Page 106 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘Well, more perfect.’

‘This is perfect.’ she said, mostly to appease him, but also because it was pretty goddam gorgeous; it was just her overthinking things as usual. ‘It’s lovely, Rory, thanks for bringing me here, for today, it’s been really special.’

He looked cheered up.

‘Shall we do a selfie?’

‘Another?’

They’d done dozens all day. Flick didn’t know what had got into him, he’d been whipping out his phone at every occasion, snapping pictures, instructing her to smile. She smiled dutifully and leaned in and he took a selfie, but he was looking everywhere but the camera.

‘Now you’re the one that seems a bit distracted,’ she teased.

‘No, not at all.’ Taking the phone, he turned back to her, like a man that had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. ‘I’m just going to go to the loo.’

‘What, again?’

Rory was acting very oddly. This was about the fourth time he’d gone to the loo and he had a cast-iron bladder. He could drink half a dozen pints and sleep through the entire night without needing the bathroom. It was quite remarkable.

‘I’ll be right back.’

‘OK.’

‘Stay right there.’

‘Where do you think I’m going to go?’

And then he was off, dashing up the sand, which was too hot and burned his feet despite his flip-flops. She watched him, jumping side to side, like a crazed grasshopper, then dug out her phone and WhatsApped Maggie. No reply. Just one tick. It looked like she hadn’t even received it. Huh. Strange. Leaning back on the sun lounger, she closed her eyes. Oh well. Tomorrow Rory was flying home, things would be soon getting back to normal, whatever that was.

5.25 p.m.

‘Move. Please! Señora! Out of the way!’

Ringing her bell incessantly, Maggie pedalled furiously on her bicycle. She’d taken one from the hotel; it was electric and she had it on full power, and she was racing across town, dodging pedestrians and traffic like being in a video game. So much easier than her crappy old one at home. With any luck, she wouldn’t be too late. Or kill anyone.

A man with a small chihuahua stepped out in front of her.

‘Arrggghhh, señor!’ she yelled, swerving just in the nick of time.

After screaming into a pillow, she’d thrown on some clothes, tied her wet hair into a ponytail, shoved a lip gloss in her handbag and jumped on the bike. Luckily she’d been so panicked and nervous about their meeting, she’d already obsessed over Google Maps, working out the route to the bar, seeing how long it would take, zooming in on street view, so she was able to cycle there without getting lost.

Still, that didn’t help her appearance. Already, she could feel her curls pinging out everywhere in the humidity. So not the professional-blow-dry look she’d been aiming for. As for her outfit, she was wearing jeans and an embroidered peasant top, which she could already tell was a mistake. It had looked so pretty and bohemian in the hotel gift shop in Taormina, but she had slightly larger breasts than the mannequin and she now feared it made her look less bohemian, and more like one of those actual, rosy-cheeked buxom peasants you see in nineteenth-century paintings, milking cows.

But it was too late to change now. She was almost there.

White-knuckling the handlebars, she careered around the corner. There it was! Up ahead! With the bar in her sights, she slowed down. It was on the opposite side of the street, with large windows and one side almost open, through which you could see the bar and the tables beyond. Braking, she jumped off her bike, locking it against a lamppost, then turned, her heart racing.

He was inside. She could see him, but he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see her standing on the other side of the street. Frozen. All those feelings coming rushing back as she gazed at his familiar profile, at the way he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the cleft in his chin, glanced at his phone, drained the last drops of red wine from his glass. Merlot, probably. Or was he still raving about Rioja?

A flashback to them at her flat, unboxing the latest delivery from The Sunday Times wine club, doing research for the wines they were going to have at their wedding, laughing as he told her some funny story about his friend who was a sommelier at a fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. Was any of it true? Was all of it lies?

Finally, this was her chance to confront him, to ask him why he did it, to find out if anything he said was real. To try to get her money back. To try to get her life back. Her breath held tight inside her chest, she stared at him. At the man she thought she was going to share the rest of her life with. And she suddenly realized she couldn’t move.

5.30 p.m.

‘Let’s go for walk along the beach.’

‘Another five minutes . . . I’m a bit sleepy . . .’