Chapter 4
Acrash of metal jolts me awake. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. A dark ceiling hangs above me and voices shout in a language my sleepy brain can’t place. Then someone calls andiamo! – let’s go – a word even I know, and it clicks. I’m in Venice.
I throw back the covers and stumble to the shutters. What I thought was a tall window turns out to be a Juliet balcony, the canal right there, a few metres below. Two men in hi-vis overalls hurl bags of rubbish from metal cages into a waiting barge.
Normal here, I suppose.
I’m just starting to relax, drinking in the sight of the buildings opposite, when I hear the sound of running water. And it’s not coming from outside.
Bile rises in my throat. Did I leave a tap on?
I vaguely remember going to the loo in the wee hours. My brain goes straight to the headlines: Lying Scottish student owes thousands in damages after flooding Venetian palazzo. I sprint to the bathroom door, wrench it open …
And freeze.
Leo’s at the sink, toothbrush in hand, shirtless. His reflection bounces off every mirror in the room, so it’s not just one of him, it’s five – shoulders, arms, chest – basically everything I’m trying not to see.
My own horrified face stares back from every angle.
‘Ever heard of knocking?’ he mumbles around his toothbrush.
‘Ever heard of locking the door?’ I fire back, edging around him to snatch my washbag before diving back into my bedroom and slamming the door shut. I lean against it for good measure, trying to delete the images from my brain.
We share a bathroom?
I get ready at record speed, mortified at being caught in my tartan pyjamas. Mum and Dad gave them to Griselda when she went to Florence, and now they’ve been passed down to me, along with her career plan and her future.
I collide with Leo again at the top of the stairs. He’s in a long-sleeved pink polo shirt now, which should look ridiculous but really doesn’t. At least he’s covered up. I step back to let him pass, and he nods stiffly before starting down ahead of me.
‘No “ladies first” in Italy then?’ I mutter.
‘Actually,’ he says without turning, ‘the man goes first on stairs. In case the lady falls.’
His emphasis on ‘lady’ suggests I don’t qualify. That I don’t have a clue about what’s proper. Fair enough, I don’t. So I make a mental note to keep my mouth and the bathroom door firmly shut.
Veronica’s waiting on the bottom landing, fastening a black wool cape that makes her red hair pop. ‘Ah, good, you’re ready. I thought we’d have breakfast together.’
They have breakfast … out?
We leave by a different door this time, on to a street running along the canal I saw from my balcony. It’s my first time stepping into a day-lit Venice and the colours surprise me – the water, the palazzos, the blue overhead. February in Scotland does not look this good.
A small, beaten-up boat is moored nearby, and a boy is helping the brownie woman out. He’s a head taller than she is, but the dark, lively eyes and high cheekbones give him away as her son.
He greets Leo with a shoulder shove, then gives me a slow once-over before holding out his hand. ‘Piacere, Jacopo.’
‘Evie,’ I reply, taking it.
‘English?’ he asks.
‘Scottish,’ I correct, remembering Griselda telling me this would happen a lot.
‘Bellissima.’ He flips my hand over and presses a quick kiss to the back.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or pull away. Mum would call him a charmer. Dad would call him a chancer. But there’s something familiar about him, like we’ve already met.
‘Don’t get too flattered,’ Leo mutters. ‘He does that with everyone.’
Jacopo flinches, as if he’s not sure what Leo’s problem is. Then he laughs. ‘Ahh, she is the artista. Worried about un po’ di competition?’
Leo jams his hands into his coat pockets, and I shift uncomfortably, remembering Veronica’s weird comment about how I’d be a successful addition to the project. Is that why Leo’s off with me? Is the faerie prince worried about his precious throne?
Veronica joins us as Jacopo’s mum goes inside. ‘If you’re going to charm Evie, Jacopo, can you do it on the way? Your cousin’s sitting for us this morning and we’d like to have breakfast first.’
Jacopo loops his arm through mine as we trail after her, as though it’s completely natural.
‘About that,’ Jacopo says to Veronica. ‘She forgot she has a dress fitting for the Festa delle Marie today.’
