Venice had been Jack’s suggestion, after all-Frankie would never have come on her own. She was used to such flightiness on the part of her friend, and yet the slight had rankled more than usual. Frankie knew that the use of a question mark was impossible in a telegram, but still, it didn’t stop her feeling needled by the assumption of the last bit, turning the latter into a declaration instead of a plea. It had been handed to her along with her ticket. Instead, weeks before, Frankie had sat alone at Victoria station, about to board a train to Dover, a crumpled telegram somewhere at the bottom of her bag. Pulling the cowl of her houndstooth wool overcoat tightly to her neck, in what she was forced to concede was a failing attempt to keep out the impending cold and drizzle, she had made her way determinedly toward the fish market-her heels clicking against the rain-splattered cobblestones, dodging the crowds of tourists winding their cameras with spools of film to capture the city’s infamous candelabras, and their accompanying tour guides, wooden paddles held high into the air-all the while cursing the friend who was supposed to have been walking alongside her in this miserable weather. Just moments earlier, Frances, or Frankie, as she was known to the small set of people she had called friends over the years, had been walking alongside the Grand Canal, concerned with nothing more than her aching feet crying out for a vaporetto.
She was on her way to the Rialto market, hoping to buy some vongole from one of the local fishmongers, despite the fact that it was October and therefore not really the season for them, when she felt someone grab her by the wrist.
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