Page 66 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Frankly, running away felt pretty good right now and, feeling sleepy after the long drive, she let her eyes close, feeling herself drift, until Flick’s voice suddenly jolted her awake.

‘Oh my God! He’s here!’

The Fraudster

The boats were at the shoreline, waiting for the crowds of passengers to embark. Being the height of summer, there were multiple cruises in town, and it was exceptionally busy. Tour guides, their brightly coloured umbrellas held aloft, were herding queues of people on board, where they would be ferried to Amalfi, before being tendered back to the giant cruise liners anchored offshore.

Only, he didn’t queue. Never had. Never would.

In life there were two kinds of people: those who got in line, obediently waited their turn, allowed others to tell them what to do and when they could do it. And those who pushed to the front and broke all the rules. Who didn’t wait for permission. Who stuck two fingers up at authority, whether it was some bouncer at an Essex nightclub, a British copper in a uniform or an Italian tour guide with a bright umbrella.

He was the second kind. You weren’t ever going to see him standing obediently in line like some loser. Sod that. He didn’t wait around for someone to give him permission to have what he wanted. He used his wits and he took it. And right now, that was getting on one of those boats and getting a ride back to the cruise ship.

‘Scusi . . . scusi . . .’ Waving his hand, he attempted to move past hordes of people waiting in line and motioned to the tour guide ahead. As she spotted him, he flashed her a grateful – and his most charming – smile.

‘Please. Wait in line,’ she instructed, gesturing for him to go to the back as several people tutted and muttered at him for pushing in.

A queue-jumper. Was there anything worse?

His smile froze, but only ever so slightly.

‘I’m afraid it’s something of a medical emergency.’

He lowered his voice so people didn’t overhear. Something so private, he didn’t want everyone knowing, but he mustn’t have lowered it enough – several passengers in the queue turned round to look at him, their initial expressions of annoyance filled with concern at the mention of a medical emergency.

Oh dear. What a pity. That was never his intention at all.

The crowds parted, allowing him through, and he strode to the front, tipping his Panama and flashing apologetic smiles to the other passengers. Several women smiled back, charmed by this dark, handsome stranger.

He had a gift. A seductiveness. He’d felt it from a young age. Some could play the piano, others were good at sport, but his talent was his ability to make people feel special, to get what he wanted, to manipulate. ‘A charmer,’ that’s what the teachers used to write on his school reports. Not that anyone ever read them, his mum was always too wasted, high on drink and drugs with some random bloke who used to beat him black and blue. That’s when he had to toughen up and get wise.

‘What’s wrong? Is everything OK?’

The tour guide greeted him impatiently. He knew what she was thinking. He looked perfectly healthy, like there was nothing wrong with him. And she’d be correct of course, there was nothing wrong with him, he was as a fit as a fiddle, but when did the truth ever need to get in the way?

She looked circumspect as he began explaining.

‘I’m a diabetic and I totally forgot to bring my insulin with me. I desperately need to get back to the ship.’

His granddad had Type 1 diabetes, so he knew all about it. The need for careful monitoring of blood sugar and injections. Not that it stopped him living a long and healthy life before retiring to Florida and playing golf all day, until his eighty-third birthday when he’d passed away in the golf cart on the way to the eighteenth hole. Not a bad way to go. Much better than being in one of those horribly expensive nursing homes with dementia, like so many old people you hear about. Thank fuck his pathetic excuse for a mother had died early from alcohol poisoning and he’d never had to deal with that. Good riddance. He didn’t even bother going to the funeral.

Guilty? No, he didn’t feel guilty. Guilt was a wasted emotion.

‘And your name is?’

‘Stratin. Theo C. Stratin.’

The tour guide glanced at her clipboard. She was one of those no-nonsense official types. A tough nut to crack.

Tough, but not impossible.

Taking off his Ray-Bans, he let his gaze rest upon her face until, sensing his eyes upon her, she looked up from her clipboard. Their eyes met.

‘Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got really pretty eyes?’

Bingo.

Instantly her demeanour changed, and he watched her blush beneath her thick panstick make-up. It wasn’t just about giving the compliment, it was the way you gave it.