I had spent the afternoon in my stripped-down, barren room, standing with a cold can of Coke pressed to my cheek and the assurance that new bedding would be in place by the time I returned from dinner; apparently there were no other dungeons available, and I was still too chicken to return to my dorm room.

As much as I tried to rearrange my hair, nothing disguised my disfiguration; short of stepping out in a Phantom of the Opera mask, there was nothing I could do to reduce the hideous-looking bite marks. Apparently I was allergic to bed bugs. Awesome.

I had nothing in my possession that would work—I needed heavy-duty concealer. I took it upon myself to risk detection, scooting up to the girls’ bathroom and hitting the jackpot. Primers, hair products, brushes, blushes, contouring powder, eyeliners and bronzers were strewn all over the vanity. I sifted through foundation sponges, lipstick-stained tissues and eye-shadow pallets as quickly as I could.

Come on, Sammi, in and out, the perfect crime.

Just a smidge, I thought, a teeny-tiny dollop of foundation, dabbed lightly onto my skin to disguise the redness. And what do you know? It did exactly that. There was no redness in sight because now, in my reflection, the red had been replaced with a large orange blob on my face, the kind no amount of blending could save. To avoid being labelled a make-up thief, or mistaken as an Oompa Loompa, I rubbed the foundation off, making my face even redder than before. But it was necessary: the girls already thought I was moving in on Kylie’s man, they might not appreciate me moving in on their make-up—some things were simply sacred.

I had wanted to really make Marcello’s head turn tonight, but now I would be making everyone’s head turn for all the wrong reasons. I descended the stairs in my navy maxi dress, long and flowing, skin aglow now that the burn had mellowed to a tan, and I was well rested. But, thanks to the bed bugs, none of that mattered. At least I was having a good hair day; my hair was out and swept to the side, my attempt at some kind of hair veil. As I entered the lounge near reception, without looking I could sense he was there, a dark spot in my peripheral vision. I concentrated on every single step I took, praying I wouldn’t trip on the length of my skirt and flail down the last of the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, I breathed a sigh of relief and tried, as best I could, to walk towards the group in a carefree, elegant way. I strategically placed myself, turning my offending cheek to the wall while I attempted for lighthearted banter with an extremely confused-looking Bookworm Gary.

I smiled, sipping on my pop-top water bottle, before slipping it into my bag.

Just shut up, Bookworm, and play along.

Everyone I had wanted to avoid had come to dinner. Jodie sat with Harper and Kylie in one big, happy sisterhood. As usual I could hear Nate, though he didn’t necessarily have to be in the same room for that. I glanced around the small space, trying not to let my eyes fall on that particular black figure across the room. I was just going to ignore him. With Maria being such a stickler for punctuality, I assumed that Marina and Gwendal from France and Em from Ireland, who were all bunking in together on the sixth floor, had not received the dinner memo.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked Gary.

‘Marina and Gwendal are having some kind of an anniversary dinner somewhere, and the Irish girl …’

‘Em.’

‘Yeah, she went home.’

My head snapped around. ‘She went home?’

Gary did a double-take, his expression deepening. ‘Ah, yeah, she said she wouldn’t stay another minute in this hole of a hotel, so she cancelled the rest of her tour … what happened to your face?’ Gary’s nose was screwed up.

I turned away from him, my mind reeling.

Em cancelled her trip? Bloody good on her.

And then I thought it was quite the shame; Em sounded like my kind of girl. Who knows, maybe if we’d been assigned the same room we might have become best friends.

Johnny had never said so explicitly, but the last dinner in Rome with the group had that kind of ‘this is compulsory’ feeling about it, and sure, there was a part of me that had wanted to see Marcello again.

I mentally slapped myself.

Don’t you even go there, Sammi.

So he was here—so what? If anything, it was going to make for a hell of an awkward night. Yep, I was definitely going to keep my distance, from everyone. In fact, I was probably doing them a favour: by shielding my unsightly face they wouldn’t be turned off their food. You might even say I was being considerate … and, okay, a little egotistical.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad? I did have a tendency to be melodramatic. Gary was easily distressed. Just as I was beginning to convince myself that I was overreacting, Johnny walked past me, tilting his head and wincing.

‘Are you okay? That looks, really, really bad,’ he whispered, like he was in on the hideous secret.

Kill me now.

