Page 49 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

As Maggie removed her hand, Flick blinked in the evening sunlight.

‘Ta-dah!’

Flick gave a sharp intake of breath. She was standing next to the most magnificent fountain, surrounded by candy-coloured buildings – which, she learned from googling later, were examples of baroque architecture – in the middle of a large square filled with restaurants and terraces and tourists.

As anyone who knew Flick would tell you, she wasn’t often lost for words, but as she tried to take it all in, she was overwhelmed.

‘Where am I?’ she managed finally.

‘Piazza Navona.’

‘Is this even real?’ she marvelled. ‘It’s like a film set or something.’

She twirled around slowly, allowing her gaze to fall upon restaurants and cafes packed with diners enjoying pasta and people-watching, while street performers entertained and traders threw brightly coloured balls in the air and people took selfies to send to family and friends around the globe. Thousands of livingmybestlife hashtags winging their way out of an ancient Roman square and into the metaverse.

‘And look! The restaurant is still here!’

Maggie was jubilant. It was several years since she’d been to Piazza Navona. She couldn’t remember when, exactly. It had been with George; he’d got her a cheap midweek flight, and they’d spent a whirlwind twenty-four hours soaking up the sights and as much art as they could consume. It was all a bit of a blur, thanks mostly to George’s love of red wine – he kept ordering bottles of Montepulciano – but she did remember the pizza. Did that make her a philistine? Forgetting the baroque masterpieces but still savouring the memory of the salty anchovies of her pizza di Napoli.

‘Can we get a table? It looks totally full,’ asked Flick dubiously, following her now as she set off across the cobbles to the row of red-and-white-checked tablecloths.

‘Let’s ask, you never know. Scusi?’

Maggie tried to catch the eye of the waiter, but he was flitting between tables in his salmon-pink waistcoat, and for a few moments she stood at the sidelines, ignored and invisible.

‘Excuse me?’

As luck would have it, she was with a twenty-six-year-old and as Flick spoke and stepped forward, the waiter’s eye was caught and he came over, fluttering and preening like a flamingo, two menus flapping like wings, instantly finding them the best seats in the house: a table overlooking the piazza. Whilst also trying to flirt with Flick, who either chose to ignore him or didn’t notice.

Probably the latter, thought Maggie, as they ordered the ubiquitous Aperol spritz and olives. Who notices male attention when you’re that age? It’s just the norm. Meanwhile, sitting across from Flick, she felt like an elderly spinster on the grand tour of Europe with her young charge.

‘The waiter was cute,’ she prompted.

‘Was he?’ Flick peered at her phone.

Maggie gave up and turned to the menu. ‘What do you fancy?’

‘Not the waiter.’

She glanced up with a mischievous grin and Maggie laughed.

‘So you did notice?’

‘I couldn’t help it.’ Flick pulled a face and reached for her menu.

‘Trust me, you’ll miss that attention when you get to my age.’

‘You get attention.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That man over there.’ Behind her menu, she made a gesture with her eyes. ‘He’s been staring at you ever since you sat down.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t look.’

So of course Maggie did exactly that and turned to look. To see a man a few tables away sitting by himself with a glass of wine and a book, which he appeared to now be reading. Until he suddenly glanced up, in that way people do when they can feel someone looking at them, and caught them both staring at him.