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the driver a youngish man who, even at this hour, was still wearing sunglasses.
    The girl got out - she had long, beautiful legs - and walked quickly to the front door.
    Rita did not move. She had seen enough: the wisps of hair escaping from beneath her scarf, the pale freckles, the slightly upturned grey-green eyes. Customers like this girl were the exclusive reserve of her boss - who indeed, guided by his infallible antennae, had already materialised and was heading for the door, ready to hold it gallantly open for the girl.
    'Please come in. It's the first time you've been here, isn't it? Are you a foreigner?'
    'Yes, a foreigner from Bologna,' she replied, with a touch of sarcasm in her beautiful, silvery voice.
    'You see? I've always said Florence was the wrong city. I should have opened my bookshop in Bologna!'
    'Do you just flirt or do you also sell books?'
    'It depends on what you're looking for. In my opinion, flirting has one advantage: it doesn't ruin the eyes.'
    'I'm in a bit of a hurry' she replied, handing him a sheet of paper with a list of titles: history and theory of Renaissance theatre, aesthetics, art history.
    'We must have some of these. Fabio!' he called.
    One of the assistants came running and Rita's boss gave him the list.
    'It'll take five or ten minutes. While we're waiting, if you'd like to follow me upstairs I might be able to suggest something equally useful.'
    The girl glanced at her watch and then looked outside, to where the car was parked. It was empty. The ticket was clearly visible, tucked under the windscreen wiper.
    'Don't worry about the fine. It's too late now.' 'It's just that I have a train to catch.' 'What time does it leave?' '8.13.'
    'That gives us more than thirty minutes, plenty of time. Make the most of it, follow me. What exactly are you interested in?'
    ‘I’m studying arts, music and drama. I'm in my last year, preparing a thesis on banquets and theatrical performances at the time of Lorenzo de' Medici.'
    'And can't you find those books in Bologna?'
    'I imagine I can,' she said as they climbed the stairs. 'But I'm thinking of attending a course here in Florence and that's the reading list for it.'
    'So we'll be seeing you again. Florence isn't so bad after all . . .'
    'I didn't say I'd made up my mind.' She smiled: the smile of a young woman keeping an older man at arm's length.
    While the two hobnobbed upstairs, Rita Senesi, who had looked on in amusement as the traffic wardens had swooped on the Porsche, was now watching the young man: he had first gone into the bar-tobacconist's next door, then had come out and was pacing in front of the windows, smoking nervously.
    He was really good-looking, too, and very young. Nearly six feet tall, fair-haired, slim, well dressed - though she thought the expensive buckskin jacket a trifle premature after the merest hint of autumn that had brought the city to life today. Suddenly, he seemed to tire of walking up and down. He threw away his cigarette and came in.
    Rita was about to point him upstairs, but before she could he said, 'I need a pen.'
    'Ball point or fountain pen?' she almost stammered.
    'A fountain pen, a good one.'
    The accent was not Florentine. Rita thought she detected a slight American inflection.
    She led him over to the display cabinet where they kept the expensive pens, took out two trays showing different brands, and placed them on top of the glass.
    'These are the latest Auroras, these are Cross, Parker and ..."
    With a determined, almost brusque gesture, the young man separated the two trays which were blocking his view of the pens inside the cabinet, and pointed. 'That one.'
    It was a Montblanc Meisterstuck, one of the most expensive pens they had.
    An excellent choice. Would you like it gift-wrapped?'
    'It's for me. Just fill it for me, please.'
    'Of course. That way you can try it.'
    While Rita was inserting the cartridge, the young man took off his sunglasses. She handed him the pen and as she did so she