I lie down on the bed in what I hope is a seductive pose. There is no way David will want to leave this hotel room when he realizes he’ll be giving up a day in bed with me.

But when David reemerges from the bathroom, he gives me a quick look over and then grins.

“Gorgeous girl. Look, I won’t be too long. You order room service and watch some television, and I’ll see you soon, okay?”

I sit up with a start. Last night I was a sex goddess and David couldn’t get enough of me; now it’s back to “gorgeous girl” and “why don’t you watch some television”?

Patronizing bastard. How dare he talk to me like that? How dare he say he followed me here to be with me and then announce that actually he’s here to do some work, and did me the huge favor of spending time with me yesterday? He didn’t follow me here at all, did he? He was here for work, and happened to bump into me. Well, he and his work can go screw themselves. If David thinks I’m going to wait around for him he’s got another think coming. A little voice inside my head points out that I’m hardly one to talk, and that perhaps being here for work is not quite as bad as me being here to have an illicit affair with my ex-boyfriend. But that’s not the point. Or rather, we’re not arguing about that now. God, I hope we never argue about that. If David found out . . . no, that’s too horrible to even contemplate.

I struggle into my clothes, and the silence in the room is deafening. I know that David is not a bad person. I know that he would never intentionally be mean to me. And I know that I do not have much of a moral leg to stand on. But the fact remains that he is ditching me just like Mike did, and he doesn’t even think there’s a problem. There is no such thing as the perfect man.

Jesus, Georgie, I chastise myself, when are you going to wake up and smell the roses?

As I put on my shoes, David comes over and sits down next to me on the bed. He’s still unshaven and I can see some nail marks in his back that I remember giving him the night before.

I kind of wish I’d dug harder.

“Darling, don’t be cross,” he pleads, taking my hand. “Look, okay, I’m here for work. But you don’t know how pleased I was to see you. We had the best time yesterday, didn’t we? Don’t ruin it now, please.”

“Me ruin it? Me?” I’m really cross now. “For your information, I am ruining nothing. You, on the other hand, have ruined everything.”

I pick up the scarf David bought me and throw it at him. Too late I remember that scarves don’t tend to throw very well. It glides softly down to the floor right in front of my feet. I kick it impatiently. This is our Roman Holiday, and David is leaving me here to meet some horrible work colleague. It’s just not fair.

I pick up my things and head for the door without even kissing David good-bye. Why can’t anything just go well? Why can’t I just have one weekend in Rome with the man I love? Is it really too much to ask?

Arriving in the smart lobby, my anger subsides a little as I try to figure out what to do next. I don’t want to go back to Mike’s hotel now—to be honest, since bumping into David yesterday I’ve sort of tried to forget I ever came to Rome with Mike, as if it will cease to be true if I can convince myself otherwise. But what else am I going to do? Plus, my ticket home is in Mike’s room, along with my things.

The other thing is, I don’t want to leave on such bad terms with David. He’s probably up in his room now realizing what a shit he’s been. He might even be canceling his stupid meeting right now. Maybe I should wait for him down here. He’ll come down to the reception, see me, and be relieved that he’s got a chance to apologize. He’ll pick me up again and tell me how sorry he is, and I can accept his apology graciously, tell him to go and get his meeting out of the way quickly, then I can sneak back to Mike’s hotel, get my things, and be back here in time to have a relaxed lunch with David. Perfect.

I sit down on a sofa and discover that someone’s conveniently left a copy ofInStyle on a table in front of me, so I pick it up and flick through it idly. A young, glamorous-looking woman brushes past me as I turn to a feature called “How to Look Like a Million Bucks on a Budget.” I’m so interested in the idea of making ?40 shoes look like ?400 shoes that I almost miss David coming out of the lift. But out of the corner of my eye I register the strong face and assured walk, and my heart flips slightly. I stand up and smooth down my clothes (according toInStyle , grooming is an easy way to make an inexpensive outfit ooze sophistication). But before I can get David’s attention I see that the glamorous woman who brushed past me earlier is now hanging on his arm. How dare she! I’m about to shout out when I realize that this is not the first time I’ve seen her. She was also at the airport with David on Friday.

