“Well, I am pissed off,” I say pointedly, “but you’ve got time to make it up to me. You have your meeting. I’ll see you back at the hotel, shall I?”

“You’re one in a million. Have fun?” Mike grins and ruffles my hair.

“You too.”

I walk over to the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica. There are hordes of people outside, shouting and screaming in every language possible. Mike turns away and makes another call. I join the queue. Already I’m feeling better, and actually, looking at art and architecture and stuff is better when you’re on your own anyway—you can really think about what you’re looking at and interpret it without being influenced. Plus, you don’t get people asking you what you think. I once went to the National Gallery in London with this art student bloke I quite fancied, and every time I said something like “Oh, I like that,” he’d start asking me why, and what I thought the artist was trying to say and stuff, when all I meant was that the colors were nice or I liked the look of the house/person in the painting. Looking at art can be hard work when you have to actually talk about it.

An English couple in front of me are arguing. Evidently the woman is less than keen on going into the Vatican and wants to go shopping instead.

“We always go bloody shopping,” her husband says in a weary tone. “We’re in Rome; let’s do something we can’t do at home. We’ve come all this way; let’s at least go inside, shall we?”

“But you hate churches! I hate churches! For God’s sake, Alan, you don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here. Let’s just go.”

“I don’t want to go shopping.”

“We don’t have to go shopping—that was just one idea. We could go and drink coffee in a cafe.

Or we could go back to bed. For one weekend we don’t have the kids, and I don’t want to be walking round a sodding church.”

Apparently Alan doesn’t want to either. He immediately agrees to the “go back to bed” option and they leave arm in arm. I watch them as they pass Mike, who is still on his mobile waiting for his elusive business partner to show up. I notice that he’s getting really deep lines on his forehead—maybe running his own business is really getting to him.

I realize I’ve been so taken in by Mike’s good looks and charm that I’ve never really looked much deeper. I never really noticed how troubled he looks, how worried he seems. Maybe the problem is that I’ve never really stood up to him. I mean, if I didn’t just accept the fact that he had a business meeting and got really mad instead, maybe he would cancel it for me. He looks so distant, even though he’s only forty feet away. Could it be that he just needs someone to talk to?

I leave the queue and wander back over to Mike.

“No good?” he asks me. He looks stressed.

“If the person you’re meeting isn’t showing, why don’t we just bugger off?” I say, and tentatively put my arm through his. “We could explore Rome and—”

Before I can finish my sentence the mobile is ringing again. I’ve lost my chance, and he’s already shouting down the phone and walking away from me.

“Look, what is this? You think I’m lying? Is that it? I take you on, you start doing well, and now I have to put up with your shit just because you think you’re too good now. Is that where we are?

Because if it is, you can stick your fucking record deal. . . . Fine, well, that’s okay. Look mate, you’ll get the money, okay? These things can just take some time. Fine, now put Bill on the phone . . .”

I give up. If Mike’s going to act like he’s still in London, I’m certainly not going to. I wander off to buy myself a coffee and something to eat. There’s a cafe by the side of Via Republica, the road leading back into the town center. If he needs me, Mike will be able to see me from here. I order a latte and a croissant, sit back and let the spring sun warm my face.

When I open my eyes again I see Mike talking to someone. The guy looks pretty smartly dressed, considering it’s Saturday; he’s wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Maybe it’s an Italian thing—he probably thinks the English are a really scruffy lot, because Mike’s wearing jeans and a pretty old T-shirt. They walk off quickly before I’ve got time to shout and let them know where I am. To be honest, I really couldn’t care less. Right now, I just want to sit here and enjoy Rome.

I pull out my guidebook and marvel at the photographs of the frescos in the Sistine Chapel. I read all about how Michelangelo painted the ceiling (he delegated a lot by the looks of it), and by the time I’ve finished I almost feel like I’ve actually seen them for myself.

Having paid for my coffee I wander off down the road. A group of Italian men look me up and down appraisingly and murmurbellisima! as I walk past. I smile and get a warm glow inside.

