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T he church bells in Rome chime all through the night – on the hour, every hour. I know this because I lie awake, planning and plotting, sending messages, and begging for favours well into the early hours.

But the mistakes I make in the bar the next morning – dropping things and mixing up orders – aren’t down to tiredness, or to me being the foreigner who doesn’t belong here.

No, these come from the nervous energy coursing through me, from the sheer enormity of what we have to do – and how much we stand to lose if we fail.

Even then, my extra sense, the one that’s only for Giulio, is on high alert and trained on the door, waiting and hoping for him to show up. But he hasn’t. Not yet.

‘I barely made it on to the last Metro,’ Ma wheezes as she dumps four bulging IKEA bags on to the counter. ‘It was packed – everyone rushing to get on before the strike started.’

Towers of stackable paper cups spill over the edges, and Ma slumps with them, red-faced from exertion.

‘Hey!’ I poke her arm. ‘No time to rest. I’ve sent you a screenshot of Ren and Enrico’s shopping lists. They’re upstairs now. They even know where to find that special ingredient I asked for.’

Ma barely lifts her head. ‘They’re here already?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Can’t you smell?’

The aroma of Ren’s fusion snacks and Enrico’s Roman classics are already wafting down from Nina’s kitchen. I swear it’s drawing people into the bar – that, and the sense that something’s happening here today.

It’s barely midday, but we’ve been running around for hours already – since I bounced on to Ma’s mattress at 5 a.m. to announce The Plan.

It’s busier than usual for a Saturday, too – mostly because we’ve offered the neighbours free coffees for any folding tables, camping stoves and fairy lights they might have stashed in their basements.

I’m slicing a lemon, gasping as the juice stings the paper cuts I’ve collected from folding flyers all morning, when Signora Pedretti bustles in. ‘Have you seen Giulio?’ She leans over the counter, as if we’re hiding him. ‘I thought he’d be here by now.’

‘There’s a strike,’ Ma reminds her, as if the echoing chaos of car horns and angry shouts weren’t enough. ‘Nothing’s moving. He’s probably caught up in it.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s not it. He told me he had stuff to do today. And the strike wouldn’t bother him. He’s got his Vespa.’ And he’s probably on it with Flaminia now – the image of them together stings more than a thousand lemony paper cuts.

Signora Pedretti seems about to say something, then she folds in her lips as if she’s thought better of it.

My love flu symptoms flare up with a vengeance, aching deep into my bones. She probably knows Giulio’s with Flaminia, but my feelings must be so obvious, she can’t bring herself to tell me.