Page 55 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I don’t think he’s here. At least I can’t see him.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Our romance fraudster. Theo C. Stratin. Or whatever he’s calling himself now.’

Maggie snapped back to reality. It took a second to realize who she was talking about. For a moment there she’d been somewhere completely different. She’d forgotten all about Him.

But now she was sharply reminded.

‘No . . . no, me neither.’ She shook her head. She knew she should be disappointed, but it was hard to conjure up dismay when she was looking at something so beautiful. Art did that to her. That was its power. After Charlie first died, she used to visit art galleries and sit on the benches for hours and just stare at the paintings, as if somehow their beauty would cancel out the pain.

‘We could try going to the Colosseum. Or the Pantheon . . . is that how you pronounce it?’

Flick was chattering away and had pulled out her phone and was reading from it again, despite the security guard circling.

‘Yes . . . yes, we should . . .’

Maggie heard herself mumbling. She didn’t want to think about Him. Not here. Not ever. She felt annoyed by his intrusion.

‘You know, I’m reading this list of all the things to see in Rome. There’s loads, he could be anywhere.’

And then immediately foolish. Why do you think you’re here, Maggie? a voice in her head piped up, sharp and critical. You’re not on holiday, you silly idiot. And now guilt and shame were piping up as well. How could you fall for all his lies? Of course he never loved you. How could you be such a fool?

‘Oh look! He’s posted a photo!’

‘Sorry, what?’ Dazed, Maggie zoned back. Her euphoria from looking at Michelangelo’s ceiling had now disappeared and been replaced by self-loathing.

‘Aha, I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. Look!’

Flick was waving her phone in her face and she had to step back slightly. Not just because she needed her glasses and couldn’t focus, but because seeing him again, so sharply, was like a strike to her chest. She hated herself for letting him have that power over her. She felt so pathetic.

‘That’s the Colosseum,’ she managed.

She felt almost woozy. Her heart was hammering and she had to steady herself against the railing.

‘What’s he doing? Trying to be the Gladiator?’ scoffed Flick.

Maggie rolled her eyes, affecting the expression she knew was required of her, while trying to mentally pull herself back together.

‘Scusi!’

And now the security guard had spotted the phone and was making his way over.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ said Maggie, grabbing Flick’s elbow, ‘before we get thrown out.’

Birdy

Birdy Carmichael had been married six times. Or was it seven? She couldn’t remember. She was in her seventies now and her memory wasn’t as sharp as it used to be, not that she’d ever admit it. Or look it. Thanks to a facelift from one of the best cosmetic surgeons on the Upper West Side. Plus, to be honest, there were some husbands she’d rather forget.

So she used the rhyme, like Henry VIII.

What was it, now? Oh yes.

Divorced, Beheaded, Died. Divorced, Beheaded, Survived.

No, only six. She counted them off on her diamond-clad fingers. And none were beheaded, though she wouldn’t mind. Still, instead of cutting off their heads, she’d taken them to the cleaner’s. Well, that’s what they’d said, according to their lawyers, though the language had a been a bit more . . . well, one could say fruity, another could say, ‘You Fucking Cunt!’

That had been husband number four. But then he would say that, as she’d caught him in bed with his secretary, which was so much of a cliché, she couldn’t be bothered getting annoyed about it. She’d simply changed the locks on their Park Avenue apartment, transferred all their stocks and mutual funds from their joint account and into her name (like she didn’t keep a note of all the passwords? What was she? Some dumb-ass wife?) and called her lawyer.