After I got up yesterday, and once I’d managed to get lost twice trying to find my way to the restaurant where we’d agreed to have lunch (Google Maps and I are officially on non-speaking terms again), we did the gondola trip that everyone has to do when they visit Venice. James told the gondolier it was my birthday, and he insisted on serenading me, which was – well, I think James thought it was romantic. If I’m truthful it was just mortifying. It finally stopped raining in the afternoon for an hour or two, and we went to a café and I sat, feeling awkward and self-conscious, trying to make conversation.

Somehow that pissed him off, and he was offhand and a bit moody for a while afterwards, as we squelched our way around sodden pavements, stopping for coffee again to try and dry off. The rain started about twelve hours after we arrived, and it hadn’t stopped. We’d gone to bed after dinner, and I’d fallen asleep in James’s arms and thought that actually it was rather nice. Then we’d woken up this morning, and I’d found him sitting, guidebook in hand, writing a list of places we could go. I made a joke about no more architecture spotting, and he’d been a tiny bit huffy about it.

‘Cheers,’ says James now, lifting his glass to mine. He looks at me with his big, soulful eyes, and seems to relax a little bit.

‘Thanks so much for bringing me,’ I say, taking a gulp of negroni. God, it’s strong. He watches me, smiling fondly. An elderly couple sit down at the table across from us.

‘I brought her here fifty years ago,’ the man says, leaning over and smiling. ‘We’ve come back for our anniversary weekend.’

James’s eyes meet mine briefly and I am hit by a sudden panic.

‘Just nipping to the loo,’ I say.

‘What if they come back to order?’ James asks.

‘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.’