‘Wake up, you morsel of sexiness.’

I groan, turning away from the voice I curl up into a tight ball.

‘Come on. I’ve got something really special to show you,’ Cash says in my ear.

I open one eye. ‘What?’

‘Want to see The Last Supper?’ He licks along the shell of my ear.

My aunt told me she came to Milan and though she desperately wanted to see The Last Supper, she couldn’t. She joked tickets to see it were harder to come by than front seat invitations to a Gucci fashion show. I open both eyes. ‘You have tickets?’

‘Three if I’m keeping it real.’

I stretch luxuriously and yawn. How could this guy have so much energy? He lights up a stage for more than an hour, he parties until late at night, has sex until the early morning hours, and wakes up at first light.

He nibbles my lobe. He’s starting something here. ‘Unless you just want to stay in bed and we can have sex all morning.’

I pull back slightly. ‘As delicious as that sounds, I do want to see The Last Supper.’

He grins. Cocky and confident. ‘That’s what I thought.’

‘What’s the time?’ I ask.

‘Nine.’

‘Already?’

‘Get in the shower and I’ll go wake Brit up,’ he says slipping out of the room.

Totally naked I pad over to the shower. Warm water rains down on me, bouncing off my head, face and shoulders. It’s a good way to wake up. I’m already out of the shower and getting into my clothes when Cash comes back in.

‘Is Britney getting ready?’ I ask.

‘She doesn’t want to come.’

‘Why not? I thought she loved art.’

‘Yeah, the modern stuff. Her exact grumpy response was, “Go away. I’m not getting out of bed to stand for half-an-hour in front of a painting that’s been so heavily restored it’s not even Leonardo’s work any more.”’

I giggle. That so sounds like Britney. ‘Did you tell her it’s a mural and not a painting?’

‘Nope. I didn’t think it would make a blind bit of difference.’

‘So what does she want to do?’ I ask picking up the hairdryer.

‘She wants to go to see the Duomo so she’ll meet us before we set off for that. I’ll arrange for the driver to pick her up and bring her to us.’

I point the hairdryer at him. ‘Aren’t you worried you’re going to get recognized and mobbed?’

He walks over to the desk and picks up the beard and the moustache he used that night we went to The Ministry of Sound.

I laugh. ‘Great idea.’

We have to pass through a humidity controlling chamber before we enter the refectory where we will only have fifteen minutes before the next lot of people will be let in. We enter, hushed and reverent. There is nothing else in that hall except a painting of Jesus’ crucifixion on the opposite wall.

I stand in front of the partially damaged mural and take a deep breath.

The painting is faded and even flaky, yet it is more majestic than anything I have seen before. I’m not a connoisseur of art, and I’m pretty certain I have seen other paintings and frescos with as much attention to detail, but perhaps it is the subject matter which arrests my complete attention. The painting catches the climactic moment when Jesus says, ‘One of you will betray me.’

Da Vinci has managed to capture the atmosphere of shock, astonishment, and rage among his disciples. The expressions on the faces of the apostles, their hand movements, and the postures of their bodies tell a mesmerizing story of the awakening of distrust in a tightly knit group of people.

I watch Judas. The bad guy. There is spilled salt before him, and he is clutching a bag of silver in his left hand. His right hand and Jesus’ are simultaneously reaching for a loaf of bread.

The guide’s voice comes through the device in my ear to say that the vanishing point for the painting is on Jesus’ right temple. That is where my eye goes and I’m suddenly moved by the look of gentle resignation and peace in a way I’ve never seen by him. Poor Jesus.

I steal a look at Cash and he is looking at me. The beard and the moustache make his eyes look as green as spring grass.

‘Do you like it?’ he asks.

‘It’s absolutely stunning.’

He smiles.

Then our time is over and all of us exit the convent through a gift shop and file out into the street.

‘Are you hungry?’ Cash asks.

In the bright sunshine his disguise looks really fake and stupid, but it occurs to me then, I don’t even care what he looks like any more. I just love him for what he is. For the things he says and does, and the way he touches my soul without even trying.

‘Well …’ he prompts.

I smile up at him. ‘I could eat a horse.’

We walk down the pavement hand in hand until we see Fabio’s car crawling up the road towards us. We get in and twenty minutes later we are in Via Santa Radegonda. There is a long queue that snakes all the way down the street.

‘Must be something pretty special judging from the length of the queue. What is it?’

‘It’s called panzerotti. It’s a pastry triangle stuffed with all kinds of filling. You can have it fried or baked.’

We join the back of the queue with all the other tourists and residents of Milan. It moves pretty fast and soon we are inside a nondescript shop that looks more like a takeaway joint. I have the fried Nutella version and Cash orders two, the classic with tomato and mozzarella and another with salami.

