrong. It’s easier not to but then I always regret it. And I recognised you from the hotel. My name is Ruth Wilson. I’ve been with you a week and I’m staying for three more.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Kat tried to sound warmer because Massimo had told her the long-stay guests, the ones that tended to come back year after year, were like gold dust.

‘I’m a fan of yours, actually,’ the woman continued. ‘I’ve watched your show on TV for years. It was one of the things that made me excited about travelling again after my husband died.’

‘Oh, thank you, I hope you’re having a great holiday.’

Kat began to edge sideways but the women seemed not to understand this was a signal for the conversation to end.

‘I’m here to paint,’ she explained, ‘but I haven’t even unpacked my canvases yet. I’m getting a feel for the place. I want to portray it in a way that goes beyond the clichés.’

‘Difficult with Venice, so many other artists have been here before you,’ Kat pointed out.

‘Yes, but I’m not here to paint the canals and gondolas. It’s the people I’m interested in.’

‘Ah, well, there’s no shortage of them. But I suppose you want to paint Venetians rather than tourists?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I was wandering around trying to decide when I spotted you.’ The woman’s eyes searched her face again, as if there might be an answer there. ‘I’ve been hoping to talk to you but you always seem in such a rush when I see you in the hotel.’

This woman was lonely, that much was clear. As tempting as it was to walk away from her, Kat couldn’t do it. Venice seemed such a terrible place to be alone, so colonised by honeymooners and noisy groups, so prone to sudden mists and gloomy afternoons, so filled with faded grandeur.

‘Would you like to join me?’ she made herself ask. ‘I’m heading over to the Papadopoli Gardens.’

‘Oh I love gardens. Are they pretty?’ Ruth sounded eager.

‘It’s a nice park, nothing amazingly special, but I find it’s a good place to go when I need to think about the book I’m trying to write.’

‘I suppose you won’t be able to think properly if I’m there chattering away, will you?’

Kat murmured something noncommittal but it was enough to encourage Ruth.

‘Still, if you’re sure, then yes, I’d love to come.’

They walked together, Ruth matching Kat’s long stride, darting round groups of tourists clotting the way, crossing bridges arching over the silty canals, keeping pace with the slow chug of motorboats.

She was a chatterer, just as she had warned. Mostly what she talked about was Kat’s work; the TV shows she had especially liked, the travel books that had inspired her. She mentioned several times what a huge fan she was. Admiration always felt so awkward. It wasn’t the reason Kat sent those things out into the world, to be feted and famous. They were a means to an end, a way of funding the life she wanted. At least they had been up until now.

‘So what’s your new book about?’ asked Ruth. ‘Venice, I’m guessing.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What aspect of it are you focusing on? The history, the cooking … Oh, I’m sorry, perhaps you’re one of those writers who hates to talk about your work in progress?’

‘There isn’t much to talk about yet,’ Kat admitted. ‘The idea is that I’m going to spend a year here, and I’ll write about the people I meet, the places I visit, the food I eat, that kind of thing.’

‘It sounds like an adventure.’

‘I hope it’s going to be.’

Ruth’s eyes searched Kat’s face again. ‘You know earlier when I asked if everything was all right?’

‘I had a frown on my face? Thinking about the book, I expect.’

‘Actually it was something else. I always find this tricky to explain but when I see people, I see colours.’

Kat was taken aback. This slight, slender woman seemed so ordinary. Her grey hair was neatly cut in a bob, her clothes were practical and her face bore only the lightest trace of make-up. There was nothing in her appearance to suggest she was the type to start talking about seeing colours.

‘I don’t mean an aura,’ Ruth explained hurriedly. ‘It’s more an impression of colour than a halo of light. And it gives me a sense of that person, who they are and how they’re feeling.’

‘So all these people’ – Kat gestured at a tour group heading their way – ‘you’re seeing colours when you look at them?’

‘That’s right. As a child it was a shock when I realised everyone didn’t experience the world the same way.’

‘What colour am I?’ Kat asked.

‘That’s the thing,’ Ruth said hesitantly. ‘Your colour keeps changing. Right now you’re silver. Earlier there was blue swirling around you. And yesterday you rushed past me in reception and left a trail of orange.’

‘Does that not normally happen?’

‘Not really, that’s why I wondered if something was wrong.’

‘Was I a different colour when you watched my TV shows?’

