I can hear music.

Is it Vivaldi, Rossini, or Puccini? It’s difficult to say with certainty. It’s so faint I can barely recognize anything other than that it’s classical.

Briefly I close my eyes and revel in the breeze caressing my face.

As violin and cello tones drift my way, I open my eyes again and stare into the water. Okay, so it’s a little murky, but that doesn’t detract from the overall beauty of the place.

The golden rays of sunlight hit the water’s surface, and millions of crystal-like reflections bounce off it. I imagine being one of the crystals, floating weightless through the air, seeing and hearing everything.

I really should be visiting the Opera while I’m here. Darn, there are so many things to do in this romantic city, and yet, so little time. Perhaps Ryan will change his mind once he’s here and come on some sightseeing trips with me.

What use is it, getting married in Venice and then not being able to visit any of these must visit places?

I’ve studied the tourist guides, browsed the websites, and made several lists of the top fifty must visit places whilst in Venice.

As the sun tickles my nose, I sigh. I run my right hand through my long hair and pull it out of my face.

“Not too late, not too late,” Allison chants as if she can read my mind.

I shake my head. She was impossible.

“Favorite color?”

With a scrunched up face, I shrug. “He doesn’t have one.”

“Favorite book?”

“Not fair. You know Ryan’s a busy man and doesn’t have time for reading.”

Instead of a reply, she rolls her eyes.

“Face it, girlfriend—he’s a dickhead, and you deserve better.”

I put my fingers in my ears.

“Not listening,” I tell her and pretend to sing.

“Just remember—I’m here for you when you change your mind.”

“Still not listening.”

Someone gliding past on their gondola, swearing, makes us both laugh.

“What’re we going to do once we check in?”

There are so many things I want to do, it’s difficult to pick just one or two.

“I’d really like to get something to sketch with,” I say and brace for a further verbal onslaught from Allison. But it doesn’t come.

Either she’s ignoring me, or she’s gone back to studying the muscles of our gondolier.

I take the moment of silence to send a text message to Ryan. First, I pull out my phone and take a photo of a passing gondola.

Then, I secretly and quickly type my message.

Hey Ryan, as you can see, we’ve arrived. Missing you and wishing you were here. I also thought it might be nice to include some special sightseeing after the wedding what do you think?

Love, N xx

After I press send, I wait for my phone to confirm it was ‘delivered’ before I keep staring at it, almost willing it to change to ‘read’. But nothing happens.

Dark clouds build up in the pit of my stomach, and I notice my hand start to shake a little.

Has something happened to Ryan? Is he alright? Or is he lying dead in the morgue with no one able to identify his body? When would I get the call to ask me to come and identify him?

My thoughts get gloomier and darker by the second.

A sudden thud against our gondola unbalances me, and as I try and steady myself—but then my phone drops onto the wet ground.

With a shriek, I leap forward to retrieve it. As I dive onto the floor of the boat, there’s another thud, followed by shouting.

All I care about right now is getting my mobile before it slides into the puddle of water. It seems to be heading right for doom and destruction. I mean, we all know what water will do to a mobile phone.

With one mighty lunge forward, I grab it and hold it up triumphantly.

Yes! Touchdown.

Now I can turn my attention to the loud voices, which are only getting louder.

It seems that someone, another gondola has run into ours. Allison is watching open mouthed as the two gondoliers are gesticulating and shouting at each other in Italian.

The language is truly a romantic language, and I can see why Opera is written in it. Even these two shouting at each other sounds pleasing to the ear.

Words like ‘accidenti,’ ‘madonna,’ ‘dio santo’, and ‘porco cane’ fly past my ears as I try and understand why everyone is shouting.

Allison sits and watches.

“What’s going on?”

She chuckles.

“The gondolier of the other gondola wasn’t watching where he was going and ran into us. I think he was checking out the blonde on his boat, hence the moment of inattention.”

She has to stop because now, she’s laughing.

“But nothing happened?”

Allison nods.

