Page 64 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Well, in that case I hope it is contagious,’ said Flick and they both turned to each other and started laughing.

They finally arrived in Positano much later than they’d intended, having totally underestimated the amount of traffic and lack of anywhere to park. And with only a couple of hours until the cruise ship was due to set sail.

‘Hang on. Where’s the ship?’

As they both climbed out of the sweltering Fiat, which they’d managed to wedge into a tiny spot at the side of the road, Maggie pointed to the small harbour where only a couple of small white sailboats were bobbing on the turquoise waters.

‘I don’t see it! Have we missed it?’

‘No, it’s too big to dock here. It says Amalfi/Positano on the itinerary, but I think they anchor off Amalfi and use tenders and local boats to bring the passengers to Positano—’ Flick broke off, looking a little doubtful.

‘You think?’

‘Well, according to the internet forums.’

Maggie felt a beat of frustration. ‘You mean, we’ve driven all this way and you’re not even sure where the cruise ship is stopping?’

‘I’m a reporter, not a cruise ship expert!’ snapped Flick.

The two women bristled. The heat and tiredness were getting to them both.

‘And, anyway, after this the next stop is Sicily and that was too far to drive in one day, so we had no choice but to break the journey.’

There was a beat as they stood side by side in the shade, looking out across the view of the glittering Mediterranean. Spotless blue skies stretched out before them. Positano was a chic resort town perched on a cliff; ice-cream-coloured houses clung to the hillsides together with splashes of bright pink and purple bougainvillea. The scent of jasmine wafted towards them on the warm breeze, along with the soft sounds of lilting music.

It felt totally different to Rome, with its urban chaos, grand piazzas and colossal ancient buildings around every narrow, cobblestoned corner. Here everything felt as if it had slowed right down. As if Italy had just taken a long exhale, ordered itself an aperitif and was taking in the sea view.

‘I suppose there are worse places to spend a night,’ shrugged Maggie, giving a mock grimace.

‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s pretty awful.’ Flick wrinkled her nose, playing along. ‘But I guess it’ll have to do.’

See, that was the thing. On paper they really shouldn’t get along. They were too different. And yet that’s the problem with having the same sense of humour. It’s impossible not to.

Which was lucky when it came to checking into their hotel.

Being peak season, everything had already been booked, apart from one slightly cheesy-looking hotel Flick had found online, and all it had left was a suite. Thankfully they had their winnings to pay for it – suites on the Amalfi Coast in summer are not cheap – but it was only when they were shown to their room and discovered towels shaped like swans and a bed strewn with rose petals that they realized they were in the honeymoon suite.

‘What was that you were saying about making our own romance?’ grinned Flick, brushing the petals off the eiderdown.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ laughed Maggie, flopping down on the double bed.

‘Hey, that’s my side.’

‘Is it? Sorry.’

‘Don’t be daft, I’m only joking.’

As they lay side by side, relieved to be horizontal, in an air-conditioned room, they both dug out their phones. Maggie’s was turned off. She didn’t want the council ringing her about being in breach of planning and the enforcement notice – she had enough on her plate right now – but she lived in hope of receiving a message about George the missing cat. Turning it back on, there were several voicemails from a number which she was pretty sure was from the local council, plus three WhatsApps from George the human.

Ping.

Hey babe, how was Monte Carlo?

Ping.

You haven’t replied. Where are you? Did you find The Wanker?

Ping.