"Then suddenly I notice it. The Ring. A shiny gold band on his finger."

I’m due to have a date in Rome with Stefano, who was introduced to me via Karen. I remember her introductory letter well:

Stefano is a naval architect. He is highly educated, well-travelled, attractive and charming, charming, charming.

Which had sounded positive, but it wasn’t until Stefano’s own email that I really became intrigued. When someone asks for a photo, ‘one of those taken without being aware. It is important to know people with all the twenty-four senses . . .’ you know you’re onto someone special.

Indeed, I hadn’t realised there were twenty- four senses, and after counting the five I knew on one hand, and then adding in a few rude ones, I’d given up. But perhaps Stefano will educate me further.

Stefano’s most recent email had left me in a bit of a lather too. I’d told him that the day after our date I was going to the Vatican to research my ‘V’ country, whereupon he’d responded with, ‘Just as well you are going to see the priest at the end of our time together . . .’ which nearly made me fall off my chair.

As I wait at the train station for Stefano, I try to strike an attractively nonchalant pose such as Sophia Loren might adopt in a photoshoot for her signature perfume, but I’m too nervous. Before I can quite perfect the look I’m after, Stefano arrives. He’s very tall and slim, with pale olive skin and fairish hair, starting to recede ever so slightly, but which makes him appear attractively professorial.

He’s definitely more northern Italian than the swarthier southerners, with a face that’s long and handsome – not handsome in a classical way like Michelangelo’s David, carved from marble, but more malleable, friendly and interesting. His grey-blue eyes sparkle behind cute frameless glasses, and he has the most enormous smile spreading right across his face, sporting a fabulous set of huge white teeth that must use up half a tube of toothpaste every week.

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‘You must be Bambi,’ he says energetically. Warmly.

‘Are you ready for your adventure? I’m taking you first for lunch, and then tonight for dinner. And then you’ll have all of tomorrow for your date with God. Yes?’

Oooooh, yes!

Stefano has arranged for me to stay in the heart of town, at a friend’s apartment conveniently situated on the floor above Stefano’s office. On the way there by taxi to drop off my bags, I barely notice the busy streets surging around us, so enthralled am I already by my Roman. There’s something very special about Stefano, like he’s a great big jack-in-the-box bursting with vitality and good humour. I already like him. A lot.

We alight on Via Tomacelli, one of Rome’s most elite shopping strips, and pass through massive wooden doors into an airy lobby, where a flimsy wrought-iron elevator – not much larger than a telephone box – is our precarious transport up to the fourth floor. I somehow squeeze into the elevator with my suitcase and my laptop, and Stefano standing – oh – just a heartbeat away.

We ascend the first few floors in silence, and I keep looking at him sideways to make sure he’s really real. And that I’m really here too.

‘This is a very good start for a first date,’ Stefano finally says with a big grin, upon which I notice we’re grazing elbows, and I get a tingle right through my body. I’m almost relieved when we reach our floor, as the tingle has become so intense there’s a real danger of me igniting, in which case I could well cause Rome to burn to the ground, once more.

After I’ve dropped off my bags we head out again, Stefano lop- ing beside me with long, even strides, and me sneaking in several more furtive glances. He looks like an advertisement for Armani, with his immaculate black suit, black cashmere scarf, and black jacket flapping around his legs. He’s style on steroids, and I’m thinking I might need to take something too, like valium.

We’re having lunch at TAD Cafe, where casual ottomans in rich shades of plum are scattered about on pistachio-toned floors, within a courtyard hung with dozens of designer pendant lights.

‘I didn’t believe Karen when she tells me about your trip,’ Stefano says of our go-between, as we tuck ourselves into a corner. ‘Which bit? That I’m travelling the world to learn about food? Or to see if I can find any romantic male stereotypes?’

Well, I didn’t want to give away too much in my cover email. Like looking for love.

‘For both I’m suspicious,’ Stefano replies cheerfully, ‘I think there is another reason behind it. Women say one thing and mean another. Besides, I don’t know if I’m so typical, but you will have to find out for yourself.’

