Urban Venus by Sara Downing

but barely had I withdrawn pencil from case than I was out for the count once more. It’s like some weird art-hallucinogenic thing going on; just a few minutes of exposure to it and I am off. I wonder if the other rooms in the gallery, or even other paintings, would have the same effect on me, but then I haven’t put that to the test and I’m not sure I want to either. One set of dreams at a time is more than enough for me to cope with.
    Am I reading too much into all this? Perhaps I am just still really shattered; all the excitement of arriving, meeting so many lovely new people and being so completely and utterly overwhelmed by the beauty and culture around me wherever I go? I just need to pull myself together and get on top of it. Yes, that’ll be all it is, pure lack of sleep and over-tiredness.
    Another dream. This time I remember it a little more clearly. I couldn’t begin to say where I was, or even who I was, even though I know quite clearly ‘I’ wasn’t me, but I do have a strong image of the man in the dream. He was my lover, whoever he was. His face was unfamiliar, and although the ‘me’ in the dream knew him, in real life I have no idea who he is. But I did recognise the look in his eye as one of sheer adoration; that look is quite easily translated from subconscious to conscious state. A bit like the look I used to see on Ed’s face in the early days. Go away, Ed, stop invading my thoughts, you bad, nasty nobody . The kind of love I felt in this dream was far beyond anything you and I ever experienced.
    I remember it being night time, and wearing something long, silky and floaty, a nightie perhaps? Why was I meeting this man in my nightie? I wrack my brains to try to bring some more detail from the dream back to life but at the moment it won’t come. But bits of dreams tend to have a habit of creeping up on you when you’re least expecting them; something you do or say during waking hours can spark off a memory from the subconscious, in the same way I suppose that the tiniest daytime thought or insignificant action can trigger a certain dream the following night. It’s all somehow linked in these crazy, clever and complicated human brains of ours.
    Dreams always seem to lose a lot in translation – there’s nothing harder than having to try and explain a really exciting or funny dream you had to someone without it sounding like a whole load of tosh, and I know that if I voice this one, even just to myself, then its meaning will fade. Dreams are a bit like books written in your own, personal language, or code, I suppose, only to be understood by you and no one else. They make perfect sense whilst in your head, but are so hard to verbalise. Although at the moment I don’t understand this one; I just don’t remember enough about it and I desperately hope some of it will come back to me soon.
    My phone beeps in my pocket, bringing me out of my dream-obsessed state. It’s a text from Leonora. ‘Hope day 1 going well. Aperos @ 6 in café Strozzi, v. del Trebbio. See you there! xx.’ I text a quick reply back to say I’ll be there and load up my ‘Map’ app for the umpteenth time today. I’m sure I’ll get my bearings here eventually; I have to, I practically swallowed the guide book whole before I came out. GPS position located, I realise it’s not that far and decide to walk along the Arno, then cut back up into the town. I haven’t been along the riverside much yet so it gives me a chance to see a few more sights.
    As I turn away from the river and into the Via de’ Tornabuoni I gasp, instantly wishing I had been born to landed gentry, instead of being the daughter of a couple of retired office workers from Sussex. Even new money would do, any kind of wealth, I’m not fussy just as long as there is lots of it. This street is quite literally bulging with designer stores, their vast and opulent window displays positively oozing with gorgeousness. Salvatore Ferragamo sets the standard for