Page 127 of A Scottish Teashop in Napoli

‘No, I’m curious. I’d like to see it tonight.Grazie.’

The taxi pulled up outside Dario’s apartment. He paid the driver and opened Lucy’s door. She placed her hand in his.

But instead of his front steps, he led her to a street lamp, unknotted his bow tie and wrapped it around her head so it covered her eyes.

‘Dario? What are you doing?’

‘You will see. Wait here.’

‘Excuse me? Why? Aren’t we going inside? Dario?’

A car roared past, blaring its horn.

A shiver rippled across Lucy’s skin.

What must she have looked like, loitering by a lamp post, dressed to kill, blindfolded and barefoot?

Come to think of it, where were her shoes? The taxi! She’d left them in the taxi.

She felt a stab of guilt as an image of the price tag attached to those silver slippers flashed across her brain. Yet, this modern-day Cinderella felt relieved too; relieved that she would never have to lollop around like a baby giraffe again.

All at once she felt her heart go thump-thump as the distant buzzing and popping sound of an engine drew dangerously close, a halo of light burning through the darkness.

A pair of hands touched the back of her head. She stifled a scream. The blindfold fell away, her eyes fluttered open and she gasped.

There, under the beam of the street light, stood a Vespa, painted in the green, white and red of the Italian flag, a giant red bow tied around its handlebars.

On the passenger seat sat a helmet in the blue and white of the St Andrews cross.

Lucy looked over her shoulder at Dario, mouth open, her huge eyes glistening like emeralds.

‘For me?’

‘For you.’

‘Nooo.’

‘Sì.’

‘But where did you…? How did you…? I don’t…’

‘Andiamo,’ he said, taking her by the hand and gently placing the helmet on her head. He then wiggled it back and forth to ensure it fitted securely.

‘But…’

He tightened the strap and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and her words disintegrated.

‘Jump on,’ he said, revving the engine then patting the passenger seat.

Lucy glanced at the bike then down at her dress.

‘Erm… Look away please.’

Hitching up the skirt, she swung her leg in the direction of the pillion seat and wobbled, regaining her balance – and dignity – just in time by hopping around on one leg.

Battling gravity in a tight dress and after a few too many wines was proving to be a challenge, but she would not be beaten.

‘Fanculo!’