His eyes are a rich green in the lowering sun that chequers through the rides and the stalls, his smile wide and mischievous. He has cut himself shaving and there is a small red nick on his chin.

‘This is Dino,’ he says.

I hadn’t noticed there was a man lurking behind him: a very tall, gangly man, with freckles and sandy hair and an almost safari-like outfit of beige chinos and beige T-shirt. Beige suede shoes. He doesn’t look very Italian but he’s quite attractive, if you like the pale and interesting colonial jungle-explorer look. Dr Livingstone, I presume?

‘What are you doing?’

Dino has stepped forward and quickly holds up his phone to take a photo of me and Salvi. I can’t imagine it will be a very good one. Salvi smiley and confident; me nervous and caught-out.

‘Sorry,’ says Dino, in a thick Scottish accent. ‘I thought it might be nice to get a picture of Salvi and his new girlfriend.’

‘You could at least say “hello” first,’ I argue. I don’t like the look of him. He looks as shady as the rainforest palm leaves I imagine him pushing through in that outfit.

‘Sorry,’ he repeats, putting his phone in his pocket. He steps forward, goes to kiss me on the cheek – bad one, also – but I recoil and stick my hand out for him to shake, instead. ‘Hello,’ he adds.

‘I wanted him to meet you,’ says Salvi.

‘Oh?’

‘So he could see you. See who you were.’

‘Why? Have you been talking about me? All good, I hope?’

Salvi smirks. Dino nods. He stares at me as though I am a curiosity behind glass. A museum piece. I get the uneasy sensation I’ve met him before. That he already knows me, somehow.

‘Let’s go on the ghost train,’ says Salvi. ‘Thoroughly spook ourselves.’ He places his hand on my right shoulder. Presses down. Steers me past loud stalls and gathered bald blokes holding beers; threads me through excited coiffed and gelled teenagers, half-running to the next ride. Dino trails behind.

‘Get in the back, Dino.’

Salvi and I sit in the front of the first black-and-silver carriage of the ghost train. Dino folds his long limbs into the one behind. A toothless ghoul clamps the bar down on us. Salvi presses his hand down on my left thigh.

‘Are you frightened?’ he asks me, close to my face.

‘Of course not,’ I laugh, but this is not entirely true.

It’s an old-fashioned ride, a bit crap. It involves bashing through several sets of black double doors, a lot of wooing and cackling from recorded witches, skeletons hanging from the ceiling. I get water sprayed at me at one point. Something tickles my face and I have a horrible feeling it’s Dino’s hand. Salvi and Dino are both laughing, when I whip my head round, their faces green and mocking in the fluorescent gloaming.