Page 23

We leave the water’s edge and enter a walled garden facing the canal.

Almost opposite is the unfinished palazzo, Palazzo Venier dei Leoni.

It appears squat next to its stately neighbours, and the rough edges irritate me, but I can’t say why.

Even in my short time in Venice I’ve heard of the extravagant parties with exotic animals that have been held there.

Marchesa Luisa Casati has been painted by so many artists, including Augustus John.

The palazzo was hers, but things have not gone her way.

‘I find this stretch of garden so soothing.’ Katherine waves a hand at the roses and the manicured lawn. But it strikes me as odd. Most of the other buildings abut the canal directly, yet this one is offset and is smaller in stature.

‘Gabriele D’Annunzio lived here for a while.’

‘Who?’ I ask.

She laughs. ‘Of course you wouldn’t have heard of him, but Simon talks of little else. He’s an Italian fascist poet, and he had a long-running affair with Marchesa Casati.’

‘Convenient location.’ I glance over my shoulder.

‘True. The poor woman made herself a piece of art and ended up bankrupt, from what I’ve heard.’ Katherine pauses. ‘I wonder what will become of the palazzo. I find myself trying to imagine how it would have looked had it been completed as planned with five storeys.’

The one in front of us is only three floors and feels modest. We enter on the ground floor straight into the salon.

Instantly it is cooler, and as my eyes adjust, I see painted panels depicting rural life lining the walls, along with blistered mirrors in gilt frames.

I catch a glimpse of myself in one. I appear like a soul covered in pox.

I shiver and look to the ornate ceilings.

Everywhere in Venice I’ve learned to look up.

Sometimes the ceilings are covered in large sweeping murals, and sometimes intricate carved golden squares. I have yet to see two alike.

‘On the ground floor you have the main salon, the petite one, the dining room and the kitchen and staff quarters.’ Katherine takes my hand and leads me up a marble staircase. My heels echo as they hit each step. She only touches down the toes of her shoes as we climb.

‘Our bedroom is here, and Simon uses the one next to us as a study.’

I peer through the doors to their bedroom, but the shutters are closed to keep out the fierce heat of the day. I’m left with the impression of intense reds, gold accents and sparkling glass.

‘I’ve put you in the room above us, which has a wonderful view of the canal.’ We climb the stairs and she sweeps open the doors. I gasp. Although not as large as their room below, it is far grander than anything I have ever known.

‘I’m glad you like it, but what is truly wonderful is the roof terrace.

I will show you later, when it has cooled down a bit.

’ She flicks on the light switch. The walls are covered in a blue-green moray silk, with the fabric’s sensuous warp and weft creating the sense of being underwater.

The light from the chandelier dances off it. It is soothing yet intoxicating.

‘Tell me what you have done in the weeks since I have seen you,’ she says.

‘Sketch, paint, explore.’

She casts me a sideways glance. ‘No lovely Italian lovers?’

I flush.

‘You have.’ The corner of her mouth lifts and my heart stills. ‘I haven’t.’

‘What a shame.’ She shakes her head. ‘The men are ridiculously beautiful, so you should.’

‘They are beautiful,’ I agree, but only to paint. It is Katherine’s beauty that entices me. But instead of looking at her, I study the ceiling. Frolicking cherubs cavort across it.

‘It’s all a bit overwhelming at first, but you do become used to it.’ She takes my hand again. ‘If it’s too noisy or the light is wrong, do let me know.’

She opens the shutters. Sunlight streams in.

Even this high up and set back from the water’s edge, light bounces from the canal into the room, reflecting off the gold leaf on the ceiling and hitting the mirrors on the far wall.

I don’t know where to look. One side of the room is dominated by a large four-poster bed draped in rich purple velvet curtains.

It is fit for a monarch rather than a young artist. At the foot of it is a bench, and there are also some gilded chairs and a large wardrobe.

The chandelier sparkles and plays with the daylight flooding the room. I’m mesmerised.

‘Is the light all right?’ She touches my arm.

I nod. It is southern light, which isn’t ideal, but with the shutters, I can control it.

She peers out of the window. ‘I first came to Venice with my mother when I was ten. It cast a spell over me then and it hasn’t let go.’ She turns to me. ‘Has it cast a spell over you?’

I meet her glance. ‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she says.

Two men walk into the room carrying my things, with a neat woman following.

‘Sheba, this is the housekeeper, Signora Bocca. She looks after us so well. If you need anything, she will sort it for you.’ Katherine picks up my hand again briefly. ‘This will be such fun.’

Forster appears at the door. ‘Ah, good, you’ve arrived.’ He glances at my things and picks up the still wet painting of the boy. ‘This is marvellous.’ He holds the canvas out to Katherine. ‘I wish for her to paint you in this style.’

Katherine glances from me to the painting.

The housekeeper looks as well, then says, ‘I shall find something to cover the floor and the furniture.’

I smile my thanks. The last thing I need is to leave traces of my painting here in this beautiful room. It was never intended to be an artist’s studio. The room in the pensione was spartan in comparison. Thankfully I left that without a spot of paint or a stray line of charcoal.

‘I’m off to meet with Conte Volpi,’ Forster says to Katherine. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. What time are we due at the Contessa’s?’

‘Nine.’

He kisses her cheek and leaves.

‘Signora, please see that Signorina Kernow has everything she needs.’ Katherine waits for Signora Bocca’s acknowledging bow, then says, ‘I’m going to take a siesta. But do come and find me in an hour.’ She slips out the door and the housekeeper and I look at each other.

‘Welcome.’ Signora Bocca’s English is accented but her smile is genuine. ‘I will be back.’

Once she is gone, I go to the window and peer out at all the activity on the canal.

The vaporetti and the gondolas make it look busier than Piccadilly.

Maybe with this new outlook I will find my way through all the things pulling at me.

The painting that Forster wants me to copy is old-fashioned, reflecting my parents’ work and the painters I spent time with in St Ives.

They were wonderful, and the grounding that time gave me was important, but I want to move beyond.

My fingers twitch. I long to start now, but I need to unpack.

The noise of the gondoliers calling to each other echoes off the garden walls below.

Each day Venice is filling with more and more people as the summer season goes into full swing.

I’m excited to attend the Biennale and see Winifred Nicholson’s work on display.

Although her husband’s work is being exhibited there as well, Winifred is far better known and appreciated.

However, I’m interested in the new directions both of them are taking.

The selection team for the Biennale, I imagine, did not know of their split, or maybe they did and considered that would provide an interesting tension for the viewers.

The housekeeper returns, and between us we cover the floor and furniture with old sheets. The room looks like it is being packed away for the season, but soon all my paints, brushes and canvases are carefully arranged.

The sketchbook from the train journey is the last thing I unpack.

My time in Paris and on the train feels distant, and Venice is all I can think about, along with Katherine, of course.

Just the fact that she is sleeping somewhere close is unsettling.

I go to the window and breathe in. Venice needs to seduce me further so I become immune to her.