Personally I’ve never understood people who don’t like being whistled at in the street. I mean, you wouldn’t get upset if someone stopped you and said politely that the dress you’re wearing really flatters you, would you? And that’s all a wolf whistle is, just punctuated.

I weave in and out of the cobbled streets looking in shop windows and enjoying the warmth on my skin. If only England were warmer, I’m sure we’d all be a lot happier. I mean, it’s really hard to be depressed when the sun’s shining, isn’t it?

I’m just trying to decide whether to wander round the shops or do something more cultural like go to the Coliseum when I see something and freeze. Down an alleyway to my right I see David.

This time I know I’m not mistaken. It’s definitely him. I can’t believe he’s here! When he said he was going to Geneva!

I step back so he can’t see me. I need to think this through. So he was at the airport yesterday!

But what on earth is he doing here? My mind flits between feeling angry at David lying to me and worrying about how to explain my being here, too. At least Mike isn’t with me. Maybe I could tell him I needed to get away and Rome seemed the perfect place. Oh God, this is too much of a coincidence . . . I mean, who expects to bump into their boyfriend nine hundred miles away in a foreign city when he’s meant to be eight hundred miles away somewhere completely different?

Unless . . . he couldn’t have found out I was coming here and decided to spy on me, could he?

My mind is racing. Of course, it’s impossible that David would know I was here—no one knows I’m here except Mike, and he’s hardly going to tell David, is he?

I peek round the corner to see if David’s still there. He is, and looking pretty good too, if you ask me. He’s wearing a crumpled creamy linen suit and he’s putting his hand through his hair a lot. There are two men with him, both very smartly dressed (it’s definitely an Italian thing), and I can see that David is being incredibly serious and attentive. When I take a proper look at his companions I can see why—they don’t look like the sort of men you’d want to get on the wrong side of. I wonder if he’s being attacked or something—his face is strained, and he’s nodding and giving them money. Quite a lot of money by the looks of it. Except they don’t look like muggers.

I mean, they aren’t holding a knife or anything, and David seems to be listening really carefully to them. Maybe they are fraudsters and they’re trying to buy him off? Except then he would be getting money, not giving it.

I consider running away, but I’m surprised at how incredibly relieved I am to see David’s lovely face. I can’t possibly waste the opportunity of spending some time with him. And my curiosity over why he’s here is a lot stronger than my fear of being found out.

I decide that my best course of action is to walk casually down the street—okay, alleyway—and bump into David. That way I might overhear what those two men are talking about. And I will just look utterly surprised to see David there.

But as I start walking nonchalantly toward David, I trip over a cobblestone. David looks up, startled. I wave and carry on walking toward him, but before I can get to him the two men disappear down a side alley.

“David! Are you all right? I saw those guys taking money from you. What the hell are you doing here?”

David looks slightly stunned.

“Who were those men, and what are you doing here?” I repeat. I’ve never seen David look so flummoxed.

“What? Oh, um, they were clients, of sorts . . .” David looks around him as if to get his bearings.

“Georgie,” he continues slowly, “I . . . I didn’t really expect to see you here.” He looks utterly confused.

“But why would you be here?” I persist. “You’re meant to be in Geneva. For a minute I thought you might be following me, but that’s impossible . . .”

“Following you,” says David slowly. “Yes, I suppose you may as well know. I . . . I was going to go to Geneva, but . . . then I found out you were going to Rome, and I just had to come and find you. Have a proper Roman Holiday.”

I stare at him accusingly. “David, do not bloody lie to me, okay? You really expect me to believe that you were prepared to cancel a business trip just so you could follow me here? And anyway, how did you find out? And who were those men?”

But instead of answering, David leans down and kisses me.

“It’s so good to see you here,” he says softly, then straightens up and narrows his eyes at me.

“But tell me something,” David continues. “Why exactly are you in Rome?”

He’s got me there. If he knew I was coming here, he might know that I’m supposedly here with Mike. Of course, then again, he might not.

“Because I wanted some romance in my life,” I say defensively. “Because I thought, obviously mistakenly, that you’d never take me.”

“Oh my darling.” David gives me a hug. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe you came here all by yourself. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”