“I think our gondolier is milking it to show off to us.” She throws me a sideways glance. “Okay, he’s showing off to me. And you know what? This is better than television.”

After a few more insults, we move off again. For the first time since we’ve slowed right down, I look around.

There seems to be a steady stream of gondolas waiting to unload passengers at the Aman hotel, hence the delay. I’m not sure, but it looks like we’re in some kind of queue and are waiting for our turn.

With the tumult died down again, I turn my attention back to my mobile. Luckily, it’s no worse the wear. It seems to have sustained no visible damage, and the display is still lit up. But there’s no message from Ryan.

Best as I can I quash those rising fears again. The picture of his pale dead body with the identification tag tied around his big toe won’t go away. Try as I might, I see the morgue clearly in my mind. The way the man clad in blue pulls out a large silver drawer with Ryan’s dead body in it.

I shiver.

Stop being silly, I tell myself and rummage around my bag. My fingers search for a pen and a scrap piece of paper. All I can find is the boarding pass.

I start making a rough sketch of the gondolier perched at the end of our gondola holding the oar. As a backdrop, I pick one of the tiny alleyways. As my pen moves swiftly across the scrap piece, the monkey of my mind is calming down a little.

It’s silly, really, to imagine the worst. Ryan was just busy and would get here when he did. And he would no doubt contact me when he finally got some time.

Then, when he arrives, we’ll have a magical time together.

“Wow,” Allison’s staring at my sketch. “That’s great. I don’t understand why you don’t—”

“You know why,” I cut her off.

I don’t want to talk about the reasons for me not drawing openly and more often right now. Right now, I want to enjoy Venice.

“Looks like we can finally check out where we’re staying.” I point to her left.

The gondolier has brought us alongside the landing pier of the hotel.

I feel a lump in the back of my throat as I take in the magnificence of this architectural masterpiece.

No wonder the Clooneys chose this place as their wedding venue.

Allison grabs our bags and suitcases and hands them to the gondolier who expertly unloads them. She follows nimbly.

I take another moment to inhale the true beauty of this place.

Without paying attention, I start to walk toward the edge of the gondola. By now, all I can think about is my wedding and the reception. The magic is enveloping me.

I take another step and move my upper body forward to grab the outstretched hand of the gondolier. And then, it all happens very quickly.

Instead of finding solid ground under my right foot, there’s nothing—and with the right foot having no traction, the inevitable happens.

For the briefest of moments, I float through the air.

It’s a wonderful, weightless, and magical experience.

Then the world goes black, and cold assaults my senses.

I gasp. I hear someone yell my name—and then everything’s quiet.

Nothing.

Panic sets in, and I throw my arms around me wildly.

Seconds later, I surface again. I splutter and cough and gulp for air.

Disoriented, I try and turn my head and work out which way to go.

Fear grips my heart as I wonder if a gondola will run over me, when suddenly, strong hands take a hold of me.

“Don’t worry, love,” a melodic deep baritone voice says into my ears. “I’ve got you now. Don’t fight me. You’ll be alright.”

And before I really know what’s going on, I’m being hoisted onto dry ground.

My rescuer follows, and I take a look at him.

He’s drop dead stunning. So good-looking, in fact, I feel myself go weak at the knees.

I start to shiver.

“Here we go,” he says as he wraps me up in a blanket. His hands rub my back, and I feel the world spin around me.

“A strong drink over here,” he calls, and any protest dies on my lips.

Someone hands me a crystal glass with amber liquid in it.

“Drink it,” the handsome stranger urges. “It’ll make you feel better.”

As soon as the whiskey runs down my tongue and throat, fire ignites within me, and I cough and splutter again.

“Thank you,” I finally croak and am surprised to find I’m starting to feel better.

“You should watch getting out of those gondolas in future. The canal’s not exactly the place you want to go bathing in.” He winks, and I feel like I might drown in those eyes of his.

I smile, but can’t find anything to say.

“I’m Dante, by the way,” he says.

I try and make sense of where I’ve heard the name before.