Page 46 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Trust me, I don’t usually walk around carrying these but this freezing cold weather has been playing havoc with my sinuses.’ Then he grins and pulls a face. ‘Too much information?’

‘Too much information,’ I sniff, smiling as I take them from him.

The bell chimes as the door opens. A few tourists enter, take a cursory glance around the gallery, ask about the price of a sculpture, then leave. Several moments pass.

I look over towards my handsome stranger. He’s still here. Waiting for something.

Someone?

‘So, anything in particular that catches your eye?’

‘Yes.’ He turns to me. ‘But I don’t know if it’s available.’

And as we hold each other’s gaze we both know he’s not talking about the artwork any more.

‘I’m Theo, by the way.’

‘I’m Maggie.’

And I realize that flicker of something I first felt as he walked into the gallery was a flicker of me coming back to life.

There’s a beat.

‘Do you like pancakes?’

And just like that, we’re not strangers any more.

But First, Pizza

According to the famous saying, all roads lead to Rome.

Well, no, apparently not, thought Maggie, as they finally arrived later that evening after circling the city, taking one wrong turn after another, as the city sweltered and the traffic fumes choked and the air conditioning on the Fiat decided to conk out. Not when Flick was in charge of the directions.

Still, any frustrations and weariness were soon swept away by the sheer engulfment (was engulfment even a word?) of finding herself in Italy’s capital city. After climbing three flights up the narrow staircase of a little backstreet pensione – the only accommodation they could find available online at such short notice – the bickering and the bad moods seemed to instantly evaporate as they opened the full-length windows, folded back the heavy wooden shutters and stepped out onto their tiny balcony.

And there it was, stretching out before them, a sea of Roman terracotta rooftops, studded with church domes and lit by a blazing crimson sky, streaked with golden pinks, caramelized tangerine and clouds that hung like deep purple bruises.

‘What’s that?’ asked Flick, pointing into the distance at the large dome that dominated the skyline.

‘St Peter’s Basilica.’

‘Wow.’

There were so many adjectives at her disposal, so many ways to convey things and Flick fiercely prided herself on her vocabulary and use of language. On her clever metaphors and carefully inserted similes. She was a writer; her job was to communicate. But now, gazing at the panorama before her, she was rendered speechless but for one simple, clichéd exclamation.

‘Just. Wow.’

There. She’d said it again.

Standing beside her, Maggie glanced at Flick, at her eyes lit up, reflecting the sunset. And that kind of magic that comes from travel and finding yourself somewhere beautiful. She felt it too and for a few moments they both stood together, side by side, looking out across the rooftops, breathing it all in and forgetting the reason they were there.

The evening air was sweltering. The city buzzed beneath them. The sounds of ancient church bells, revving Vespa engines and suitcases being wheeled across the cobbles, mingling with laughter and glasses clinking and delicious aromas from the restaurants below. All sounds and smells of life. It was all here.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Maggie, reluctantly breaking the spell and turning back to the matter in hand.

‘Well, according to the itinerary the cruise ship doesn’t dock until first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Where is it now?’