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So I was planning to buy him a replacement today. A little “end of honeymoon” gift. But maybe he doesn’t deserve it if he’s going to spy on me and read my private credit card statements. I mean, what a cheek. Do I read
his
private letters?
    Well, actually I do. Some of them are really interesting! But the point is—
    Oh my God. I freeze, struck by a dreadful thought. Does that mean he saw how much I spent in Hong Kong that day he went off to see the stock exchange?
    Fuck.
    And he hasn’t said anything about it. OK, maybe he does deserve a present, after all.
    I take a sip of cappuccino. Anyway, I’m the one laughing, not Luke. He thinks he’s so clever, but what he doesn’t know is that I’ve got a secret genius plan.
    Half an hour later I arrive downstairs at reception, wearing tight black trousers (not quite capri but close enough), a striped T-shirt, and a scarf knotted round my neck, European-style. I head straight for the foreign exchange desk and beam at the woman behind it.
    “
Ciao
!” I say brightly. “
Il . .
.”
    I trail off into silence.
    What was I thinking? That if I started confidently enough, with hand gestures, Italian would just pour naturally out of my mouth?
    “I’d like to change some money into euros, please,” I say, switching into English. I reach into my bag and triumphantly pull out a bundle of creased-up notes. “Rupees, dirhams, ringgits . . .” I dump the notes on the counter and reach for some more. “Kenyan dollars . . .” I peer at a strange pink note I don’t recognize. “Whatever that one is . . .”
    It is incredible how much money I was carrying around with me without even noticing! I had loads of rupees in my bath bag, and a whole bunch of Ethiopian birrs inside a paperback book. Plus there were loads of odd notes and coins floating around at the bottom of my carry-on bag.
    And the point is, this is free money! This is money
we already had
.
    I watch excitedly as the woman sorts it all into piles. “You have seventeen different currencies here,” she says at last, looking a bit dazed.
    “We’ve been to lots of countries,” I explain. “So, how much is it all worth?”
    As the woman starts tapping on a small computer, I feel quite excited. Maybe the exchange rates on some of these have moved in my favor. Maybe this is all worth loads!
    Then I feel a bit guilty. After all, it’s Luke’s money too. Abruptly I decide that if it’s more than a hundred euros, I’ll give half back to him. That’s only fair. But that’ll still leave me with fifty! Not bad, for doing absolutely nothing!
    “After commission . . .” The woman looks up. “Seven forty-five.”
    “Seven hundred and forty-five euros?” I stare at her in joy and amazement. I had no
idea
I was carrying around that kind of money! God, it just shows! All those people who say, “Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves” . . . they’re right! Who would have thought it?
    I’ll be able to buy a present for Luke
and
a pair of Míu Míu shoes, and—
    “Not seven hundred and forty-five.” The woman scribbles it on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Seven euros, forty-five cents.”
    “What?” My happy smile slips off my face. That can’t be right.
    “Seven euros, forty-five cents,” repeats the woman patiently. “How would you like that?”
    How can so much genuine money be worth only seven euros? It makes no sense. As I explained to the woman, you could buy absolutely loads in India for those rupees. You could probably buy a whole car . . . or a palace, even. But she wouldn’t budge. Oh, well.
    I start walking down the street, carefully following the map the hotel concierge gave me. He was such a helpful man. I explained to him how I wanted to take in the cultural sights of Milan, and he started talking about Da Vinci’s
The Last Supper
, which he “knew” I would be desperate to see.
    Obviously I
do
want to see it. Very much so. But priorities are