‘Can you be serious for one minute?’ I interrupt.
We nearly collide with a woman in a feathered headpiece so enormous it’s wedged between the walls of thecalle. Jacopo frees her, with a gentle reprimand about respecting the measure of the city.
‘See? I can be serious.’
I sigh and stare at the confetti swirling around my feet. ‘You’re not a street artist, are you?’ My voice is flat, less question and more statement.
‘Me?’ Jacopo starts to laugh, then stops. ‘Wait … you thought I did the mural? This is why you sent me the picture … why you drew me?’
I squirm, embarrassed now. I need to hear him say it. ‘Well, are you?’
He searches my face. ‘No. Sorry. I’m not.’
And just like that, the whole stupid fantasy I’ve built – the big reveal, the spark, the meant-to-be moment – pops like a bubble. How did I get it so wrong?
He starts walking again, but I tug his sleeve.
‘So when you said you helped decorate thefriggitoria, you didn’t mean the artwork on the shutter?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head again. ‘I brought some furniture by boat. Got a discount on a crane.’
‘Oh. What about the hoarding outside the school? You said it was a perfect blank canvas, and the very next day a new mural appeared. Coincidence?’
He shrugs. ‘Esatto.’ But there’s a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that keeps me guessing.
‘Is it also a coincidence that the mural’s of Saint Mark – and you dressed up as a winged lion at the parade?’
‘Eh?That was San Marco?’
I nudge a scrap of gold confetti into the gutter with my toe. ‘OK. I believe you.’
‘Bon… can we eat now?’
The closer we get to Piazza San Marco, the harder it is to walk. Locals grumble at everyone to ‘keep right’ on bridges and narrowcalli, and the queues at bars andbacariare ridiculously long. We end up buying roasted chestnuts from a street vendor.
I could really do with a mask to hide my miserable face. Everyone else is having a great time. It’s the Festa delle Marie, and the whole thing shimmers with excitement.
Twelve girls in heavy velvet dresses are beingcarried through the crowds on raised wooden platforms, balanced high by teams of boys moving in time with the drums.
The cracked skins of the chestnuts burn my fingers as I peel them, but it barely registers. I’ve wasted so much time. Rebel is actually here – in this city, maybe in this verypiazza. He might even be one of the boys in the parade. And I wouldn’t know. Just like he has no idea I’ve been suspended from the app.
From his side, it looks like I’ve gone silent.
I make my excuses to Jacopo after lunch and wander aimlessly around the city, longing for the solitude of a heathery hill or an ancient forest. Venice is flat and treeless. It’s not until I spot a teenage girl in a full-blown argument with her mum that I give in to the urge to call my own.
‘Hey,’ I say, forcing cheer into my voice.
‘Oh, hi, love. It’s great to hear your voice. How’s Florence?’
‘It’s fine. Just … tiring.’
‘You sound a bit down,’ she says gently. ‘You’ve been so quiet this week. And Grace says you keep making excuses not to meet her friend. It’s not like you.’
‘I’m fine. Honestly. Just busy.’
There’s a pause. ‘Listen … your dad and I weretalking. If you need more spending money, we can figure something out. I know even sandwiches cost a fortune. And—’
‘Mum—’