Clutching our beers and greasy paper bags of panzerotti we go to the piazza where we join other people who have the same idea. We find a sunny spot and sit down to eat our pastries.

Cash takes a chunk of his panzerotti and creamy yellow mozzarella oozes out.

‘Good?’ I ask.

He licks his lips. ‘Delicious.’

I bite into mine and chew slowly. It tastes like a cross between a donut and a pizza. The dough is soft and quite sweet.

‘Do you like it?’ Cash asks.

‘Yes. Very tasty.’ I take my sweater off. The sun beats down on my head and shoulders. It feels good to be eating out in the open sunshine with Cash.

‘Have you ever been betrayed, I mean in a big way, in like Last Supper fashion?’ I ask, licking a bit of Nutella from my finger.

‘No,’ he says biting into his pastry. ‘Have you?’

I shake my head. ‘I’ve lead a pretty sheltered life. I mean, my mom and dad would not even have let me come to England if my aunt was not living here. But it’s good that someone who has been all over the world and lives the kind of big and bright life you do has never been betrayed.’

He takes a swig of his beer and looks at me expressionlessly. ‘I’ve been betrayed many times, Tori. Not in The Last Supper category, of course, but ...’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say sincerely.

‘Don’t be. It comes with the territory. You want fame and fortune, then don’t expect loyal friends as well.’

I stare at him curiously. ‘Don’t you have people that you trust?’

‘I trust my dad,’ he says simply.

‘No one else?’

He looks at me solemnly. ‘I kinda trust you.’

I swallow hard. The lies I’ve told, they are not a betrayal. They are not meant to hurt him or anyone else. I can sincerely say that I will never betray him. No amount of silver or gold can ever tempt me to betray him. I blush and smile at him shyly. ‘Thank you for trusting me. I will never betray your trust.’

The way he looks at me makes me feel as if I have stepped into one of my teenage dreams. My heart quickens as I take a casual bite of my pastry.

He gives a lopsided smile. ‘A guy could fall in love with a girl like you.’

His statement is so shocking that I accidentally swallow the food in my mouth. It slides down my throat and lodges at the top of my trachea, and before I can cough it up, my windpipe closes tightly around it.

I’ve attended life saver class. That death grip is called the drowning reflex. It means if you ever fall into water, the trachea closes in to buy you a few minutes so you can get out of the water. That life-saving reflex has now kicked in and formed the perfect seal. I’ve stopped breathing because oxygen cannot get in or out of my lungs, and because there is no air to vibrate my larynx with, I can’t even make a sound.

For a few crazy seconds my first feeling is not fear but embarrassment. I’m choking. Everybody’s going to turn and look. I actually think I can try to cough it up, or surreptitiously thump my midriff.

‘What’s the matter?’ Cash asks, his eyes narrowed.

I open my mouth. Of course, nothing comes out, but black dots suddenly appear in my vision. That’s when fear and panic sets in. Someone needs to do the Heimlich maneuver right now, or I’m going to die here. In a piazza in Italy where no one knows me.

‘Christ. You’re choking,’ he rasps and, standing up, pulls me to my feet.

He wraps his arms around me, forms a fist below my sternum, and makes a series of hard and sharp (and quite frankly violent) compressions, to try and force the obstruction out.

It doesn’t work.

The lump of pastry refuses to budge. The bright day is slowly morphing into a dark narrowing tunnel. So this is what dying feels like. As my knees buckle, Cash roars in my ear, ‘Come on, Tori.’ He gives a great big heave that lifts my feet clean off the ground and makes me think my ribs are cracking.

The trapdoor opens and I gasp a lungful of clean air before it slaps down again.

‘Fuck this,’ Cash curses furiously, and heaves again, even harder. This time I cough, retch, and up it comes into my mouth. I spit it out. A slimy lump.

He turns me around to face him.

Tears run down my face. I look up at his white face. ‘You saved my life,’ I croak.

‘What the fuck, Tori? You scared the shit out of me.’

I stare at his eyes, wild with fear and anxiety. ‘I’m sorry.’

He grabs me suddenly and pulls me close to his body and I hear his heart racing in his chest.

‘You turned blue, Tori,’ he says, his voice is almost a sob.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper again.

‘It’s OK. It’s fine. It’s all good now,’ he croons.

‘What’s going on here?’

The sudden intrusion jolts us out of our own little world. We turn towards the voice and see Britney looking at us with an enquiring expression.

‘Tori nearly choked to death,’ Cash answers, his voice hoarse.

‘Really? Oh my God. I’ve missed everything then.’

We walk to the Duomo together. Cash never lets go of my hand. Sometimes I catch him looking at me almost anxiously.