Veronica sighs. ‘Always Carnevale.’
I must look confused because Jacopo adds, ‘The Feast of the Maries – an event for the twelve most beautiful girls in Venice.’ He wiggles his brows. ‘It’s a shame they’ve already been chosen.’
Leo groans and covers his ears.
I swat Jacopo’s arm. ‘Where do you get this stuff? An old dating manual?’
His outrageous flirting is making it tough to pin down a mythical match for him. No Scottish creature has that much friendly Labrador energy.
‘Are you with InterSTEAM too?’ I ask hopefully, stopping to let a deliveryman haul a wheeled trolley over a narrow bridge.
Veronica gives a small laugh. ‘Jacopo has no interest in fine art. And actually, Evie, you’re the only student joining us through the programme – the only international one, too.
The others have been with us since we opened in September, coming from schools in and around Venice.
You’ll get along well. They’re all the same age as you and Leo. ’
‘Oh.’ So I’m the only new kid. Great. I just hope the others aren’t like the faerie prince. Fine art, though. Who said anything about that? My stuff’s digital, all pieced-together layers, not something you admire from a distance with your hands behind your back.
Jacopo nudges me with his elbow. ‘Don’t be sad. You will still see me. My school is close to the Institute. I drop Mamma off, then leave my boat, Catrìn, at Leo’s, and we walk in together every morning. Parking is impossibile in Venice, and they have a spare permit.’
He cuts across me to a noticeboard layered with posters, tapping one showing a ribbon-covered boat packed with oarsmen in matching sashes. ‘And I officially invite you to the corteo acqueo on Sunday. I’ll be rowing with my dad.’
I frown. ‘The aquatic … something?’
‘Water parade.’ Leo helps me out. ‘And you don’t need an invitation. Half the city goes.’
‘You don’t,’ Jacopo shoots back. ‘Why not bring Evie. Show our traditions.’
Leo scoffs. ‘No way.’ Then, after a sharp look from Veronica, he adds, ‘I’m busy.’
‘Ah, yes. Your father’s lecture on glazing. He sent me the link to the live stream earlier.’
Jacopo drops his voice. ‘You would not want to disappoint your father, no?’
Leo flicks a hand towards Jacopo’s ear, but Jacopo yanks me between them, using me as a shield. I’d just pulled out my phone to message Rebel and the sudden tug knocks it from my fingers.
Jacopo catches it before it hits the ground. He doesn’t give it back.
‘Can I text myself so I have your number?’ He sticks out his bottom lip. ‘Per favore?’
I agree, and pretend not to notice Leo glaring holes straight through us.
‘Relax, Leo,’ Jacopo teases. ‘I’m just sending her the parade details. I won’t share your secrets or anything.’
As if perfect Leonardo Ballarin even has secrets. And anyway, I have enough of my own to worry about.
After a dizzying number of bridges and tiny alleys, I let out a breath. ‘I’ll never find my way back alone. Even the streets have weird names. There are no piazzas or vias like I learnt.’
Jacopo grins as if he’s been waiting for this. ‘Calli are the skinny streets, campi are the squares, and fondamenta are the ones by the water. Easy.’
‘Right. Easy,’ I echo.
He splits off when we stop at a tiny bar with no sign and no menu, and I’m sorry to see him go. I squeeze in at the counter with Veronica and Leo and, when they order, I copy them by saying, ‘Anche io’ – me too.
I’m handed a teeny-tiny espresso cup that’s only half-full, and a round golden bun topped with glazed syrup and thinly sliced almonds.
I reach into my bag, but Veronica stops me.
‘Allow me. It’s your first day.’
I don’t argue, but I can’t do this every morning – take handouts or splash out on cafes.
My breakfast sits heavy in my stomach as I think about how much this trip’s already cost Mum and Dad.
‘Fully funded’ doesn’t mean free – there was the passport (not cheap!), travel insurance, extra phone data, plug adaptors, travel-sized everything, emergency euros.
If they knew it was really for art and not science …
yeah, I’d probably choke on the rest of this bun.