I loiter outside for a moment or two. It’s incredibly busy and people (mainly Japanese, by the looks of it) are going in and out continuously. I should easily be able to wander around unnoticed. I see a group of people walk in and take my chance, following in behind. As the heavy scent and cool air hit me I almost gasp. It is amazing in here. The carpet is thick, the assistants are stunning, and everything looks better than in real life. Even the bags are presented like works of art in holes in the wall. People are quietly milling around and all I can hear is the busy hum of the cash desk. I make my way up to women’s clothing on the first floor. Lots of black trousers. A couple of nice-looking tops. But to be honest I’m a bit at a loss. This isn’t like Miss Selfridge where there are loads of different things to try on. Just as I’m about to give up and leave a nice-looking young man appears at my side.

“Would Madam like to try something on?” He smiles at me.

Would I like to try something on? In Gucci? Is he mad? Of course I would.

I nod gratefully and he looks at the trousers I’ve been eyeing up.

“These are nice,” he says, “but we have a better style for you, I think.” He walks over to the other side of the room and picks out a gorgeous pair of black trousers with a little leather buckle at the front. I swear I’ve seen Madonna in the same pair.

I grin at him and he picks out a few tops, which he takes over to a changing room. At first I’m almost too nervous to try anything on, but once I’ve got the trousers on I get into my stride. The tops are amazing—there’s one with a kind of drawstring waist that makes me look like I’m really thin, and there’s another that is really sheer but incredibly flattering. I suddenly understand why people happily spend so much money on clothes. These pieces work miracles. You don’t need to go on a diet if you can afford to wear Gucci.

Each time I come out of the changing room my new friend, who I discover is called Roberto and speaks such good English because he studied in Berkshire for a year, gasps and tells me how gorgeous I look. He brings me drinks, tells me how to drape a chiffon shirt for maximum effect, and convinces me that I need to wear four-inch heels (“So what if they’re difficult to walk in?

Take a cab!”). But when he asks me whether I am going to buy them, I shake my head reluctantly. I’m just not sure I’m ready for four-inch heels yet, and without them, the trousers just don’t look the same.

But just as I’m about to put my own clothes back on, Roberto appears with a dress. Not just any dress, you understand. It’s a pale pink, silk dress. Thin straps and a slightly billowy skirt with a nipped-in waist. It’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s the sort of dress you dream of finding when you’re rummaging around in Top Shop and of course you never find because it’s in Gucci. I take it uncertainly and go into the changing rooms.

Even before I’ve done up the zip I know it’s perfect. I have never looked so amazing. I didn’t know my waist could look this small, my legs this long (okay, so the shoes help, but still). I marvel at myself in the mirror. This isn’t the Georgie that usually looks back at me every morning when I brush my teeth. I look like something precious. I am short of breath. This is exactly what Audrey Hepburn would wear in a twenty-first-century remake ofRoman Holiday . I just have to have it.

When I come out of the changing room, Roberto gasps again, and so does a girl serving someone else. A woman trying on a black trouser suit looks at me in the mirror and tells me I look amazing. I do. I look incredible.

I give Roberto a little nod and go back into the changing room. I am on autopilot as I change back into my normal clothes. I haven’t looked at the price tag and to be honest I don’t dare. This is about more than money. This is about indulging myself. I mean, I deserve it. And this is about getting back at David. When he sees me looking this amazing, he will never forgive himself for daring to ruin what had been the best weekend of my life.

I come out and hand the dress and the shoes to Roberto. He asks for my credit card and disappears, leaving me with a cappuccino and Gucci’s fall brochure. In Gucci, it seems, you don’t have to do anything as mundane as going to a till. I sit down on a leather chair, flicking through the brochure, pretending to put together next season’s wardrobe in my head. Roberto returns with a credit card slip inside a leather folder, like in smart restaurants. My eyes dart up to look at the amount. 1,500 Euros.

Wait a minute. Fifteen hundred Euros? That’s over ?1,000. Oh my God! What am I doing? The blood drains from my face. There’s no way I can pull out now. I mean, my card’s gone through the machine and there are people in the shop. But ?1,000! I sign the slip and manage to smile at Roberto before walking out of the shop feeling absolutely sick. A thousand pounds is my rent for nearly two months. It’s three last-minute holidays. I take a peek in the bag. Maybe if I wear the dress and shoes every day for five years, it might be worth it?

