Page 51 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘How did you meet?’ she asked, trying to dissipate it.

Flick shrugged. ‘I’ve known him for ever. We were friends a long time before we ever got together. He was in the year above me at school. He’s always been there, you know? Solid. Like part of the landscape . . .’ Flick chewed her straw thoughtfully. At least it was paper not plastic, so there were some things to be happy about. ‘I went away to uni and we lost touch for a few years, but when I came home and moved back above the pub, we started up where we left off. He’d come into the pub with his friends, but I think half the time he hung around ’cos he wanted to talk to me—’ She broke off. ‘God, does that make me sound like I’ve got a big head or something?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘And when Mum got sick, he was so good, really kind. My stepdad Colin loves him. Everyone loves him.’

‘Including you,’ added Maggie.

‘Yeah, including me.’ She nodded, and finished up her drink, sucking it up loudly through the straw as the pizzas arrived, hot and steaming with melted cheese and cracked pepper from the biggest pepper grinder Flick had ever seen.

And between delicious mouthfuls, they talked about their plans for tomorrow, before tiredness caught up with them both and, stifling yawns, they headed back to the hotel to get an early night. Where the conversation about Rory was forgotten, along with the waiter and the stranger with his book.

Well. Not quite.

At 2 a.m. Maggie woke, unable to sleep, and gazed up at the shaft of moonlight on the ceiling. Worried and anxious about the day ahead, about what was going to unfold, she let her mind return to the restaurant. As they left, she’d glanced back at the exact moment the stranger had looked up from his book and they’d both caught each other’s eye and smiled. It was nothing, just a casual, friendly smile. But for the briefest of moments, after the longest time, a tiny bit of her felt seen again.

Meet and Greet

‘Wow, it’s a bit busy.’

‘Busy? It’s absolute chaos!’

Early the next morning Maggie and Flick found themselves seventy kilometres northwest of Rome in the modern port town of Civitavecchia, standing on the edge of the docks, mouths slightly agape as they surveyed the scene before them. It’s not what they expected. But then nothing could have prepared them for this kind of scale.

As one of the busiest cruise ports in Europe, and the biggest near Rome, it was a major international hub, servicing millions of passengers a year. And frankly, looking at the sheer size and number of the colossal white cruise ships and crowds of passengers disembarking like an endless stream of ants – that is, of course, if ants wore shorts and T-shirts – into the waiting coaches, minibuses and private cars to be whisked away for daytrips to Rome, it would appear that all those millions were arriving today.

‘It’s impossible,’ sighed Maggie.

‘He’s got to be here somewhere,’ reasoned Flick.

‘We’re never going to find him. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ Maggie shook her head hopelessly. ‘We should have got here earlier.’

It was hard enough to locate the ship, let alone find one person, and having geared themselves up for The Big Confrontation, they were both feeling a massive disappointment.

‘Don’t be such a defeatist,’ snapped Flick.

‘I’m being a realist,’ argued Maggie, but of course, she was the only one who would admit to it.

They’d got up at the crack of dawn. According to the map on their phone, the port was one hour and twenty minutes’ drive away. However, after yesterday’s stressful journey into the city, Maggie didn’t want to repeat the experience of driving in Rome. She’d never played video games, but yesterday she’d felt like she was in the middle of one. Dodging cars, navigating one-way lanes, being attacked by scooters and cyclists that came at her from all sides, honking and yelling, while always being on the lookout for humans who liked to appear from nowhere and throw themselves in front of you, with dogs and children and prams in tow.

What fun! Not.

Her cortisol levels had gone through the roof, her nerves had been shot and, despite getting them both to their destination, alive and without any incident, she hadn’t gone up any levels or scored any points. She’d just been bloody stressed and exhausted.

So instead they’d decided to take the train that morning. Apparently it took less than an hour and there were two trains an hour. They’d be there, waiting, as the cruise ship sailed into the docks and the passengers disembarked. See. Easy.

Except, when it comes to travelling in a foreign city, especially Italy, the words apparently and easy should always be used loosely. Because by the time Maggie and Flick had managed to find the correct train station, navigated the confusing ticket machine that was only in Italian – Scusi, non capisco – realized they’d read the timetable wrong, resisted arguing about whose fault that was, located the correct platform and got on the right train, they were already running late.

Add to this their discovery on arrival at Civitavecchia that it was a further twenty-minute walk to the port, and the queue for the cabs was a mile long, running late turned into them being too late.

‘The cruise ship docked over an hour ago, most of the passengers will have disembarked and already gone off on their daytrips,’ continued Maggie, digging a wad of tissues from her bag and dabbing her face.

It was still early but temperatures were already in the high twenties and the sun was blazing. Plus, they’d had to run from the station and while Flick had set off with ease, all ponytail swinging, she’d trailed behind, clutching her chest and cursing silently.

Well, sorry, but no one told me we were going for a sprint, otherwise I’d have worn a bloody sports bra, she’d cursed silently, because of course, it was Flick who’d read the timetable wrongly.

‘He’s probably on a coach, halfway to Rome at this point.’