VeniceLife 7

I have felt guilty, as if I’ve practised some deception, when you kindly congratulate me on my ‘bravery’ in moving abroad. It suggests I’m shifting my entire life to an alien culture – and for one thing, since I lived there when I was 17, Italy has not been alien to me. I left home to go there; took my first lover (and my first serious lover) there; met Derek there… grew up there. I always assumed I would live there again some day.

For another – yes, sure, I’ve done the Italian bank account, tax code, resident’s pass. I’ve moved the best of my furniture over there: the chair where Derek sat for so many interviews on Sky. Being someone who lives in Venice, as opposed to just staying there in a hotel, is swiftly becoming an integral part of my identity. But there’s much still ties me to England, Rex apart. My garden, the countryside, the research libraries. Since my teens, I’ve always lived simultaneously in two different locations. For decades, it was London and the Kent country. Now, it’s Kent and Venice. And, what makes a home, anyway?

Is it memories? Because in Venice I have those aplenty. I went there first at 18, with that first serious lover. (An Italian Marxist documentary-maker, since you ask; whose frank films about the Mafia meant we always checked under a vehicle before we got in.) I hated Venice that time, tbh –too much, too hot – but soon I was back there with Derek, and the film festival out on the Lido re-introduced me, more gently.

I’m going to write much more about the Venice film festival as the date for this year’s event approaches; and about the extraordinary history of the Lido, too. But for the moment, those memories…The pool at the Hotel des Bains, in the days the festival could still afford to host journalists there. So vividly blue the birds, swooping over, reflected the colour of the water on their stomachs. The Bellinis on the terrace, made with the fresh juice of white peach. The day I was treating myself to breakfast in bed when Derek rushed up to tell me, turn on the tv…31 August, 1997, that would be, and the BBC newscaster announcing that Diana, Princess of Wales, was dead. I remember the festival flew flags at half mast that day; and festival guests from all the rest of the world treated we Britishers very gently. As if we’d all suffered a personal bereavement … which, in a way, we had.

I remember those des Bains breakfasts for the very distinctive crockery: cream, with lush touches of molten gold. When the hotel closed – as of course it did – I managed to acquire just a couple of jugs. They’re in my Venice flat today.

I remember (when the festival had switched journalists from the des Bains to the less expensive Belvedere!) how Derek would sit outside every evening before dinner with an Aperol spritz, while the locals came by on their passeggiata. We loved the Belvedere, too. Formica furniture, to be sure, but it lived up to its name: beautiful view. Imagine sitting at the window looking across the lagoon to the Venice skyline, across a raspberry sunset sky, or else one streaked with lightning. And the wonderful restaurant downstairs, with its fresh crab, its ice-cream with nuts and honey. After a long break – Covid, Derek’s death – I went back there last year, while over in Venice on a flat hunting trip. I recognised all the staff, and they recognised me. ‘Derek non c'è?’ they asked after the hugs. ‘Derek is not – or is not here?’ No, Derek non c'è.

But the memories, the moments, aren’t all about the Lido. If they were, would I have bought a flat in Cannaregio? – about as far from the Lido as you can get, without reaching Mestre. I remember sitting, with Derek, at a restaurant just around the corner from my new flat, discovering that the first review of my first historical book, Arbella, had come out. It was a fabulous one, so thankfully. I remember that moment every time I sit by a restaurant on our canal today. I remember realising that the trigger point was also just around the corner, for the Venice-set novel I still may write some day …

I remember parties in palazzos (more of those in the festival piece!) and, too, hearing painful news somewhere between St Mark’s Square and the Gran Canale. It was in Venice that – watching other, younger, film critics deal with the demands of today’s tech-oriented media – I finally realised even Derek, struggling, was not immune to the ravages of time. I think I always realised I couldn’t buy a new-build in Venice. I needed a sturdy older structure with mileage on it to bear all the baggage I’d be bringing – and I don’t even mean the furniture. Venice is the ultimate palimpsest, to which, like every serious visitor, I’d be adding my own fresh layer. So what do we reckon? Is Venice really just a holiday home for me?

Since I broke news of the flat, everyone has asked how I’ll use it, how much time I plan to be in Italy. The answer is that I simply don’t know. I don’t feel in sightseeing mood when I’m out there – more likely to be sitting at the old London desk, writing one of these stories, with windows open and listening to the sounds of Venice life coming up from below. I’m hoping, I guess, that Venice will be not just about my past, but very much about my future: a place where I can do a late-stage reinvention – as a person, but perhaps also as a writer? As to that, we’ll just have to wait and see.