Ruth smiled. ‘It doesn’t work like that for me. It only happens when someone is physically present. I’m sure you’re sceptical, most people are. But I’m not a madwoman, I promise you.’

Kat decided to humour her. ‘So what do you think it means, my changing rainbow?’

‘I don’t know, only how it makes me feel. “Unsettled” seems the best way to describe it.’

‘And I’m still silver, right?’

‘For now.’

Kat laughed. ‘I’m sorry but that’s so weird.’

‘My husband was the most beautiful shade of green,’ Ruth said wistfully. ‘It made me feel calm. And then he got sick and it dirtied to a dull khaki. Nothing the doctors did ever changed it back.’

‘I’m sorry … You said he died?’

‘Yes, two years ago although he was ill for a long time before. He always used to tell me I should paint the colours I saw. It was after I lost him that I started.’

They were nearing the gardens now. Kat had managed not to take a wrong turn even though she hadn’t been concentrating. ‘Were the two of you together for a long time?’

‘Forty years. We never had children; it was just him and me, a tight little unit. That’s why I’ve been doing so much travelling. It’s easier than being at home.’

Poor Ruth, lonely everywhere she went. Kat was glad she had invited her along even if she did seem quirky.

‘So what made you come to Venice?’ she asked.

‘I visited once many years ago and wondered if it had changed.’

‘And has it?’

‘Not really; not in the ways that matter.’

The Papadopoli Gardens weren’t large; you could stroll the gravel paths in no time at all. Usually Kat found a bench, not too near the children’s play area, and sat for a while listening to the sound of the breeze in the trees and enjoying the relative calm of the place. Today there was Ruth filling the silence with words and no easy way to escape her. Kat wondered how it must feel, to be so lonely. She listened to her long, rambling story of visiting Venice when she was younger, and imagined the stretch of years between then and now, all spent with one man, then left with nothing at the end of it all, just an empty house, an empty life.

‘This is my first trip on my own,’ Ruth confided. ‘I did a couple of organised tours and a river cruise to get my courage up then decided to come to Venice. I suppose you’ve been here many times?’

‘Actually I always avoided it,’ Kat told her. ‘To me the south has always felt like the real Italy and I assumed Venice was a tourist Disneyland and a bit pointless.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Chance brought me here,’ Kat told her. ‘It brought me here then it kind of took over my life. That’s what my book is about. The one I’m supposed to be working on right now.’





A Year at Hotel Gondola by Kat Black

Chapter 2

Love and money – that’s what most people want, at least in my experience. Other things as well, but it all comes back to those two eventually. I’ve always felt different. To my mind love tethers you, it brings children and possessions and they hold you fast. I’ve cherished my freedom too much for that. As for money I have a tendency to send it back into the world as quickly as I earn it. I’m a spender. Not on handbags and shoes, hell no, not on sensible things like property either. You’d laugh if you could see my apartment. It’s a shoebox in Maida Vale, a single room with a bathroom attached. I sleep on a sofa bed and there is always a suitcase on the floor that’s in the process of being packed or emptied. My apartment is cramped and not especially nice but that doesn’t matter because it’s only ever a place to perch. I like travel and adventures; I like a changing view; and I didn’t expect any of that to alter.

After I turned fifty I started doing too much thinking and one of the things that struck me was I might go through my whole life and never be truly loved by a man. Perhaps I’d been looking at too many happy couple shots on Instagram and Facebook but I began to wonder if a person who lives for experiences really should miss out on such an essential one. What if I’d left it too late? What if it was something I regretted later on? I was surprised how much the idea bothered me; my mind kept coming back to it. I needed to know how it felt to be loved. I didn’t want to miss out.

Of course, the thing with love is it doesn’t just turn up on schedule like a train or a plane. And the truth is I had no idea where to look for it.

How do people meet each other? In the past I’d had boyfriends who crossed my path through work or were attached to a circle of friends. There hadn’t been one for a while, not even a casual fling. I didn’t realise quite how long a while until I counted back. Three years, unless I’d forgotten someone and I was pretty sure I hadn’t – a long drought. It was time to do something about that, surely?

That is the frame of mind I was in when I was offered the Venice trip. It was an assignment for a travel magazine, flights and accommodation all covered, and the editor gave me the same brief they almost always do.

‘Get off the beaten path. Find me places that aren’t in the tourist guides, the things only the locals know about.’

