Page 67 of I Knew You Were Trouble

While he does that, I quickly slick some gloss over my lower lip and press my lips together, then drop it into my handbag. I grab one of the two scarves I’ve brought and tie it around the bag’s strap, then slide my sunglasses onto my head like a headband. I slip the bag over one shoulder and join Willem in the lounge area.

Annoyingly, he looks great – and he’s only wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Faded jeans and a white T-shirt. I look down at my outfit, then back at him. Obviously realising the same thing, he starts chuckling.

‘We match.’

‘We do,’ I say.

‘Want me to change—’ He lifts the hem of his T-shirt.

‘No.’

God, if I have to look at his bare torso for a second longer, I won’t be responsible for my actions.

He lets go of the T-shirt and eyes me curiously.

‘Sorry. It’s fine – let’s just go.’

I lead the way out of the flat into the crisp morning air. I really need to get a grip. Before meeting Willem, I was calm, articulate, measured… Now I sound like I’ve forgotten how to form a coherent sentence.

He must think I’m a moron.

That makes two of us.

* * *

After stopping at a local trattoria for espressos and ham and cheesepolpettes– delicious savoury balls – we’ve spent the rest of the morning roaming the city, Willem in the lead and me following, open-mouthed.

It’s beautiful here.

Even something as simple as a row of houses, their cracked and patched brick and stucco façades a testament to the centuries they’ve endured, and their window boxes bursting with bright-red geraniums, is a thing of beauty.

I must have stared at the Duomo for a good five minutes, drinking in its imposing stature and the intricate tableaux of the stained-glass windows. And the view from Castel San Pietro was breathtaking – literally, as it sits atop a steep hill and we climbed the steps instead of taking the funicular. Verona is even more striking from on high, its centre densely packed, with a dozen spires dotting the skyline.

And the Adige River! Fast-flowing, icy-blue water spanned by the most incredible bridges. Pont Pietra, visible from the vantage point at the castle, was built two thousand years ago, with dozens of additions and fixes over the centuries. Up close, it’s a patchwork of stone and brick and it seems miraculous that it’s still standing.

Everythingabout this morning has been incredible. We’ve skirted through side streets, marvelling at the weathered wooden doors – or maybe that was just me – and wandered through piazzas, gazing up at marble statues, palatial staircases, and ornate balconies.

Every moment has been an excellent distraction from obsessing over the moment I will come face to face with Lucia.

Now we’re outside her gallery, both dumbstruck as we stare at the handwritten sign. Even in Italian, it’s easy to make out what it says – essentially, that the gallery is closed for the week, because Lucia is on holiday.

‘My Italian isn’t great – actually, it’s practically non-existent,’ I admit, ‘but that says what I think it says, right?’

‘Yes.’

We exchange a look, then Willem walks over and cups his hands against the glass door to peer inside. ‘Definitely closed,’ he says, stepping back.

‘So, what do we do now?’ I ask.

‘We go to her house.’

‘We can do that’ – I point to the sign, specifically to where it says ‘Mykonos’ – ‘but I doubt she’s going to be home.’

He expels a frustrated sigh. ‘You’re right.’

‘I suppose there are some things that even a tech genius can’t foresee.’

He gives me an odd, almost shy look. ‘I’m hardly a genius.’

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