My bedroom is a massive upgrade from the draughty bunk I slept in on my last school trip to the Highlands. It’s all cool tiles and high-beamed ceilings that would have Dad panicking about the heating bill. There’s even an en suite with wall-to-wall mirrors. When I brush my teeth, it’s like being in a funhouse. I have to run my hands along the panels to find the door again when my phone starts buzzing insistently from the bedroom.
A video call from Mum.
‘Evie, love! Everything OK?’ She’s holding the lapels of her fleecy robe closed at her neck. I struggle to picture Veronica walking around the palazzo like that. ‘I was supposed to wait for your dad getting home before ringing, but he’s taking ages.’
I wince. He only swapped to the late shift so he could take me to the airport.
Mum’s left eyeball fills the screen. ‘Have you got the same view as Grace? She could see a bit of that church thing. The big fancy one … the Duomo, right?’
I give my phone a little shake and tilt the screen. ‘Uh, hang on. If I move, I lose signal.’
Except now the camera catches the gold brocade bedspread and the matching lampshades.
Mum gasps. ‘Oh! Your room’s gorgeous. Is that a king-size bed? Just wait till Grace finds out. She had a bunk!’
I straighten the phone. ‘No, just a weird angle. Anyway, I can’t see any domes from here. Must be facing the other way.’
In a different city.
‘Ah well, never mind. Listen, before I forget – remember Paola? The girl Grace was friendly with in Florence? She’s offered to show you around. Grace has given her your mobile, so you’re to expect a call.’
Classic Griselda, arranging my life for me evenfrom afar. Safe to say I won’t be answering any Italian numbers.
‘OK, Mum, I’ll keep an eye out. Switching off now, battery’s about to go. Love you. Bye!’
I collapse on to the definitely-king-size bed. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet: no TV blaring from the flat downstairs, no dog barking across the road. The noise usually drives me mad, but I kind of miss it tonight.
Rolling on to my side, I open the Art Exchange, only for my phone to buzz in my hand.
Rebel – messaging me as I was about to message him. Our weird telepathy. It’s happened more times than I can count.
@RenaissanceRebel: Please tell me you have Wi-Fi?
@TotallySketchy: Signal’s dodgy but alive.
@RenaissanceRebel: Thank blank. I thought the SWAT team had finally shut you down.
@TotallySketchy: Shhh! Don’t even joke about it.
@RenaissanceRebel: So … how’s it going?
@TotallySketchy: Weird. New. Not sure I like it.
@RenaissanceRebel: First night blues? I have a cure … hang on …
I sink deeper into the mattress. If anyone gets it, it’s him.
The typing bubbles appear, vanish, then pop up again.
@RenaissanceRebel:
@TotallySketchy: Is that … a handshake?
@RenaissanceRebel: More of a hold than a shake … So you’re not floating around on your own.
I brace for the mods to react. This is the sort of thing they’re all over – I swear half of them are former headteachers, ex-police officers, or bots trained by them. But, miraculously, nothing happens. Probably because the wordshandandholdingdon’t appear next to each other.
I trace the tiny emoji with my thumb. The ache that’s been sitting in my chest since I arrived at the palazzo eases a little. I’m not doing this alone.
