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M a leaves to consult an old lawyer friend to see if there are any legal loopholes we can grab on to, so Giulio and I head back alone. Only instead of taking the usual route to the bar, he parks the Vespa along the riverside instead.

‘Vieni!’ He slides off the saddle and beckons for me to do the same. ‘We still have an hour to kill before reopening, no point sitting about worrying until Caterina gets back.’

I blink, caught off guard. ‘You want to go somewhere . . . now?’

‘Got any better ideas?’ He does that loose Italian shrug I can never quite pull off.

Yes, but Giulio has SHOULDERS – I actually hear the capitals in Inner Isla’s voice.

I walk beside him through the narrow streets – because I’m curious, not because he has great shoulders – until we spill out into Piazza Navona.

I recognize it instantly – from the postcards on the revolving stands outside the tourist shops, and the huge poster on the wall of the language school classroom.

But seeing it in real life still takes my breath away – the huge fountains drawing people to them like magnets, the beautiful buildings hugging the perimeter.

There are street artists and performers, market stalls and music.

There’s something about the atmosphere too, like I’ve been here before, but not only as a six-year-old child.

My stomach churns. Will we ever come back to Rome if we lose the bar?

And would we stay in a hotel like we’re visitors just passing through.

..or with Nina in some unfamiliar suburb?

And what about Giulio? He’d be losing more than a job.

He’d lose everything that grounds him; the stability Nina has given him over the years.

He tugs the end of my ponytail, pulling my attention back to the beautiful piazza. ‘You OK?’

‘Sì , just...thinking.’ I fidget with the strap of my tank top and he slips an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side.

My ability to coordinate my feet goes wonky and we bump hips awkwardly for a few steps.

I think we’re heading for the main attraction – the Fountain of the Four Rivers – with its muscly statues representing different continents.

I mean, this thing even has an obelisk sticking out of it.

But Giulio steers us down a side street instead.

A few turns later, we stop in front of.

..a broken statue? I eye the crumbling torso and its vague face – my brain sifting through all the Roman trivia Ma’s spouted over the years. And come up blank.

Giulio bows. ‘Livia, meet Pasquino. Pasquino, ti presento , Livia.’

I fold my arms and shift my weight on to one leg. ‘You think some old statue is going to cheer us up? Save the bar?’

‘Pasquino isn’t any old statue. He’s a talking statue.’

‘Aaand?’ I make a rolling motion with my hand, inviting him to keep talking until he makes sense.

‘Think of him as the comments section on social media.’

‘Nope. Still nothing.’

He points to the base of the statue, and the scraps of paper crammed into its cracks and even stuck on with...urgh...chewing gum.

‘This is where the little people come when they have no voice of their own. Notes, protests, complaints – especially about those in power...Romans have been doing it for centuries. In fact, I bet a few of those are Nina’s.’

‘Wait – this is one of her spots?’ I look closer at the jumble of notes.

One reads: Politicians line their pockets while we struggle to pay our rent.

Another declares: The buses are never on time! How can we work when public transport fails us? Underneath, someone’s drawn an angry face, and another has taped a notice of a transport strike tomorrow.

‘Wow,’ I murmur. ‘It really is like an ancient social media feed.’

Giulio points to a bright yellow note taped to the other side of the base. ‘Hey, why didn’t you tell me you’d been here already?’

I blink. ‘What? I haven’t.’

He taps the note and I peer in to read it.

I fell for you, but I didn’t tell you. And now it’s too late.

That stomach flip evolves into a full-on somersault and I let out a tiny squeak.

‘Looks like someone’s mistaken old Pasquino here for Cupid,’ Giulio jokes. ‘Although...I suppose we both fell last night. And it’s not too late.’

Ommioddio. He’s talking about last night. He’s actually bringing it up. I can almost feel my cheeks turning scarlet and have to resist the urge to dash over to the Fountain of the Four Rivers to plunge my head in it.

But as much as I want to disappear into the ground, I’m just as desperate for him to say more. I freeze, waiting – still crouched, my big nose a mere centimetre away from the note, like I’m a pointer dog drawing attention to it.

Then Giulio’s phone buzzes in his pocket. ‘ Pronto?’

A girl’s voice floats faintly from the speaker, just loud enough to make my breath catch. And while it’s over thirty-five degrees outside, a chill chases through me when Giulio takes a few steps away.

And just like that, whatever spell I was under breaks. I pretend to study Pasquino and the notes. But the only letters I can make out are the ones spelling the name on his phone screen – Flaminia.