I almost laugh.
@TotallySketchy: About art.
There. Not a lie. The truth.
His typing bubbles appear, vanish, then reappear like he’s trying to find the right words.
@RenaissanceRebel: Watch this space, Sketchy. I’m going to inspire you.
@TotallySketchy: Yeah, about time you did some of the heavy lifting.
Across the room, Leo’s screen lights up again. I’m hyper-aware of the buzz-ping rhythm of our phones, like a volley in a tennis match. Who even texts him? His mum?
He turns to me, brow furrowed, then scoots to the edge of his seat.
‘Evie … This might sound crazy, but—’
Almost immediately, my phone buzzes again. Leo lets out a faint laugh and shakes his head.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He nods at my phone. ‘Go on.’
I glance down, expecting it to be Rebel.
But it’s not.
It’s Griselda’s friend Paola, chasing me for a reply to her unanswered text. If I don’t deal with this, Florence is going to come looking for me.
The second Jacopo’s mum gives us the all-clear, I rush to my room and drop on to the bed without even taking my shoes off. I go straight to Google to see if I can get to Florence and back without anyone noticing. There are loads of trains. Two hours each way on the fast ones. My thoughts start sprinting. Maybe at the weekend?
Then I check the prices. The trains that make it possible would wipe out what’s left in my account. I know, because I check that too. The cheaper ones take four or five hours, with changes, which means being gone most of the day. No way to slip under the radar.
Right now, I’m wishing I’d accepted the science placement and saved myself the hassle.
My phone buzzes.
Griselda: Rethinking your life choices?
My mouth goes dry. Does she …?
Another buzz.
Griselda: Day one is brutal. But you’ll get an ear for the language and into the routine soon enough.
I sink back into the mattress, the panic draining off. I should be grateful. She’s trying, in her bossy know-it-all way.
Then she spoils it with another message.
Griselda: Paola just asked me if she has the right number. Did you get her texts?
I set my phone face-down on the bedside table. It rattles against the wood as more messages arrive, and it takes me a second to realize Leo’s doing his gondolier call – from my bedroom door this time.
I refuse to play. ‘What is it?’
‘Dinner’s ready.’
Oh no. Dinner. I haven’t had to face Veronica since the portrait reveal, and I’m dreading it.
