He sets off along thefondamenta, checking behind him every few steps.
Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one with secrets.
My coat and shoes are already by the door. I slip them on and sneak out quietly, picking up my pace when I see Leo round a corner at the far end of thestreet. I catch sight of him again on the hump of a bridge, but a rowdy group in full costume floods the narrow crossing, and I get why Jacopo complains when people don’t stick to the right.
I weave through to find the street splits into three. There’s no sign of Leo.
Great. Lost him.
I try to work out where I am, but thecalliall look the same in the dark. One wrong turn becomes four, and not only have I lost Leo. I’m lost, too.
Voices swell ahead, music and laughter spilling out into the night. I follow the noise without really thinking. Left, then right, then right again.
A familiar shape swings into view ahead of me – a battered metal sign jutting out over the street on a bracket. A cartoon octopus painted bright red.
Thefriggitoria-chippy Jacopo brought us to after the water parade. We ate here, then turned right just past it and followed the canal back to Leo’s.
OK. I know where this is now.
Even with the window shutter down, the smell of old oil hits me as I near the building. That’s not what stops me.
Painted straight across the metal of the shutter is a piece of art. A girl draped on a chaise longue, bomber jacket and boots, delicate hands, a faraway stare.
I recognize it.
But not from Venice.
My phone’s already in my hand. I scroll until I find it – the post on the Art Exchange.
I look from the screen to the shutter.
It’s a perfect match.
Rebel’s art.
Here. In Venice.
A memory cuts through. Jacopo’s voice, that day.
I helped decorate the place.
The thought creeps in, impossible to shake.
Could Jacopo be Rebel?
My brain has been doing laps all night. Can Jacopo really be Rebel? I mean, Jacopo is … Jacopo. He wouldn’t be shy about his art; he’d shout about it from Venice’s terracotta rooftops … wouldn’t he? Could he really keep a secret this big? Leo doesn’t seem to think so.
Then there’s the other thing that kept me up. My feelings. Or more accurately … the way they don’t match. I’ve spent a whole year daydreaming about Rebel – about experiencing the spark, the flutter, face to face – and now, if I’ve found him … if Rebel really is Jacopo … why isn’t that spark there? Why does it feel more like losing something than finding it?
I rub my eyes and check the clothes I draped over the radiator last night. I washed a couple of T-shirts and some underwear in the sink yesterday, but they’re still damp. I’m too embarrassed to ask Jacopo’s mum where the washing machine is in case she insists on doing it for me. I’m running low on clean stuff, so Ipull on the same cardigan over a clean-enough tee and try not to imagine Fulvio giving me the once-over. Then I head downstairs to catch Jacopo before anyone else is up and about. I can’t imagine having the ‘are you my online soulmate?’ conversation in front of an audience.
The kitchen is bluish with early light. I sit at the island and fire off a couple of texts to Mum and Griselda, just to keep up appearances, when a new notification slides in.
@RenaissanceRebel: Check my feed.
My stomach does a full somersault. Has Rebel posted something new? … No, wait, has Jacopo … Agh! This is too confusing.
I tap on to Rebel’s page, and there, under his Renaissance-boy-meets-street-artist avatar, is a brand-new upload. The first he’s shared in ages. A mural of a man in a dark robe with an iPad clutched in one hand. Giant wings stretch out behind him, and a ring light glows above his head like a halo.
