Chapter 7
At least there were no half-naked boys in the bathroom when I woke up this morning.
I could already hear Leo downstairs – not like Dad through paper-thin walls, but echoing up from the marbled depths of a palace.
I still check the lock three times and dress in a hurry, though.
As I head down, the noise grows louder and the smell of something sweet drifts up to meet me.
It hits me then: this is my third day in Venice and I haven’t even seen the kitchen.
At home, you walk straight into ours from the front door.
I bet Veronica and Leo have no idea how most of us live.
If I mentioned my estate, they’d probably picture landscaped grounds and family crests – not long rows of identical council houses chopped into flats.
Some are pretty decent, especially if people have bought them and done up the front gardens.
Mum stresses about our patch at the back.
It’s scruffy and overgrown, with a broken trampoline that was there when we moved in.
Nobody has time to sort it, though. Or to enjoy it.
We all work weekends – although I get a lie-in because my shift at the cinema a few towns over doesn’t start until after lunch.
So I’m not exactly used to finding a kitchen full of people on a Saturday morning, pan bubbling away with golden shapes bobbing in oil.
‘Evie! Vieni, vieni.’ Jacopo’s mum waves me over to the kitchen island, where Leo and Jacopo have their sleeves rolled up, flour smudged across their noses, and hands white with dough.
My eyebrows shoot up. Check out Prince Leo getting his hands dirty with something other than paint. ‘You? Cooking?’ I don’t bother to hide my disbelief.
‘Jacopo’s mum is … persuasive.’
‘He means bossy,’ Jacopo says, flashing his mum an innocent smile.
She returns a look that says she might not know exactly what he said, but she’s definitely on to him.
And then, somehow, I’ve got an apron around my waist and she’s pointing me towards a huge lump of dough studded with raisins.
It reminds me of the scone mixture we made in food tech at school.
She shows me how to roll it into bite-sized balls.
Leo’s are perfect, obviously – but he’s not gloating. Just focused. Relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before.
My hands are soon covered in flour, and when I brush them on my jeans without thinking, Leo winces.
‘Um, you’ve got …’
I twist to see what he’s staring at and spot two perfect floury handprints across my backside.
‘Oh my God,’ I groan.
Leo’s ears go pink. ‘I didn’t mean … I just—’
‘Need a hand dusting off ?’ Jacopo offers.
Ugh. I’d frisk him for that corny handbook of his, only he’d probably enjoy it too much.
‘So what are we making?’ I hold up a doughy ball, desperate to change the subject.
‘Fritoe,’ Jacopo’s mum answers. ‘Per Carnevale.’
She gives me a cooked one to try, and it’s soft and warm in the centre, like a fried doughnut with bursts of sweet raisins and pine nuts. They’re a world away from the dry biscuits stashed in my room or the usual toast and butter I have at home.
Veronica comes into the kitchen, formal and monochrome even on the weekend, and hands Leo her phone. ‘Your father.’
He takes it like it’s a lump of lead and his dad’s voice booms through the tiny speaker. I can’t make out the words, but Leo seems to be answering some kind of checklist.
‘Sì … No … Non ancora.’
Yes. No. Not yet.
Meanwhile, Veronica takes a fritoa and cuts it into dainty pieces with a knife and fork. ‘You must go to the Ca’ Rezzonico museum,’ she says. ‘There’s an eighteenth-century painting of these treats.’
I wonder if she only eats foods that have been immortalized in oil paint. Preferably a couple of centuries ago.
When Leo hangs up, Veronica points her fork at him. ‘Perhaps Leonardo can take you.’
Jacopo slings an arm around my shoulder. ‘We could go together, just me and you.’
I shrug him off. ‘Do you never stop?’
Veronica shakes her head, clearly used to his antics. ‘I’m not sure you would have a lot to say about the art, Jacopo.’
‘Maybe not the painters or techniques,’ he admits. ‘But I could tell her about the subjects – the ordinary people of Venice. The street vendors, the gondoliers, the workers.’
‘Then perhaps you should all go together. Today, preferably. Remember your father is giving that lecture tomorrow, Leonardo.’
Leo gulps his last bite. ‘I’m taking Evie to the corteo acqueo tomorrow.’
Jacopo’s eyebrows lift. ‘You changed your mind.’
‘Ah yes, the corteo.’ Veronica rests her cutlery on her plate like she’s lost her appetite. ‘Why the Institute must be associated with this Carnevale nonsense is beyond me.’
I stiffen. Jacopo’s taking part.
‘It’s perfect for Jacopo,’ Veronica adds, as I cringe on his behalf. ‘He wants to be a gondolier, like his father.’
At the word ‘gondolier’, Jacopo’s mum says something quickly to Leo, then nods towards me.
‘She wants you to know gondoliers don’t just ferry people around,’ he translates. ‘They tell stories. Keep traditions alive.’
‘And that’s lovely,’ Veronica says. ‘But you’re very sharp, Jacopo. Charismatic. You’d be brilliant in sales or marketing. Have you ever thought about doing a business degree? It would open all sorts of doors. You could travel the world.’
Jacopo shrugs. ‘I already live somewhere people travel the world to see.’
He’s not defensive. Or rude. Just … honest. I’ve never seen him be serious before.
And for a moment it’s like a mask has slipped.
Veronica meant it as a compliment. The same way Griselda does, when she sends me links to science workshops or drops not-so-subtle hints about future earnings. You’re smart. You could go further. Do better.
And maybe they mean well. But they’re still saying this version of you isn’t right.
That even if you’re good at something – even if it makes you feel like yourself – it still won’t be enough for them.
Jacopo gets it. I see it in the way he squares his shoulders, holding on to the bit of himself Veronica doesn’t understand. I stand like that too.