Page 91 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Yes, really. And trust me, she was terrifying.’

‘What, you mean like this?’

And shoving the bread roll into the side of her cheeks, Flick then proceeded to do a terrible impression of Marlon Brando, which made Maggie laugh and snort the water down her nose, just as the very sniffy-looking waiter in a white jacket and bow tie came to take their order and several whispering diners glanced over. Including a couple who were fellow guests at the same hotel.

These two English women again. What are they like? Where are their husbands? asked the husband whose wife had dutifully rubbed suntan cream into his back as they’d sat by the pool. And the wife looked at her husband who she no longer had anything in common with and wondered the same thing. She wished she could join them. They looked like they were having so much fun.

After a large carafe of wine, two huge plates of linguine con vongole, plus dessert and espresso, it was time to head back to their hotel.

‘I ate too much,’ groaned Flick, looping her arm through Maggie’s as they navigated the winding back streets. ‘I need to lie down.’

‘You shouldn’t have had the cannoli.’

‘Oh my God, those things were delicious.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve never had one before.’

‘I was a cannoli virgin.’

The two women laughed as they walked through the backstreets back to their hotel. It was such a lovely evening. Taormina was so beautiful at night. The way it was illuminated. The streets had emptied out with tourists and it felt almost like their own secret. Soon they reached the entrance to their hotel: a discreet stone archway, covered in bougainvillea.

Flick stopped walking. ‘OK, I’m off to bed, I’m exhausted.’

‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

‘Where are you going? It’s almost midnight.’

‘I just want to stretch my legs a bit. Walk off some of that linguine.’

Unlinking arms, Flick went into the hotel and Maggie continued down the stone steps. She could hear faint music and followed it, turning a corner into a square, where a bunch of people were gathered outside the church. There appeared to be a woman, teaching the steps to a dance. The music was lilting folk music and as they joined arms, dancing in a circle, Maggie stood in the shadows watching, as they looped and twirled.

An old man dancing looked over to her and said something in Italian. Maggie smiled and gestured that she didn’t understand, but he smiled and gestured back for her to join them.

‘No, grazie.’ She smiled, shaking her head. She didn’t know the steps.

But he ignored her protestations. Another woman held out her hand. And before Maggie knew it, she was holding their hands and part of their circle, smiling and laughing and looking at her feet, as they taught her the steps. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced. She must have been in her twenties, a teenager maybe; was it before her brother died? She’d always felt too self-conscious, that she wasn’t a good dancer, but here in the moonlit square in Sicily, with a bunch of strangers, as the clock struck midnight, none of that mattered any more and she felt herself letting go.

Can you still meet?

It depends where.

Maggie thought about the itinerary Flick had meticulously planned and wondered where he was going to suggest. She felt suddenly doubtful about her plan.

I’ll be in Palma, Mallorca, in two days.

She felt a strange rush of relief. So would they. To meet his cruise ship.

Spain??

Well, she had to act surprised.

Yes. Will you come?

OK, I’ll try.

Great. I’ll text you the address later.

How can I trust you again, Theo?