Page 85 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

I can’t say. It’s not safe. I’ll text you a place later.

He was avoiding her questions. This was just another one of his make-believe stories. The man was a fantasist, remember? A serial liar. She thought she’d heard the last of him. What did he want? Why did he want to meet her? Surely this wasn’t another attempt to try and con her out of money? Not that she had any left. Maybe he wanted to try and persuade her to drop the charges by making her believe his life really was in danger. Did he really think she was that gullible? After everything that happened? She should ignore him and show Flick the messages; together they could decide what to do.

And yet, while Maggie had doubts about a lot of things, she knew that if Theo found out she was in Europe with a journalist who was intent on hunting him down, she risked never hearing from him again. He could disappear, and for good this time. And with him, the opportunity to look him in the eye; to rage, to vent. To ask: why? To demand: how? To say everything she wanted to say and get the closure she so desperately needed. It was just too big a risk.

She needed to let him think she believed him. That she’d fallen back under his spell. That because she loved him once, she could love him again.

Just say yes.

And what she couldn’t admit to anyone, even herself, is that, despite everything, she needed to see if she still had feelings for him. For the man she thought he was.

Her thumbs moved over the keyboard as she typed one word and pressed send.

Yes.

Al Dente

So it turns out the cable car wasn’t that scary after all and after a lazy day spent at Isola Bella beach, recharging their batteries in the clear turquoise water, renting eye-wateringly expensive sunbeds and beach umbrellas and getting sand in all the wrong places, Flick and Maggie woke bright and early the next morning. Both had a big day ahead of them, though Flick’s was slightly bigger – a whole three thousand metres bigger in fact, in the shape of the highest and most active volcano in Europe.

‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ asked a slightly worried Maggie, as the minibus arrived at 8.30 a.m. to pick up Flick.

‘Of course! We’re going to get the cable car up and then hike around the perimeter of some extinct craters and lava flows, before going into a volcanic cave after lunch.’

‘It sounds dangerous.’

‘You know fear and excitement are actually the same emotion.’

‘So I’ve heard. Please be careful. What if you slip?’

‘Don’t worry,’ assured a jovial tour guide, as an eager Flick clambered inside. ‘We have hiking shoes and hard helmets. Your daughter will be fine.’

As Flick tried to stifle a snort of laughter, Maggie rolled her eyes. The tour guide looked about fifteen. What was it with everyone looking like children these days? Every time she saw a doctor, they seemed to be getting younger. Or was it her that was getting older? And the policeman she gave a statement to couldn’t have been more than twenty-something.

A memory of walking into a police station six months ago, to report the disappearance of her fiancé along with her life savings, flashed through her mind. She’d been at her lowest ebb.

‘Ciao, grazie.’

Now she felt like an Italian mother waving her child off on a school trip. Smiling at Flick’s excited expression, she called out as the minibus began to drive away.

‘Enjoy the hike, but remember if you see him, don’t do anything silly!’

‘What? Like push him in the volcano?’

‘I’m being serious!’

‘Me too!’ Flick laughed. ‘Enjoy the cooking class! And don’t forget, whatever happens, keep calm and pasta on!’

Maggie laughed then and stood in the morning sunshine, watching until the minibus disappeared, before stooping down to stroke one of the cats that hung around the hotel. Plump and ginger, he reminded her of George. There was still no news. He was still missing. She hoped someone had taken him in and was feeding him.

And yet, for the first time she felt a glimmer of hope seep in around the edges. She’d been lost for a while too but on this tiny corner of a tiny island, wearing a new brightly coloured beach dress she’d bought yesterday from a souvenir shop, and with the morning sun on her face and the kitten purring by her ankles, Maggie was starting to feel found.

There were lots of cooking classes to choose from in the area, but the most popular and highly rated was in an old stone farmhouse, deep in the Sicilian countryside and surrounded by olive trees. It was run by a grey-haired matriarch called Mamma Lucia.

‘But you can call me The Godmother,’ she announced, as she welcomed her mix of students through the large wrought-iron gates and led them through her impressive vegetable garden and into her large kitchen.

Trailing at the back, Maggie assumed she was joking. Only, she didn’t look like she was joking. In fact, she looked rather scary, in her navy-blue apron, black-framed glasses and wooden clogs. Which clattered loudly on the flagstone floor as she barked instructions to them in Italian.

‘Sorry, what is she saying?’ whispered a fellow student nervously.