Chapter 25
You need to keep the dress?’ Jacopo kicks a stray football back to some kids playing in a small campo, far from the water.
‘Er, no. Pretty sure this is a one-off,’ I say, wryly. ‘You know I don’t have much of a budget, right?’
‘Trust me.’
His grin should be a red flag, but I follow him anyway, grateful for the excuse to escape my awkward conversation with Leo and the words I’m already regretting.
We head to a part of Venice I haven’t seen before, where the streets widen and the buildings shrink.
And while there’s all the usual tourist tat, there are regular shops in place of stylish boutiques, ordinary things like clothes pegs and pet supplies, as if people actually live here. Shopkeepers greet Jacopo as we pass.
‘Does everyone know you?’
‘Not hard. Not many Venetians left.’ His hands, which are never still, gesture around us. ‘There is social housing here, not only holiday lets, so local people can afford to stay.’
We turn down a calletta so narrow, there’s only room for a T-shirt or two on the washing lines strung between the buildings.
‘You’ve known Leo forever, right?’
‘Since here.’ Jacopo holds a hand just above his knees. ‘When my mamma started working for Veronica. We played football together after school like the children back there.’
‘So … you know about his … art?’ I emphasize the word to show I don’t mean his usual stuff, but without totally giving him away.
Jacopo mimes spray-painting and gives me a questioning look.
At my nod, he exclaims, ‘Finalmente! I wanted to tell you, but I promised to stay quiet.’
‘Hmmm.’ I try not to laugh. Jacopo might not have said it outright, but his hints sent me round in so many circles, I was convinced he was Rebel.
‘So why say all that stuff about blank canvases and him disappointing his dad?’
‘Because he comes out now you are here. First rowing, then the parade. He is less on his phone and more …’ He waves his hands around some more. ‘Here.’
‘Wait … You were trying to set us up?’
‘No, no,’ Jacopo says quickly. ‘Just … encourage a bit. Better a real girl than an online girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’ There’s an unexpected pinch in my chest.
Jacopo catches it straight away. ‘Ai ai ai. Always the moody ones.’ He presses his palms together.
‘Look, I do not know if she is a girlfriend. They talk online. He smiles at his phone like this …’ Jacopo pulls a goofy grin.
‘But recently …’ He imitates the way Leo frowns and taps his screen, checking and checking again.
That’s when it clicks.
I’m the girl. He was waiting for Sketchy, but I’d been frozen out of the app.
Relief floods in, quick and disorientating. And something else. Something I’m not ready to name.
‘Or maybe I am wrong,’ Jacopo says. ‘Maybe he is unhappy because he changed school.’
I stop walking. ‘But the school belongs to his parents.’
‘Exactly.’ Jacopo smiles like I’ve said something important. ‘And now he has to paint their way.’
This must be the school switch Rebel talked about.
It’s the first time I’ve thought of Leo’s privilege as something that’s boxing him in.
I want to ask Jacopo what else he knows, but he’s stopped below a tiny balcony that’s more like a tall window with a railing across it.
He cups a hand to his mouth and lets out a low, birdlike call.
A few seconds later, an unimpressed-looking girl leans out and tosses down a ring of keys. They clatter on to the stone.
‘Fai presto,’ she snaps, disappearing back inside.
I frown at Jacopo, uneasy. ‘Umm … why is she telling you to hurry?’
‘My cousin, Alice,’ he replies, like that’s an answer.
‘Does she know we’re here for a dress?’
‘Of course.’ He shakes his head, disappointed I even asked, and pushes the door open.
I take a deep breath. This is either going to be amazing … or a crime.
Inside, racks of dresses line the walls – feathers, sequins, beads – like something from a period drama. Some are as nice as the ones I’ve seen at the costume competitions in St Mark’s Square.
‘Jacopo,’ I hiss. ‘Are you sure we’re allowed in here?’
‘We have the key, no?’
Not a direct answer. ‘OK, but these won’t be cheap.’
‘Cheap? They are free. You said only borrow, sì?’
There’s barely room to turn without brushing a sleeve or an underskirt. I push my way to the back, trailing my fingers over the fancy fabrics, easing a couple free for closer inspection.
I’m not picky – I just want something that fits – but every single gown is cut for someone much shorter.
I pull out a purple costume with ruffled sleeves, and a second one comes with it – wedged behind, out of sight.
This one’s silver and black, like the dark coat of a horse glossed by moonlight. It feels like fate.
‘You look like you found your wedding dress,’ Jacopo says. ‘It is bad luck for me to see it before we marry, no?’
I laugh and shake my head. He’s impossible.
Then a girl’s voice calls from outside. ‘Jacopo! Papà sta tornando!’
I stiffen. ‘Err… Jacopo? Whose dad is coming back?’
‘Run now. Ask later.’ He whips the dress out of my hands, stuffs it into his coat, and flings the keys back up on to the balcony as we burst into the street and take off. Venice blurs as I try to keep up.
‘Jacopo!’ I shout, gasping for breath. ‘You said she knew about the dress.’
‘I said Alice knew. Not her papà,’ he shouts over his shoulder.
Back at the palazzo, with the ‘borrowed’ dress stashed safely in my room, I go down to dinner.
I’ve got so used to the elaborate place settings that I notice one’s missing straight away.
‘Is Leo out?’
Veronica passes me a bowl of inky-black risotto, slicked with olive oil. ‘He’s not feeling well. He went up to lie down.’
Oh. Weird. He was perfectly fine earlier.
‘Hopefully a good night’s sleep is all he needs,’ Veronica says. ‘Martino will be back for the ball tomorrow after all. He’s keen to see the work everyone has been doing.’
I poke at the risotto. Keen as in excited, or keen as in checking everything is up to standard?
And if I feel that pressure, what must it be like for Leo?
I’ve spent so much time keeping a mental list of what he has and I don’t – a renowned artist as a father, a family art school, doors that open before you even knock.
That’s why it hurt when I found out Rebel was Leo. Why I felt cheated.
I’d decided Rebel was someone like me. Someone who didn’t come from all that. He moved around a lot, so I told myself his family life must be unstable.
Only it wasn’t instability. It was privilege. Money, travel, chances to shine in every new place.
Just not freedom.
Rebel wasn’t a lie. He was the only space Leo had to be himself.
And I’ve been no better than Fulvio. He wants to get close to Leo because of the Ballarin name, and I want to sprint in the opposite direction because of it.
Neither of us sees the actual boy.
Only, I think I do now.
Before I get ready for bed, I grab my toothbrush and call, ‘Pope oeeee,’ at the bathroom door.
But there’s no answer. Just silence, like there’s no one in the room at all.