Chapter 10
Mornings in Venice are turning into a whole ritual: breakfast in bed, a scroll through the Art Exchange, a hello to Rebel. I told him to keep an eye on my feed today – I’m finally posting the portrait from Friday, and I can’t wait to hear what he thinks.
Even Leo and I are past our rocky start.
And when I pretend I’m too nervous about starting the art course to have breakfast at the bar, he skips it too.
I feel a bit guilty though, as I’ve already eaten biscuits in my room, but I’m too embarrassed to tell him that – or that I’ve kept his hoodie to wear over my pyjamas for extra warmth. Which is true. Mostly.
Leo unlocks the studio with his mum’s keys while she grabs a coffee, and a girl who could model for a fashion house follows us inside.
She corners him about some party she’s organizing, so I leave them to it and head to my easel.
I’m about to open my phone camera when the family group chat suddenly resurrects itself.
Mum’s sent a cheesy ‘good luck’ gif of a sloth in safety glasses. Dad follows with a thumbs up, then Griselda finishes with: try not to blow up the classroom, followed by a link titled ‘Dos & Don’ts in the Science Lab’.
Dad sends another thumbs up.
I bite my lip. They’re cheering me on while I’m lying to them.
‘I hear you’re staying with the Ballarin family,’ Fulvio says, creeping up on me. ‘Do you know what Veronica wants to see in the showcase? Has Leo said what he’s doing?’
I shake my head, but he stares like I’m holding out on him. Judging by the goggle tan, he went skiing instead of to the parade at the weekend and now he expects me to fill him in.
By the time he finally lets up, Veronica’s back and my chance to take a quick photo of my portrait is gone.
‘The Carnevale theme is unfortunate,’ she begins, raising her voice over the music drifting in from the street.
‘But my husband and I have found a way to keep the school’s reputation intact.
Martino has painted everyone from royalty to heads of state, and portraits are very much our calling card.
For the showcase, we’d like you to create a self-portrait – imagine yourself living in Renaissance or Baroque Venice.
Think Titian, Bellini, Tiepolo. Choose one of the Venetian masters to echo in tone or technique. ’
A ripple of interest rolls through the room, students nodding as if they can picture it. I barely know the names she drops, let alone their work.
Alessandra’s hand shoots up. ‘Sorry … but Silvia wanted us to design our own floats, not paint portraits, and I saw a paper craft at the corteo acqueo yesterday that I’d really like to use.’
Veronica’s composure slips, then rights itself into a calm smile. ‘Of course, but classical portraiture is what the Institute is known for … what Martino Ballarin wants it to be known for. You are free to choose the style and composition, as long as it falls within the Venetian tradition.’
So … definitely not what Silvia told us.
Though I can hardly talk. I spent the whole parade thinking about Leo instead of the showcase.
Veronica fields a few more questions, steering everyone back to her theme. She tells one boy his bold colours could echo Tiepolo, and Nadia that her fine line work would sit well alongside Bellini.
Then her gaze lands on me.
‘Evie! With Silvia’s surprise announcement on Friday, I didn’t even get a chance to see your painting.’
Leo says something to his mum in Italian, low and firm. Again, I understand the words … or enough to piece a couple of sentences together – Give her more time. It isn’t finished.
I frown. How would he know? Nobody’s even seen it yet.
Veronica waves a hand dismissively and swivels my portrait of Leo round to face the room.
There’s a second where her expression collapses into something close to horror. Then it’s gone, replaced by the social polish Mum values so much – so smooth and practised she must have to hide her feelings a lot.
‘Oh,’ is all she says.
And it’s not the good kind of ‘Oh’. It’s the one where the intonation drops off a cliff at the end … like Veronica’s opinion of me.
My work won’t be calling any Venetian artists to mind. I’ve focused on textures and shapes rather than realism. Now that I’m seeing it through Veronica’s eyes, it looks like a collage pretending to be a painting. On Friday, I thought it was bold and modern, but it’s obviously just a mess.
Veronica waits for the whispers to die down.
‘It’s very emotional … and expressive,’ she says after a pause. ‘That has its place, of course. But here, we focus on technique. On foundation.’
She turns Leo’s painting around too. And I swear she actually exhales in relief.
‘Classical training. Technical precision. This,’ she says, ‘is what we’re aiming for.’
Against my better judgement, I look.
And instantly regret it.
He’s captured the moment I stopped worrying about technique and started enjoying myself. It’s there on my silly, hopeful face … the flush in my cheeks … or maybe it was that microsecond when I pictured our bathroom encounter.
Oh God. I can’t bear to look at it. At me.
‘There’s emotion here too,’ Veronica explains. ‘But it’s realistic, refined.’
She rests a light hand on my arm, and the gentle touch is the last thing I expect. Heat rushes to the back of my eyes and I gulp hard.
‘Perhaps Leonardo can take you to the Accademia this afternoon. Get a feel for the masters before you … experiment. In fact, we may want to revisit the current pairings. Make sure each student is matched appropriately.’
Everyone turns hopefully towards Leo. Of course they want to work with him.
Only Nadia meets my gaze. ‘Evie can join me and Alessandra—’
‘No.’ Leo’s voice slices through the room. ‘Silvia decided on the pairs, remember?’
I stall for a beat – wait, what? I thought he’d jump at the chance to get out of this.
Veronica hesitates, then nods curtly, unwilling to override Silvia any more than she already has.
So that’s it. I couldn’t work out his sudden friendliness on Friday, or what changed in the time it took me to buy a packet of biscuits. But now I know. He spied on my portrait … and decided I wasn’t a threat after all. No real competition.
What an idiot he must think I am.
While the class debates which painter to emulate – Titian, Bellini, Tintoretto – like they’re average teenagers and this is entirely normal, I smile along, and pretend I’m weighing up options too.
In reality, I’m watching the minutes tick by, waiting for my chance to leave.
They don’t need to study the masters. They grew up with this stuff – gallery trips, weekend art classes, dinner party conversations.
Me? I’m the fake. Almost convincing – until you shine a light on me.