I thought the sun might have woken me up—a foreign concept of late—but it was the voices that did it. The laughter and the slide of furniture across floorboards had me sitting up and looking around, trying to get my bearings. I could have stayed in bed all day. The mattress was like a giant sedative, so insanely plush and cosy; it took an immense amount of willpower to peel back the sheets and pad my way to the wardrobe.

It wasn’t until I opened it that I realised all my things had been unpacked, either hanging or folded neatly and placed in drawers. Oh, God, I even had my own little knicker drawer. I cringed. Rosalia had seen all my unmentionables, including the French knickers I had packed ‘in case’. Having climbed straight into bed after my pow-wow with her, I hadn’t realised her turndown service had gone to the next level. Even my toiletries in the bathroom were lined up like perfect little soldiers; it would have been a little disturbing if it wasn’t so sweet.

Showering with no thought for time, and free from the paranoia of being barged in on by a hungover backpacker needing to take a leak, I savoured every droplet, lathering myself into a frenzy and filling the entire room with steam.

As I got dressed I could still hear the voices, and I wondered if I should venture out of my room. Though Marcello had told me to treat his place like a home away from home, it was still strange and new. With only the sun for reference, I knew that it was day, but not what time, and the timelessness combined with the restorative effects of sleep and a shower had me feeling reborn.

Without thinking too much about why, I put particular effort into making myself look nice, but not too nice; something told me that Rosalia would be watching me like a hawk in her attempt to safeguard her adoptive grandson’s heart. So I kept well away from the red dress, opting for the casual, sun-kissed tourist look, with shorts, sandals and my tan leather shoulder bag. Dabbing on some berry lip gloss and the last dribble of Calvin Klein perfume, I was ready to venture out for the day, wherever it might take me.

I opened my door just enough to peer through, and to better hear the conversation happening below. The laughter settled and I could only make out Marcello’s unmistakable voice. I opened the door and slowly stepped along the hall, seeing the light spill through the opened doors to Marcello’s studio, where the voices were coming from. I had no way of walking to the kitchen without being seen, and I paused for a moment, torn between walking past without making eye contact, pretending I was unaware of the room’s occupants, or doubling back to my room and waiting until the guests had left, however long that took. I chose the former, taking in a breath, lifting my chin and walking as lightly as I could, trying to channel the ghostlike presence of Rosalia.

I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here …

‘Sammi!’ Marcello’s voice sounded from behind me.

Crap!

I turned on my heel, feigning surprise. ‘Morning,’ I said, turning to face Marcello at the door of his studio, and seeing we had a captive audience.

‘Sleep well?’ he asked, drying one of his brushes with a paint-speckled towel slung over his shoulder.

‘Amazing.’

‘Magnifico.’ He beamed. ‘Come, I want you to meet some people.’

‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude …’ I protested, but it was no use. Marcello took me by the hand and dragged me into the studio. Suddenly seven sets of eyes were upon me.

‘Everyone, this is Sammi from Australia.’ I waved, wanting nothing more than to slink away.

‘Well, ain’t she a doll; hey, Marcello, do you think we can paint your friend?’ a big-bellied man with a Texan drawl chuckled.

The woman to his side, who I assumed was his wife, gave him a playful tap. ‘Eddie, shush. Look, you’ve turned her all red now.’

‘Oh, no, don’t mind me, I am perpetually sunburnt.’

Everyone laughed, tilting their heads like I was simply adorable. What an easy crowd to please.

A man from the back slid from his stool and came over to me. ‘Giovanni,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘It is nice to meet you, Sammi.’

‘Oh, Giovanni, you’re the tour guide?’

‘Si, someone has to keep the rabble in check.’

‘He’s the worst of us all,’ interjected another lady, wearing a pink sun visor paired interestingly with a pearl necklace.

Once again the laughter that had pierced through my sleep sounded again; they were most definitely a different kind of clientele than Maria would have brought along. You could just tell that Marcello would have them eating out of the palm of his hand. A group of, mostly, women in their twilight years, and one lone husband who had no doubt tagged along to humour his wife, they all sported matching white T-shirts that read ‘Golden Slumbers Tours’, and had the image of a sun setting over the ocean. It sounded more like a retirement home, but the matching T-shirts was a nice touch, and probably prevented them from getting lost in one of the world’s busiest cities. Giovanni was sure to have his hands full.

Marcello turned to me, lowering his voice. ‘Are you doing anything today?’

‘Um, I don’t have anything planned.’ I felt my heart rate increase a little, hoping that he might have something in mind.

‘Well, do you want to stick around? There’s something I want to give you, but I won’t be finished here for about an hour—is that okay?’

Give me something?

‘Sure, I can wait.’

Marcello smiled. ‘Good.’

‘Hey, lover boy, we’re on the clock, you know.’

Marcello turned. ‘Shall we all head up?’

Excitement rippled through the group as they moved into motion, grabbing their packs and canvasses. Marcello walked with me out of the studio, reading the question on my face.

Marcello smiled. ‘Si, I am taking them to the roof terrace.’

I wanted to throw my arms around him, glad he was listening to my suggestion, but instead stepped to the side to let the group of laughing Americans through.

‘Come on, son, give her a kiss and tell her you’ll see her later.’ The Texan whacked Marcello on the shoulder, and I could have sworn I saw him blush, but he didn’t move; instead, he stood there looking more intent.

‘See you in a bit,’ I said, wishing the minutes away so I could see what it was he had to give me.

Marcello nodded before turning from me to catch up to the group. Glancing quickly back to me, his eyes made a silent promise. It made the butterflies in my stomach dance, or it could have been hunger. I wandered into the kitchen, amazed that I could eat again after yesterday. On the table sat a basket of breads and pastries, and a bowl of fresh fruit. My mouth watered in anticipation. Alongside the spread sat a note:

I shook my head—he really had thought of everything. As far as my family knew, I was heading for a gondola ride in Venice today. Although I had never been there, and I was sure it would have been lovely, there was something seriously lovely about sitting in Marcello’s kitchen, eating baked goods and drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. I might have been missing out on being serenaded while cruising along the canals, but I didn’t feel too bad at all. In fact, as I plucked a grape from the basket and popped it into my mouth, I realised I had never felt so bloody content.