Jane Beck
In September 1997 Isobel and Rupert bump into each other in the departure lounge at Heathrow and their lives are changed forever. Isobel Campbell is free at last from work, a philandering husband and the emotional ballast of her family and is flying to Venice for a holiday in a city which she's longed to visit.
Rupert Northcote is returning to complete a building project in the city where he lives for half the year. Since the death of his wife two years ago work has become an obsession. As they explore Venice their love of the city crystallizes into love for each other. But when they run into Isobel's ex-sister-in-law in a Venetian restaurant it isn't long before all the family, including Isobel's ex-husband James, are aware of their affair.
Rupert and Isobel, like many lovers before them, discover that each can illuminate the life of the other. But they are both recovering from painful memories of previous relationships and their euphoria is as easily shattered as a piece of Venetian glass. At the end of a blissful two weeks they are forced to run the gauntlet of family intrigue, jealousy, interference and unexpected events, beginning on their very last evening together.
The lives of each member of the family are revealed in a multi-plotted story with many twists and turns. In the process Isobel changes from the wronged wife into a woman who is loved and cherished for herself.
To Venice With Love is written for everyone on the threshold of change who may be hesitating to make the next move and for all lovers of Venice who will enjoy revisiting its art and architecture.
Jane Beck was born and educated in Yorkshire. Between 1959 and 1962 she married, had two children, three jobs and was widowed. She worked first in the hotel and catering industry and then in training where she became an early advocate of Equal Opportunities and co-authored a book on the subject - Beyond the Great Divide. She contributed many articles to a variety of journals on various aspects of equality, training and stress management, in which she had a particular interest.
She now lives in Hertfordshire and was recently nominated to share the first prize in the Broxbourne Arts literary competition. This is her first novel.
He brings it all to life Isobel thought as they entered the building, totally unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. The unbelievable grandeur of the room, the soaring columns and, surprisingly, an altar flanked by two paintings, both by Tintoretto, in which the human figures were almost eclipsed by flashes of dazzling light. She gasped with surprise and clutched Rupert's arm in her enthusiasm as she tried to take it all in.
The physical contact with her was like an electric shock and Rupert, wanting to prolong it, tucked her arm more firmly under his own. They had ten minutes to spare before the concert began. He walked her briefly round the hall to see the remaining pictures, pointing out Tintoretto's love of violent movement and his use of artificial light and unreal colours to enhance the spiritual content of his work.
'I never thought I should agree with Ruskin,' Isobel said as they took their seats, 'but the paintings are so beautifully lit they seem to glow. Thank you for surprising me.' Rupert handed her the programme and watched as she scanned it. 'Oh look!' she said, pointing to the final work. 'A piece by Allessandro Marcello, his Concerto in D minor for oboe. One of my favourite pieces. The second movement is lovely.'
'I don't think I know it,' Rupert replied, beginning to clap as the conductor appeared. It seemed appropriate somehow to be hearing a new piece of music at the beginning of a relationship. Life wasn't always so accommodating.
* * *
The Ossobuco was memorable. She could taste lemon zest, the slight saltiness of anchovies, a faint hint of garlic. When they'd finished she sat back and sighed contentedly. 'Your mother must have been an inspired cook if she taught you to prepare food like this.' Rupert shrugged modestly whilst smiling at the compliment. He went off to make coffee, refusing her offer of help.
She walked across to the balustrade and looked out over the Grand Canal. Streaks of red from the setting sun bled into the sky before falling into the water. There were a couple of gondolas, an isolated motor boat, the ever present vaporetto. She closed her eyes, sniffed the air, which smelt of saline and the green weed which clung to the base of the wall, listened to the gentle lapping of the water against the landing stage below and waited for Rupert to bring their coffee.
