Page 88 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘No, but he really was. Evidently there’s a term for it. A romance fraudster.’ Maggie felt a sudden urge to open up to this woman she hardly knew. ‘He was a con man. A thief. He stole everything from me. My life savings. My home. My business. My self-worth.’

She looked up to see Birdy staring at her. For once, she appeared lost for words.

‘He was even petty enough to take sentimental family stuff like the diamond earrings I got for my twenty-first birthday and my dad’s watch, not that it was worth anything, but it was all I had left of him . . .’

Maggie bit down hard on her lip to contain her emotions.

‘He left me with nothing.’

‘Well, honey, that’s not true.’

‘It is, he was a total scam artist and I had no idea.’

‘No, what I’m talking about is he didn’t leave you with nothing.’

Maggie looked at her blankly.

‘You’re not a nothing, Maggie. You’re a something.’

She said it with such conviction that for a split second, Maggie almost believed her.

‘I don’t feel like a something,’ she whispered quietly, a single tear unexpectedly trickling down her cheek.

‘Well, I’m here to tell you you are. Trust me. Birdy Carmichael knows a something when she sees it.’ Reaching across, Birdy gently but firmly wiped away the tear with a polished red fingernail. ‘I don’t care what you say, but there’s a spirit inside of you.’

The older American woman fixed her with a steely expression.

‘He didn’t steal everything from you. No, siree. You are resilient and resourceful, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Men underestimate us, but you must never, ever underestimate yourself.’

Birdy’s eyes flashed with defiance and, despite her situation, Maggie felt herself buoyed up. Her temerity felt contagious.

‘Cosa sta succedendo qui?’

A loud voice caused them to twirl around to see The Godmother behind them, listening. Having been so focused on their conversation, neither had noticed the fresh pasta had fallen in misshapen ribbons all over the counter.

‘I’m sorry, we were talking—’

‘No talking!’ she bellowed, snatching up the ribbons and kneading them back into a ball of dough. Handing Birdy the rolling pin, she instructed her to feed the dough through the pasta maker, before turning to Maggie.

‘Think of yourself like pasta,’ The Godmother instructed. ‘You have to be al dente.’

Maggie stared blankly, not understanding.

‘Al dente means to the tooth. It has to have a bite to it –’ she mimed gnashing her teeth violently and Maggie took a step backwards – ‘too soft and mushy isn’t good. It needs resistance. Capisce? You need to be like pasta!’

Maggie nodded at the advice. She needed to be al dente. She needed to toughen up.

‘I need a drink,’ declared Birdy, when they’d finally finished making their lasagne and put it in the oven and The Godmother had moved away to terrify another couple of students. ‘Where’s the vino?’

‘In the fridge, but I think we’re supposed to be having that with lunch.’

‘It’s called a liquid lunch, remember?’

Swooping on the large refrigerator while The Godmother’s back was turned, Birdy pulled out a bottle of red, and quickly uncorked it.

‘Here, have a glass.’

Pouring out two large tumblers, she passed one to Maggie. She didn’t refuse.