“You would not enjoy being shaken like a cocktail, cara mia, and besides, you would see nothing flying through cloud, and you might get struck by lightning.”

“In that case”—Belinda was still pouting—“you had better take us for a good lunch to make up for our disappointment. We’re starving.”

“There is a restaurant in the passenger terminal,” Paolo said. “I cannot vouch for the quality of the food, but you can eat and watch the airliners come in from around the world. It’s quite a spectacle.”

“All right. It will have to do, I suppose.” Belinda slipped her arm through his and then her other arm through mine. “Come on, Georgie. We’ll make this man pay for not arranging for good weather, shall we?”

“But I have no control over your British weather,” Paolo complained. “If we were in Italy, I could guarantee that the weather would be good. In England it always rains.”

“Not always. Two days ago you were complaining it was too hot and sunny,” Belinda said.

We passed through the sparkling new building, our feet tapping on the marble floor. I looked up in fascination at the mural that decorated the wall. It depicted the time zones around the world. It was already night in Australia. I experienced a pang of longing. So much of the world waiting to be explored, and the farthest I had been was Switzerland—all very safe and clean.

The lunch was surprisingly good with a well-cooked fillet of plaice and strawberries and cream to follow it. As we lingered over our coffee I stared out of the window with rapt attention, while trying not to notice Belinda and Paolo sharing bites of a strawberry in a most erotic fashion. I had seen the storm clouds building in a great bank of darkness, so I wasn’t really surprised by the first clap of thunder immediately over our heads. People who had been standing on the tarmac rushed for shelter as the rains began. Chauffeurs hastily put covers on open motorcars.

“Well, that’s put an end to any more flying today,” Paolo said. “I hope it stops before I have to ride back to London. Riding a motorcycle in a storm is simply not fun.”

“You could get struck by lightning,” Belinda said. “I thought you loved danger.”

“Danger, sì. Getting soaking wet, no.”

“You’ll have to leave the motorcycle here and come back on the train with us,” Belinda said.

“But I could not reach the house where I am staying without my motorcycle,” he said. “Where could I spend the night, do you think?”

Of course he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Let me think,” Belinda said.

I turned away, wishing I were not the wallflower again. Then somebody shouted, “Look! There’s an aeroplane attempting to land.”

I peered into the downpour and thought I could make out a blacker speck against the dark clouds.