Leo moves ahead without even hesitating, like he’s been here a hundred times and knows exactly where to go. Museums like this with their high ceilings and gilded frames are probably just rainy-day activities for him.
He names artists and movements the way boys back home reel off football stats. I’m meant to be learning how to tell the paintings apart – this brush-stroke, that palette, a signature I should recognize – but all I can see is how easy it is for him, and how impossible it is for me.
As one gallery leads to another, the never-ending parade of gloomy saints, angels and nobles all start to blur together.
Is this what I’m aiming for? To mould myself into a style? A school? Learn to be like everyone else?
I’m searching for the exit when Leo steps into my path.
‘My mum was right, you know.’
Oh no. Here comes the lecture. Too emotional, too messy, not brushstrokey enough.
But he motions towards a nearby painting instead. It’s a portrait of a young woman with glowing skin and elaborate hair.La Bella, the plaque underneath reads.
It’s the Titian painting Veronica said looked like me. Back when I was the shiny new arrival. Still full of hope. Was that really only four days ago?
‘Yeah, I remember. Complicated hair and rosy cheeks, right?’
Leo actually looks a bit sheepish.
Then I spot the painting next to her. Lippi’sPortrait of a Youth.
Oh.
The resemblance is ridiculous. Same straight eyebrows in a solemn, too-serious face. Same curls, even.
Yep. I’m staring at a Renaissance version of Leo.
‘You could nick it for your showcase,’ I say. ‘Probably your great ancestor anyway, right? I mean, it’s you. Framed.’
Leo clutches his chest. ‘Trapped in a gallery forever.’ He’s convincingly tragic – a little too convincing – and for a second I’m not sure it’s just a performance.
I can’t bear to be here any more. What’s the point? Staring at masterpieces isn’t going to make me any better at painting one. All it’s doing is making me wish I could go back in time and accept that science placement.
It’s raining when we leave, a dreich grey drizzle that makes me long for home.
Embarrassingly, Jacopo’s mum’s cleaning my room as well as Leo’s when we get back, like I’m a guest in a hotel. I duck into the living room in an effort to ditch him … only to find it’s way too fancy to relax in. There isn’t even a TV. I try to picture Mum and Dad chucking ours out – the one Dad swears he’ll be paying off for the rest of his natural life – and nope. My imagination doesn’t stretch that far.
The leather couches are stiff and uncomfortable, probably to stop people dozing off in the TV-less room while they discuss cultural affairs. Although, there is an iPad on the coffee table – one of the newer ones with the little camera that sticks out. Way more storage than mine, probably, and twice the resolution too. Not that it matters. I haven’t opened Procreate since the airport. Not sure I want to draw anythingagain after today. So much for surprising Rebel with something new.
Leo appears in the doorway. ‘What are you up to?’
I grab my phone. ‘Messages. I suppose you’ve got someone who does that for you.’
‘Ha ha.’ He drops on to the couch opposite and pulls out his own phone. ‘Nope. Look, I can even type all by myself.’
A second later my phone buzzes. My brain jumps ahead of itself and I half-expect to see Leo’s name on my screen – then I remember we haven’t swapped numbers.
It’s Rebel.
@RenaissanceRebel: Hey, did the blank brigade ban your new post? Can’t see it on your feed.
I want to make an excuse, tell him the dog ate it. But I’ve never lied to him.
@TotallySketchy: Sorry. Having second thoughts.
@RenaissanceRebel: About … paper?
