Urban Venus by Sara Downing Read Free Book Online Page A

was one of the more brilliant and inspiring lecturers, so again I need to maintain an open mind and give him a chance, and stop judging people on first impressions.
    And I am enthralled from the start. Signore Di Girolamo rounds up and captures his audience like the Pied Piper within seconds of the start of his lecture, and I sit completely rapt for the full hour, not even breaking my gaze to glance around the room at the others present, or, surprisingly, the artwork lining the walls. At the end, as he starts to pack his things together, he is suddenly surrounded by a swarm of students, all wanting to ask more and get inside his brilliant mind.
    ‘ You are English, yes?’ the guy next to me asks, as I’m busy observing this scrum and packing away my own notes, still in thrall to the greatness of Signore Di Girolamo. ‘What did you think of our fantastic professor? Isn’t he brilliant? I am Eduardo,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. Oh no, not another Ed, even if he is an Italian version and looks nothing like my Ed. Has he been sent here to haunt me, a flashback from my painful past? Don’t be so silly, Lydia.
    ‘ Mi chiamo Lydia. Piacere, ’ I reply, seizing the proffered hand, and not wanting him to think that like most English people abroad, I can’t have a go in the native tongue.
    ‘ How are you settling in? Have you fallen in love with our beautiful city yet?’ he asks in Italian, and I manage to formulate a sensible reply which doesn’t sound half bad, I think. He understands me, anyway. ‘A few of us are going for a coffee now. Would you like to join us?’ he asks.
    I can’t believe how welcoming everyone is here. There I am, thinking I stand out like a sore thumb as the English girl, but these guys are going out of their way to include me in their circle of friends. It would be great to get to know some people on my course; I can’t expect Sophia and Leonora to keep providing ready-made friends and do all the hard work, so I accept gladly and gratefully. I will have to sneak back into the gallery on my free pass later and go and see the Raphael work properly, but I can’t miss an opportunity to make some more friends.
    ‘ We are going just round the corner from here,’ Eduardo adds. ‘We no drink caffè in this piazza, too expensive,’ he goes on in English, wagging a finger and smiling. ‘We know a lovely bar, not far from here, well, not very lovely but caffè is good. I show you, you come with us.’
    I follow him and his small band of friends, who each introduce themselves to me with a welcoming smile and a handshake. I can’t recall making friends ever being this easy in my first week at Newcastle. Freshers’ Week seemed to be fraught with pressure to get in with the ‘right’ crowd, join the ‘cool’ clubs, and work out where to be seen and with whom. Florence doesn’t seem half as fake and pretentious as all that; everyone I have met so far has been genuinely lovely, with no ulterior motive in getting to know me other than that they would like me to be their friend. Simple as that.
    Eduardo was right about the bar; it’s far from lovely. It’s the sort of place that if I were on my own, I would give a very wide berth to; one of those typical little backstreet cafés you see all over any big city in Italy, a bit grubby and seedy looking, with most customers standing at the bar drinking their coffee. (I hadn’t realised until now that they charge you more to sit down – common mistake of the foreigner.) Fortunately one of the group knows the owner, Mario, so we do get a table, for no extra charge, and I am glad of it, as there is no lingering over coffees as compact as these, and without a table there would have been limited opportunity to get to know the rest of the crowd I have come here with. Not a latte or a cappuccino in sight at this time of day; they are the territory of the tourist, apparently. Nothing that milky should be drunk post-breakfast, so I am