Leo flinches. ‘So you’d never have got close to me … to him … if you’d known my family was what … wealthy?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Wow.’ Leo leans back in his chair. ‘And you think I’m the snob. You, of all people, know that’s not me. That’s just who they want me to be.’
I scoff. ‘Poor Leo with his rich artist daddy. Poor Leo who can fail and try again and never fall, because there’ll always be a safety net.’
His jaw tightens. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘What’s not fair is you pretending you’re just like me.’
Leo’s voice drops. ‘I told you my home life was tricky.’
‘And I believed you. But your version of tricky and mine aren’t the same.’
I grab a rag and start cleaning up some drips. Too hard. ‘Why are you even covering for me? You know I don’t belong here.’
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘You know why.’
I stop mid-scrub. Suddenly it’s there – the kiss we’re both pretending didn’t happen. But the way he’s looking at me now reminds me it totally did.
Then a voice cuts through.
‘Ciao, Evie, I got your text, so I came to get you.’ Jacopo’s eyes dart, then settle on Nadia at the back of the room.
Leo straightens. ‘You asked Jacopo to meet you?’
‘Yeah … no. Kind of.’ My voice wobbles. ‘I asked for help, from someone who gets it.’
I mean someone who knows what it’s like to have to prove yourself, to not start ten steps ahead, someone who has to get by on their own wit. But Leo’s face shutters, and suddenly it feels like I’ve said something I can’t take back – like I’ve chosen Jacopo over him.
You need to keep the dress?’ Jacopo kicks a stray football back to some kids playing in a smallcampo, far from the water.
‘Er, no. Pretty sure this is a one-off,’ I say, wryly. ‘You know I don’t have much of a budget, right?’
‘Trust me.’
His grin should be a red flag, but I follow him anyway, grateful for the excuse to escape my awkward conversation with Leo and the words I’m already regretting.
We head to a part of Venice I haven’t seen before, where the streets widen and the buildings shrink. And while there’s all the usual tourist tat, there are regular shops in place of stylish boutiques, ordinary things like clothes pegs and pet supplies, as if people actually live here. Shopkeepers greet Jacopo as we pass.
‘Does everyone know you?’
‘Not hard. Not many Venetians left.’ His hands, which are never still, gesture around us. ‘There is social housing here, not only holiday lets, so localpeople can afford to stay.’
We turn down acallettaso narrow, there’s only room for a T-shirt or two on the washing lines strung between the buildings.
‘You’ve known Leo forever, right?’
‘Since here.’ Jacopo holds a hand just above his knees. ‘When my mamma started working for Veronica. We played football together after school like the children back there.’
‘So … you know about his …art?’ I emphasize the word to show I don’t mean his usual stuff, but without totally giving him away.
Jacopo mimes spray-painting and gives me a questioning look.
At my nod, he exclaims, ‘Finalmente!I wanted to tell you, but I promised to stay quiet.’
‘Hmmm.’ I try not to laugh. Jacopo might not have said it outright, but his hints sent me round in so many circles, I was convinced he was Rebel.
