Baci, Paola.
Oh no. Already?
Leo must feel me tense because he dips his head closer. ‘Are you OK?’
I force a laugh as I pocket my phone. ‘Yeah. Totally. Have you, um … have you spotted Jacopo yet?’
I scan the water, past pirates, mermaids and Italian characters I can’t name. Except maybe one.
‘That’s … him, isn’t it?’
I gesture at a rower in a winged lion costume who’s leaning out to drag a flimsy plastic rain poncho from the water, while the rest of the crew yell at him to sit down.
‘Yeah,’ Leo says quietly. ‘That’s him.’
After thecorteo, Leo and I find Jacopo on thefondamentawith his dad. Jacopo’s lion head is tipped back,hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. His dad smiles at me, then gives Leo’s shoulder a brief pat.
Leo touches the spot almost absently.
‘Come to eat with me?’ Jacopo says. ‘I will just help Papà return the boat first—’
His dad interrupts in Venetian, a short burst of words and a gentle push that sends Jacopo grinning our way.
Jacopo pats his stomach. ‘He says I am no good when I am hungry.’
He doesn’t bother taking his costume off, so he’s easy to follow even with the streets packed tight.
We stop at a place that’s barely more than a window cut into the wall, steam puffing out as fast as food passes through. Above the opening, a metal sign juts out into the street – a bright red octopus curling its tentacles around the lettersFRIGGITORIA.
I think it’s a kind of Venetian chippy – squid instead of haddock, skinny fries instead of chunky chips. The smell of frying batter is the same.
Leo and I claim a high table by the water, and I watch, bemused, as someone behind the window spots Jacopo approaching and slides a tray across, piled high with food.
Ignoring the glares and grumbles from the queue, he carries it over and sets it down with a flourish.
‘Buon appetito.’
I pick up a crispy calamari ring. ‘Is this … free?’
Jacopo lifts a shoulder. ‘I helped the owner decorate. Remember, Leo?’
Leo nudges the tray away like he’s lost his appetite, but Jacopo just laughs.
‘They forgot drinks. Wait here.’
I pick at the edge of the paper cone. ‘I don’t know if something’s getting lost in translation,’ I say, ‘but it’s like you two are always having a secret argument or something. What’s going on?’
‘Just … be careful around Jacopo. He doesn’t always realize the trouble he causes.’
Trouble? Is this about Jacopo’s digs at Leo – the not-disappointing-his-dad thing, the secret-keeping? Or am I seeing hidden meanings everywhere because I’m drowning in my own lies?
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’.