By the time I get back to Mike’s hotel tears are appearing in my eyes and there’s nothing I can do about it. This isn’t the Roman Holiday I have been dreaming about for two years, and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to have spent so much money on stupid clothes. I don’t want David to be in Rome with the bitch. I don’t want to go back and face Mike. I just want it all to go away.

I get to the hotel and to my huge relief Mike isn’t there. Without thinking, I get into bed. Maybe I’m just overtired. If I can get some sleep, I’ll wake up and everything will be okay again.

When I wake up, the room is dark and I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours. For a moment I forget where I am, but then I feel the unfamiliar blankets and everything starts flooding back.

I’m in Rome. David is in Rome. Mike is in Rome. Neither of them is with me. And I have spent ?1,000 on two items of clothing. Last night I thought that my life couldn’t get any better.

Now it couldn’t be worse.

I look at the clock by the bed and discover that it’s two-thirty in the afternoon. I try to tell myself that things aren’t that bad, but it doesn’t do much good.

I decide to run a bath. I can wash away the whole weekend, then I’ll get my stuff together and go home. There is a new batch of thick white towels just waiting for me and some delicious-smelling bubble bath. On autopilot, I start to run the bath, and almost don’t hear the phone ringing. I pick it up just in time, expecting it to be Mike. So what if he’s cross that I didn’t come back last night? I’ve had it with doing the right thing anyway. But instead of Mike’s voice I hear an Italian voice on the line.

“Hello, could I speak to Meester Marshall, please?”

“Um, he’s not here I’m afraid,” I say. “Could I take a message?”

“You’re sure he’s not there?” The voice is charming but persistent.

“Absolutely!” I say. I mean, I would know if Mike was in the room, wouldn’t I?

“And when do you expect him back?”

“Well, I don’t know really,” I say crossly. I’m actually a bit sick and tired of acting as a messenger service today. First the bitch woman for David, and now this guy. “I’m sure he’ll be back eventually. I suggest you call again later.”

“I see.” Through the nice veneer, I get the impression that this man is not a very nice person.

“In that case I will call him this evening.”

“Great. Can I say who called?”

“Oh, it’s family,” comes the reply and the phone goes dead.

Family? I didn’t know Mike had family in Italy. I sit down on the bed, lost in thought. There’s something about all this that doesn’t add up. Threatening phone calls, all those barbed comments from Brian, and Mike holding drugs for people, maybe even selling them. What is Mike really doing in Rome? I notice the holdall that I carried for him sticking out from under the bed and pull it out quickly. Just what is inside? But it’s empty. Whatever the papers were, they aren’t there any longer.

Standing up, I kick the bag back under the bed. What do I care what was in it anyway? Mike can do whatever he likes. I just don’t want to be involved anymore.

I pad to the bathroom and immerse myself in the hot soapy water, washing the morning’s events away. What’s needed is a nice clean slate.

I am in the middle of a daydream (me in my pink dress, walking into a restaurant where David is eating with the bitch woman; David looking up at me with a look that says “I didn’t realize how beautiful you are”; him leaving the bitch woman at their table and walking off into the sunset with me) when I hear a key in the door. I quickly cover myself up with bubbles.

Mike walks in and tries the bathroom door. Why didn’t I lock it? He sticks his head round the door and then looks away again.

“When I said that I’d see you back at the hotel I meant the same fucking day,” he says, turning on the television.

I get out of the bath quickly and wrap myself up in a robe. I consider making up a story, but don’t have the energy.

“I left you a message. The thing is, I sort of bumped into David. I’m sorry, Mike.”

He looks up at me and then looks back at the television. “So your accountant boyfriend thought he’d come along for the ride, did he? Well, that’s about right. I see he took you shopping.

Popped out of his fancy hotel to get you some new clothes, did he?” He has obviously noticed my Gucci bag. I can’t be bothered to tell him the full story so I just nod. I wonder for a moment how Mike would know David was staying in a fancy hotel, but assume he must be guessing.

“Yeah, well, you missed a fucking great night. But I suppose these days you prefer nights in with a cup of cocoa with David.”