‘Thanks,’ I deadpanned. It was official, I looked monstrous. I would have to choose my place at the table very carefully. Johnny shucked my jaw sympathetically, as if to say, ‘Chin up, tiger,’ then went to get a drink.

‘Alright, people, avanti, avanti! Let’s go,’ Maria singsonged, floating through the reception in a beautiful floral-patterned dress that only she could get away with, her petite frame and ample bosom on display.

I took a moment to glance in the mirror: Marcello was in the lounge. He was sitting there in a beautiful black suit, white collared shirt casually open, and dampened hair. Even from far away he looked gorgeous, wearing an impressive scowl as if he wished not to be here. And why was he here? Was he getting a cut of Maria’s commission somehow? Helping her out by taking clueless members of the group under his wing? Well, if that was the case, he deserved a decent cut based on his lip service alone. As much as I hadn’t wanted our awkward handshake to be his last memory of me, I really didn’t want it to be like this; me dancing around all night, trying to avoid him catching a glimpse of my face. Though, truth be known, I couldn’t only blame the bite marks. Screw it, tonight I would just try to enjoy my dinner. As far as I could tell, Jodie hadn’t said anything to the others about my email; she hadn’t even cast me daggers, choosing to ignore me, which was fine by me.

We converged out on the street, our smart-casual dress a stark contrast to the grimy hotel façade, making us look lost and slightly out of place. The evening was warm and clear and the streets were filled with the chaos I was becoming accustomed to, the happy mess of holidaymakers wandering in our paths. The dodging and weaving didn’t unsettle me so much as the unknown ambush I was likely to suffer at the hands of my own group if Jodie ever decided to drop the bombshell.

We walked along the streets in cliques: Jodie, Nate and Johnny walked out in front, followed by the besties, then me and my new BFF, the solemn, serious Bookworm Gary, who shuffled along with his hands in his pockets. I didn’t care to think about Maria and Marcello, who led the pack, and tried to resist looking forward in case I caught a glimpse of them and their seemingly civil conversation. I was happy to linger further back with Gary, who seemed to share my ‘out of sight, out of mind’ philosophy. Maybe Gary and I could be mates: we weren’t party animals or attention seekers, we didn’t need loud, boisterous conversations, we were merely soaking up everything around us—even if I could tell that, much like me, he was trying to avoid his lingering fascination with a certain person. I would never in a million years understand how Jodie and Gary came about, but I really didn’t want to think about it either.

I chose instead to focus on dinner. According to Maria, That’s Amore was located only a few steps away from the Trevi Fountain. I had a chance to turf my coin in after all, though choosing to do so would depend on how the evening played out; if it was a disaster, I may never want to return to Rome.

It turned out That’s Amore was not just a song that Nate had been singing since our arrival in Rome (and had since been threatened by Maria to not sing again), it was a bright, warm and cosy restaurant abuzz with good cheer and intoxicating smells. Even though the restaurant was busy the staff were friendly and willing to help with recommendations. The owner made his way around the tables, showing a genuine interest in his customers and conversing with each one. One of the things I had come to love about Rome was the people, and I had noticed that if you made an effort to speak the language, no matter how terribly, it was like opening a door to the friendly and passionate locals.

Don’t look at Marcello, Sammi. Be strong.

Walking through the restaurant, my eyes drifted along the framed black-and-white photos of old movie stars hung on the floral-imprinted walls, aglow with golden lighting. I looked with particular interest, staring at a candid snap of James Dean and Sammy Davis Jnr wearing an eyepatch. Approaching our table, I saw that I was in luck: the seat nearest the wall, on the left, was empty. My lumpy face might yet avoid detection!

Oh, shit.

My seat was opposite Marcello.

He slowly unbuttoned his jacket before pulling out the chair opposite and sliding into position, making himself quite comfortable. Ignoring him would be near on impossible, and I could only find the wall art interesting for so long. I would just have to become fascinated by whoever was going to sit next to me, ask lots of questions and keep the small talk flowing. I shifted my chair aside to make room, only to watch in horror as Jodie sat next to me, looking red carpet ready in a halter-neck dress, heavy eye make-up and straightened, sleek hair falling down her back. Did she not realise what she was doing, the situation she was putting me in?

She scooted in her chair and turned to me with a beaming smile. ‘Oh, hey, Sammi—you look lovely tonight.’

Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing alright. She was here to torture me.