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going to go and see some famous statues or something?
    “I’m not going to go shopping!” I say haughtily. “I simply mentioned the shopping malls to show an interest in your work.”
    “I see.” Luke gives me a quizzical look, which bugs me.
    “I’m actually here for the culture.” I lift my chin. “And because Milan is a city I’ve never seen.”
    “Uh-huh.” Luke nods. “So you weren’t planning to visit any designer shops today?”
    “Luke,” I say kindly, “I am a professional personal shopper. Do you really think I’m going to get excited by a few designer shops?”
    “Frankly, yes,” says Luke.
    I feel a slight swell of indignation. Didn’t we make vows to each other? Didn’t he promise to respect me and not ever doubt my word?
    “You think I came here just to go shopping? Well, take this!” I reach for my bag, then take out my purse and thrust it at him.
    “Becky, don’t be silly—”
    “Take it! I’ll just have a simple walk around the city! I’ll go and look at the cathedral.”
    “OK, then.” Luke shrugs and pockets my purse.
    Damn. I didn’t think he’d actually take it.
    Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I have another credit card hidden in my bag, which Luke doesn’t know about.
    “Fine,” I say, folding my arms. “Keep my money. I don’t care!”
    “I’m sure you’ll survive,” says Luke. “You can always use the credit card you keep hidden in your bag.”
    What?
    How does he know about that? Has he been
spying
on me?
    This has to be grounds for divorce, surely.
    “Have it!” I say furiously, reaching into my bag. “Have everything! Take the shirt off my back!” I throw my credit card at him. “You may think you know me, Luke. But you don’t. All I want is to soak up a little culture, and maybe invest in the odd souvenir or local artifact.”
    “Local artifact?” echoes Luke. “By ‘local artifact’ do you mean ‘Versace shoes’?”
    “No!” I say, after a short pause.
    Which is true.
    True-ish.
    I was thinking more of Míu Míu. Apparently it’s really cheap over here!
    “Look, Becky, just don’t go overboard, OK?” says Luke. “We’re up to our luggage limits as it is.” He glances at our open cases. “What with the South American ritual mask and the voodoo stick . . . Oh, and let’s not forget the ceremonial dancing swords. . . .”
    How many times is Luke going to give me grief about the ceremonial dancing swords? Just because they ripped his stupid shirt.
    “For the millionth time, they’re presents!” I say. “We couldn’t have shipped them. We have to have them with us
as we arrive
, otherwise we won’t look like proper travelers!”
    “That’s fine. All I’m saying is, we don’t have room for South American masks
and
six extra pairs of boots.”
    Oh, he thinks he’s so funny.
    “Luke, I’m not like that anymore, OK?” I say, a little crushingly. “I’ve grown up a little. I would have thought you might have noticed.”
    “If you say so.” Luke picks up my credit card, scrutinizes it, then gives it back to me. “You’ve only got a couple of hundred pounds left on this one, anyway.”
    What?
    “How do you know that?” I say in outrage. “That’s my private credit card!”
    “Then don’t hide the statement under the mattress. The maid in Sri Lanka found it when she was making the bed and gave it to me.” He kisses me and picks up his briefcase. “Enjoy the city!”
     
     
    As the door closes I feel a tad disgruntled. Little does Luke know. Little does Luke know I was actually planning to buy him a
present
today. Years ago, when I first met him, Luke had this belt which he really loved, made of gorgeous Italian leather. But he left it in the bathroom one day and it got hot leg-wax on it.
    Which was not entirely my fault. Like I told him, when you’re in total agony, you don’t think “What would be the most suitable implement to scrape burning wax off my shins?” You just grab the nearest thing.
    Anyway.