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M a thinks I’m being paranoid about Giulio’s spoon offensive.

He was just being helpful. Our families go back a long way. He lost his own nonna recently.

But it’s hard to be sympathetic when Signor Giulio zipped off on a Vespa as cool as a cucumber while I swelter on the Metro, nose glued to a stranger’s armpit.

I’m so exhausted when we finally emerge from the underground that I barely appreciate the Instagrammable beauty of Rome’s Monti district as we walk through it; the flower-filled balconies, the arty independent shops, the pastel-coloured palazzos and, yep, even a view of the Colosseum at the bottom of the street.

Ma is practically vibrating beside me, dying to point it out.

I put her out of her misery. ‘I see it, OK?’

She grins for the first time since leaving Nina and, grabbing my free hand, pulls me around a corner and into a vibrant open space. ‘This is Piazza della Madonna dei Monti.’ She says it like she’s introducing me to an old friend.

A beautiful octagonal fountain sits off-centre, close to the road. And for one ridiculous second, I imagine dunking myself in it, clothes and all. But that’s what a badly behaved turista would do.

A group of young people sit on the steps around it – talking and laughing, half-listening to a musician playing an acoustic set – and I wonder if that could ever be me.

‘I spent my teenage years on those steps,’ Ma murmurs, almost to herself. But instead of oversharing like she normally would, her eyes go wide and unblinking like a cat startled by a sudden noise.

I follow her line of sight and spot a vintage Vespa on its kickstand. It’s blue, like Giulio’s, and my stomach drops. Dio, no! Don’t let him be here, too! But then I let out a small laugh. This is Rome, idiota ! There are a million Vespas. And, anyway, Ma’s looking at—

Oh! My laughter cuts short. She’s looking at the bar beside it.

It’s so different from my childhood memories that I check the street sign to be sure.

Via dei Serpenti. Yes, it’s Nina’s bar. But even in the waning light, I can see the once-shiny chrome tables and colourful woven chairs are now dull and tarnished. Faded and fraying.

‘I knew things were bad, but...’ Ma quickens her pace, leading me to an arched wooden door that’s rotten and uneven around the edges, the wood blistered and peeling. Above it, a faded sign simply reads BAR.

She wrestles a key into the lock and we pause on the threshold, taking it all in – the mismatched tiles patching up the broken floor like sticking plasters, the cracked leather on the stools, the tarnished mirrored shelving lined with rows of dusty bottles, their labels curling at the edges.

The bar looks old – and not in a retro or vintage way, either.

A puddle of water spreads out from under the counter and Ma steps closer, crouching to test it with her fingers.

‘Ten years, and Nina still hasn’t fixed that leak.

’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘Why don’t you go up while I sort this, amore ?

’ She waves me towards a door behind the old-fashioned counter.

‘And don’t even think about pinching the double bed.

..or using up all the hot water in the shower,’ she calls as I step into the narrow stairwell.

Great. Now Ma’s telling me I stink, too.

I climb the stairs; a memory of sliding down them on my bottom – a pair of Nina’s heels dangling from my little feet – slams into me out of nowhere.

And upstairs, even in the gloom, the silhouettes of the ceramic ornaments on the hallway dresser are so familiar, they tug at something deep inside me – so vivid, it almost hurts.

It’s as if they’ve been frozen in time, waiting for me to come back, for me to beg Nina to let me play with them, like I did when I was six years old.

As I move through the apartment, flicking on lights, other memories float to the surface.

But there are things that remind me of our house in Scotland, too – the bidet and washing machine in the bathroom, sachets of camomile tea in the medicine cabinet, a blackened moka pot on the stove, and a living room that’s more dining table than anything else.

A bubble of hope swells in my chest. The things that feel out of place in Scotland fit right in here. So maybe I can, too.

I find Nina’s room with its enormous sleigh bed and a nightstand cluttered with more beauty products than a city centre Sephora, then walk down the corridor to my room – the one that used to be Ma’s.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket as I push the door open. I swipe to answer, and Isla’s face fills the screen.

‘I miss youuuu!’ she pouts. ‘You’ve been gone a whole day.’

‘I’m just checking out my room. Want to see?’

‘Yeah! Flip the camera.’

I switch on the light, surprised to see a collection of trophies and medals on top of the chest of drawers, and football posters all over the walls.

‘Wait . . . your mum was sporty?’ Isla sounds shocked.

‘Err, no...I swear none of this was here the last time we stayed.’ My eyes land on a huge collage of photos on the wall above the bed. ‘Or that.’ I kick off my flip-flops – vowing to never wear them again – and climb on to the mattress for a closer look.

My breath catches. The pictures are all of Giulio – younger, but undeniably him. Giulio blowing out candles on a birthday cake while Nina smiles on. Giulio and Nina eating gelato together. Giulio posing with her after a football match. Giulio and Nina. Nina and Giulio.

I squash down the awful feeling that I’m seeing what could have been my childhood right in front of me.

‘Aw, who’s the cute kid?’

I startle, forgetting Isla’s seeing all this too.

‘Giulio,’ I say through gritted teeth, switching the camera back to me. ‘And he’s not cute or a kid. He’s the same age as us. The photos are old.’

Isla perks up. ‘So you know him? Is he . . . Italian?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, he’s Italian.’

She dips her chin to peek over the top of her glasses. ‘Aaaand?’

‘And what?’

‘Is he . . . Italian Italian? You know . . . tanned, handsome, fashionable, dreamy accent—’

‘Stop!’ I beg, scrubbing her annoyingly accurate description of Giulio from my brain. And here I am worrying about being a walking cliché when Giulio’s the very definition of one.

Isla does the tiny clapping thing she does when she’s excited. ‘So, he is then!’

‘I did NOT say that.’

‘But you didn’t not say it either.’

‘Yeah, well, you should have seen Nina with him – it’s like he’s everything she wants me to be. They’ve even ganged up to send me to Italian classes.’

‘Italian classes? Liv, you literally only speak Italian at home.’

I smile at my friend. ‘Isla, you think me offering to empty litter trays for cash or promising Pa I’ve done my homework before we go out is impressive.’

Isla shrugs. ‘Honestly? It is.’

‘Yeah, well, I’d still get tongue-tied saying those things in front of Nina.’

‘So maybe classes will be good then?’

‘Maybe,’ I accept. But still...what kind of Italian needs to take Italian lessons?

‘Hey, you’re in the city centre, right? Let me see the view.’

Isla always knows how to get me out of a funk, because when I open the shutters I can’t help grinning. The window faces exactly the way I hoped, giving us a glorious glimpse of the Colosseum.

I point my camera towards it. ‘Nice, huh?’

‘Gorgeous,’ Isla says dreamily. ‘Utterly gorgeous.’

I’m about to agree, but then I realize she isn’t talking about the most famous building in Rome. She’s drooling over the boy in the foreground – Giulio, leaning casually on the balcony next door, admiring the blue Vespa below like it’s the Mona Lisa.

Ommioddio – seriously? He lives next door? I yank the phone back towards me and slam the shutters closed.

‘Oh Liv,’ Isla laughs. ‘You are so doomed.’