Kate Forster - The Perfect Location

There was a bottle of French Champagne on the small mahogany table with a note written by Jack – Happy birthday, Amelia, enjoy the ride.

Pouring herself a glass, she sat forward on her chair and enjoyed the view. The buildings and people floated past her and Sapphira imagined for a moment she was in a magical land filled with the most wonderful buildings the human mind could create, all floating and rocking their inhabitants to sleep each night.

Soon, they turned off the canal and the boat came to a stop. Sapphira heard the captain speaking Italian and then the door opened. She alighted and was standing on the edge of the canal in front of huge carved wooden doors, which opened. Jack stood with his arms open. ‘Happy birthday, kid!’

Sapphira walked into them and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Howdy, Jack. Look at this place.’

The palazzo was impressive. Built in the 15th century, it was one of the largest private residences in Venice. Spread over five floors, the palazzo had a perfect view of the Bridge of Sighs and a roof garden for the summer.

Jack was dressed in white linen pants, a black t-shirt and barefoot. His ease in his own home made him all the more attractive to Sapphira. He led her into the huge sitting room, with its high ceilings and three Murano glass chandeliers. The room was filled with antique and contemporary furniture and art. It was Jack in every way – elegant, stylish and urbane.

‘Venetian?’ said Jack as he opened up an art deco cabinet to reveal a fully stocked bar with every possible bottle of liquor imaginable.

‘I’m assuming that’s a drink,’ asked Sapphira, as she prowled the room studying its contents.

‘Yep. Campari, gin, vermouth, amaretto and a twist of lemon.’

‘I thought the Bellini was the Venetian cocktail of choice?’ said Sapphira as she stood back from a large Francis Bacon painting.

‘The Bellini is the choice of tourists, although it is a lovely drink on a hot night on the roof, but not too often.’

‘Are you a snob, Mr Reynolds? Are you not a tourist in this lovely country?’ Sapphira flirted with him as she crossed the floor to accept the drink he was bringing to her.

‘I may be a tourist to the Italians, but it feels like home to me. I love this place more than America, though I would never say so in an interview. The people, the history, the contradictions are what appeal to me. I like being so close to Europe and I like being out of the craziness of the US. Here, a celebrity is someone on TV or a politician or a model. Some American movie star means nothing to them and I’m just fine with that.’

Sapphira looked at his ease and relaxed demeanour and thought he had never looked more attractive. It was as though he was a drug and she wanted more of it, his contentment and satisfaction with life almost an elixir. Sapphira was hooked.

‘Grab your drink and I’ll give you a tour,’ he said.

Leading the way, he walked Sapphira through each level, with a story to tell about his art and furniture, the parties he had thrown there and the peace he felt when he heard the water at night. Finishing on the roof, Sapphira was entranced by the view and the sounds below of the water city.

‘Your life is very agreeable, sir,’ she said, sipping her drink. ‘You live how you want and you do what you want. I admire you.’

‘Let’s go back down now and talk shit, then we will eat, yes? Then later we can go out for a twilight tour of the canals. It’s amazing, it never stops.’

Sapphira smiled, but she knew she was ready for another hit. ‘It sounds wonderful. I might just use your bathroom, if you don’t mind.’

‘No problem, use the one downstairs I just showed you and then I will meet you back down where you originally came in. If you get lost, just holler and I’ll come with a search party.’

Walking with Sapphira down the stairs, he left her at the bathroom and then went down to fix more drinks.

Sapphira entered the bathroom and noticed there was no lock on the door. Fuck, she thought. Opening her bag, she pulled out her works and set up. She had been craving more than usual; this happened sometimes but she was careful, writing down in her little notebook when and what she had taken last.

Checking her book, she fixed up the hit and hitching up her dress, injected herself into her groin. The hit was instant; she felt the rush as she sat on the toilet. Maybe she had taken a little more than last time, she wondered, as she felt her legs heavy. She tried to get up but couldn’t stand. I’ll wait for a while and then I’ll go down, she thought. Sitting on the toilet with her head on her chest, the sleepiness was too much to bear and she gave in.

‘Sapphira, Sapphira, you need to walk, you need to walk. Come on, baby.’

She heard the voice in the distance but he seemed so far away. She shook her head; whoever it was speaking was annoying her. Come on. She felt herself moving. How? Did she have wings? Laughing to herself, she heard the voice again. ‘It’s not funny. Come on, goddammit, walk.’

He walked her around the room, up and down, up and down, until her head began to clear a little and she became more conscious of her surroundings. ‘Jack?’

‘Who the fuck else would it be?’

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