Editors never like to hear your problems. They want you to write your piece, meet your deadline and not make any glaring mistakes their readers might pick up on. Usually I deliver but this time I couldn’t help objecting.

‘Is there really any such thing as off the beaten track in Venice?’

‘Oh, come on, Kat, you must have loads of insider knowledge. Just hook up with your contacts and find me some juicy stuff then I can get a front cover out of it – Secret Venice.’

I didn’t tell her I’d never been to Venice, that I’m a traveller rather than a tourist, and I prefer the far-flung places to the thoroughly discovered ones. I didn’t mention any of that.

‘OK, I like a challenge; I’ll do it,’ I told her, because I didn’t have anything else on at the time. ‘How many words do you want?’

After I put down the phone I read a few blogs and started to feel more enthusiastic. Secret Venice might be a stretch but there were definitely locals and they had to hang out somewhere. I had a whole week; surely I could come up with a decent story.

So it was chance that sent me to stay at the Hotel Gondola. Its name was there on the itinerary supplied by the magazine, and my contact was its owner/manager Massimo Morosini.

Let me tell you about the Hotel Gondola. It’s a jewel-box of a place, filled with chandeliers, Murano glass mosaics and antique mirrors. Every room is different, but all have swagged satin curtains and gold-leaf wallpaper. A few of the better suites boast balconies overlooking the canal and you really can arrive at the hotel by gondola if you choose because it has its own landing. There is a breakfast room, and a small bar that opens out onto a terrace where on warmer evenings you can enjoy a cocktail before you head out to dinner.

On that first afternoon I was out of sorts when I arrived. Venice had outfoxed me. I’d been lost in a maze of narrow streets, pulling my suitcase behind me, listening to the ugly sound of plastic wheels rumbling over old stone, passing other visitors doing the same. I should have taken a water taxi but it had seemed fairly straightforward when I checked the map that was now crumpled in my hand.

When I reached the hotel at long last it was to find there was some confusion over my booking. A lot of tip-tapping on the computer and head-shaking ensued. In some parts of the world I’ve found the thing to do in these situations is to get a bit cross and wave your arms around. It doesn’t seem to matter what you say or even which language you’re speaking; it smooths the way. I tried it here but the young female clerk’s expression didn’t change. Genuinely pissy now, I glanced at my itinerary and raised my voice, this time throwing in the manager’s name. A moment later a man appeared from a screened-off area behind the reception desk. I have no idea how he’d folded himself in there. He was tall, with wide-set shoulders, olive skin, dark eyes and one of those solid chests you feel like leaning into.

‘Signora, is there a problem?’ he asked, in a low, slow voice.

‘Yes, there seems to be. I’m from Travel Dreams magazine and I’m meant to have a room here but apparently I’m not showing up on the computer.’

More tip-tapping, more head-shaking then the pair started arguing. It ended with the young woman storming off through the reception area. The tall man muttered something to himself then looked up at me.

‘I’m sorry, signora, there has been some sort of screw-up with the booking system and your room has been assigned to another person who has already checked in.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Can you recommend somewhere else that might have space for me?’

He held up a hand. ‘No, wait, it seems we have had a last-minute cancellation so there is another room. In fact, it is an upgrade – the honeymoon suite.’

‘Really? Who cancels the honeymoon suite at the last minute?’

‘Someone who has had a far worse day than you, signora.’

He introduced himself as Massimo Morosini, the hotel’s owner, and then he apologised for his clerk, checked me in himself and insisted on accompanying me to my room. The lift was so tiny that to not touch at all, we had to stand pressed against its walls. That made conversation awkward but still I thought I should ask for some tips on places to check out.

‘I’m looking for the secret spots, the ones the tourists never find,’ I told him. ‘Little bars, restaurants, music venues maybe.’

‘To visit or as research for your magazine article?’ he asked as the lift doors opened.

‘To write about, obviously,’ I said.

‘I can’t think of anywhere, I’m sorry.’

‘Where do you go when you’re not working?’

He had been about to unlock the door of my room but now he straightened up and looked me in the eye. ‘We Venetians need a few places that are just for us. They aren’t grand; in fact most are the opposite. Your readers wouldn’t like them as much as they do Harry’s Bar and Caffè Florian.’

‘My readers are looking for an authentic experience,’ I argued.

‘But if these places fill up with outsiders they won’t be authentic any longer. I’m sorry, signora, but there are some secrets I won’t share. . .