My heart feels like it’s stopped beating. It’s obviously the woman who called earlier. “My colleague,” David had called her. But she doesn’t look like a boring accountant. She’s wearing red lipstick for a start. And why would a colleague hold on to his arm like that? I hesitate. I don’t want to accost David with this woman yet, not until I’m sure what she’s doing here. But as they swish through reception and walk up to the concierge’s desk, I lose all sense of proportion. She is openly flirting with him, and he is hardly shrinking back. There is no apologetic moving away or look of embarrassment—David looks like he’s enjoying it. Where is the sad look on his face because I’ve gone? Why isn’t he wondering where I am? And to think that a minute ago I was all ready to forgive and forget. Well, we’ll see about that.

I stand up and can feel my hands shaking. This is what people must mean by “shaking with rage.”

“David,” I call out. I was hoping for an accusatory tone, but instead my voice sounds shrill and stressed.

David turns round quickly.

“Georgie, you’re still here.” I wouldn’t say his eyes are lighting up at the sight of me. And now he looks embarrassed. God, this is much worse than I thought. This is really serious—if it wasn’t, he’d have run over and said how sorry he was. But he’s just looking at me as if he wished I wasn’t here.

“Yes, I’m still here. I just wanted to say how glad I am that you’ve got work to do. I hope you enjoy it,” I say pointedly, looking at the brunette.

“Um, this is Georgie,” David says to the bitch. “She’s . . .” He seems to be having difficulties explaining who I am.

“I’m his ex-girlfriend,” I announce loudly. “So you’re welcome to him. Fucking welcome to him.” My voice breaks as I fight back the tears, and I run from the hotel.

I walk around the block for about half an hour. I don’t know where to go, what to do. The only place I can think to go is back to Mike’s hotel, but somehow I can’t face seeing him yet. I want to cry, but I’m too angry, too desperate. I can’t believe that everything was a sham. I can’t believe that David would lie to me like that. No sooner do I realize how much I love him than David turns out to have a whole life I know nothing about, complete with a total bitch of a mistress. Sorry,colleague .

I need to sit down. No I don’t, I need to keep walking. To be honest I don’t know what I need to do, but there must be something I can do to dull the pain. To stop my mind racing with horrible thoughts of David with that bitch on his arm, of them laughing behind my back. God, what a fool I’ve been.

I look around and see that I’m in the shopping district. Not just the shopping district, but the designer shopping district. David’s hotel is right next door to Valentino. I turn the corner, and have to blink several times. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many designer shops in one place. All the names you usually see in magazines are here: Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Missoni. I always thought designer labels were only worn by pop stars and models in magazines, but here everyone seems to be walking around with Prada and Moschino shopping bags.

I am suddenly gripped with the desire to go shopping. I mean, I deserve some nice clothes, don’t I? Maybe I’ll find something that makes me look so gorgeous that David will ache with desire when he sees me. He’ll take one look at me and forget all about the bitch. Yesterday was for Mike and David, for window shopping. Today is for me, and I want to buy.

I gear myself up to walk into one of the designer shops. I mean, how hard can it be? I’ll just amble in, have a look around and maybe buy a bag or something. My eyes alight on Prada. I take a deep breath and get ready to open the door. But just as I’m about to push it, it opens before me and I find myself almost falling over. This isn’t a good start—of course, they have doormen. I should have known that. I start to look around. The walls are painted a duck-egg green and there is a hushed silence. I approach a row of shirts self-consciously and try to study them. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Within a second an assistant is at my side. Do I need any help? I shake my head. How did she know I was English, I wonder. But instead of walking away, she persists.

“Ees there something in particular you are looking for?”

I smile and say no.

“But Madam does know that this is the menswear shop?”

I can’t believe it. I assumed that the men’s and women’s clothes would all be together. Actually that’s a lie. I had no idea Prada even did menswear. I feel my cheeks flush and walk out as quickly as I can. I can hear the assistant calling after me explaining that the womenswear shop is right next door, but I don’t want to listen. This is a mistake. I’m not a Prada person. I should just go and find the cheap shops I know so well. Unless . . . right in front of me is Gucci. Gucci! I can’t simply walk past it, can I?