‘Oh,’ I say, clambering out of the chair and knocking over a candle holder at the table behind me, ‘just tell them to hang on. Or get a pizza, or something.’

‘What kind of pizza?’ James calls after me, but I’ve slipped through the plastic door and I’m standing in the Piazza San Marco, looking at tourists and Venetian people dashing, coats over their heads, trying to get out of the rain, which is landing in huge splashy drops on my head, covering my shoulders, dripping down my nose.

‘Are you lost, bella?’ The waiter appears, holding an umbrella over me. My reputation precedes me.

‘Just looking for the loo. I mean the bathroom. Toilet?’

‘Ah.’ He beckons for me to follow him. ‘This way.’

Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my mascara-smudged face. My hair has gone flop in the rain and is hanging in tragic limp strands. My heart is thumping because I have this terrible lingering sense of horror that something’s going to happen. I put a hand to each cheek and hold them there, gazing at my own reflection. The feeling of trepidation doesn’t go away.

What if James has brought me to Venice to propose?

I realise with absolute, incontrovertible certainty that I can’t say yes. Not just because I’ve known him for about five minutes, but because he brings all his travel documents in a see-through plastic folder. And because he gets up the morning we arrive and goes for a walk instead of staying under the covers like any sane, normal person. And because he’s – oh, God. Just because he’s him. I love Sophie to death, but he’s like the male version of her. And there is no way I could ever live with her. I think Rich needs a bloody medal.

I wash my face, wiping away the smudges of mascara with a paper towel, and run my fingers through my hair. And then I square my shoulders, brace myself, and return to the Piazza, where James is sitting, waiting quite patiently, for my return. He’s reading a guidebook. Obviously.

The waiter reappears and takes our order. I can’t think what I want, because there are so many things on offer that my brain’s on shutdown. Plus my heart is thumping with anticipation, and not in a good way. I choose a small margherita pizza, because it seems the simplest thing to go for.

James leans in, lowering his voice. I sit back slightly, curling my fingers into my palms. It’s not him, I say to myself, it’s me. He’s lovely. I’m just . . . I don’t know what I am.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ he begins. I pick up a napkin and shake it out, taking it by the corners and folding it into neat squares.