I smile, warming to this man as fast as cocoa in a microwave. If he’s already picked up that I might have ulterior motives – as honourable as they are – then that’s exactly what I’m after. I no longer want to be taken at face value by any man with whom I have a relationship, but want him to dig a bit further, right down to the very core of me. Even to discover parts of me that I don’t yet know exist. And I do believe that Stefano, with his playful and intelligent sense of curiosity, can do just that.

As the busy cafe buzzes about us, and the smell of fresh figs teases one of my twenty-four senses, I’m becoming acutely aware that I like this man more than anyone since Mark. I know I’ve only just met Stefano, but I already feel an extraordinary connection with him, like the universe has thought to itself, ‘Oh heck, I’ve tested you enough, here’s The One. On a platter. Now will you quit bugging me?’ I’ve never quite believed in love at first sight, but right now I’m willing to be proven wrong. There’s just something about him – everything about him in fact – that speaks of warmth and intellect and integrity and . . . well . . . downright sexiness.

And then suddenly I notice it. The Ring. A shiny gold band on his wedding finger.

Damn, damn, damn. How could I have missed that? I was so busy being a moth drawn into the flame that I forgot all about due diligence. It’s quite one thing to date a married man for purely research purposes, but quite another to fall head over heels for him. Damn.

‘You’re married?’ I say lightly, trying not to sound like I care, and somewhere in the back of my mind it’s suddenly making sense why he’s put me up for the night with his friend John.

‘Yes,’ he replies without a twitch, ‘but I was curious. I am broad-minded always, and open to suggestion.’

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And he leaves it maddeningly at that, which means I still don’t know if a) he’s happily married, b) in the throes of a hideous divorce and about to be single, or c) single and just wearing the ring to throw annoying Australians off his scent. I’m hoping like crazy it’s c), but just in case it’s not, I decide not to ask anything more about his family – wife, kids, pet terrapins, anything.

Because then I can simply ignore the fact that I’ve just met the most amazing man – who seems to tick all the boxes, and then some, and even reminds me a little of my father with his impressive naval involvement – but that he’s off limits. And this way maybe I can get to the end of our date without feeling like a hungry dog having a bone dangled in front of it.

As we sup on a gorgeous lunch of pumpkin and green poppy seasoned celery cappuccino – a soup topped with such delicate pale green froth that a barista would be impressed – and cod pancakes with green tomato cream, I’m determined to find out as much about Stefano as I can. Just for me. Blow the book – it’s about time I had a real date.

Stefano tells me that he’s not just a naval architect but also an aeronautical engineer – which impresses me no end because he’d have to be seriously smart – but then he cheerfully tells me that in the US aeronautical program he failed the sexual harassment test. Three times.

‘What? How?’ I ask, horribly disappointed, not having picked up he was a sleaze.

‘In one test they watch people’s body language,’ Stefano tells me. ‘They send pretty women into the room and see how they react. But if a woman walks past, of course I will look. I am Italian! So finally,’ he adds, with a laugh that comes from somewhere very deep and warm inside, ‘I got special dispensation due to my culture.’

And I can’t help but chuckle too. Only the Italians.

‘So, Stefano,’ I say, a little breathlessly, ‘just what are the twenty- four senses you mentioned? I can’t think of that many.’

Stefano sits back in his chair and looks at me with his bright, all-seeing eyes. He has so much energy I can feel its pulse from the other side of the table. It’s so uplifting to find someone of such keen intelligence, and who’s playful with it, not like many men I’ve known who were smart but cruel. The barrister who said I had a brain the size of a peanut. The film-producer who said I was a ‘fill-in’ between real girlfriends. The IT boffin who said my carefully prepared paella looked like someone had thrown up on his plate.

‘Textures,’ Stefano says. ‘Cool, soft, smooth, warm. Sun on face, salt on skin. Music, a blackbird outside your window. To smell tartufo. The list can be even longer depending what makes you feel alive.’

Oh dear, I’m liking this man very much. Shiny gold ring or not. After our meal comes the question of coffee, which is a tricky one, as caffeine does to me what LSD does to chipmunks. I love it, but even a cappuccino gives me such a heart-racing high that it takes me twenty-four hours to stop doing somersaults on the roof. So my rule is none after 10 a.m. or I’ll be awake all night.

I look across to Stefano who’s sitting there like some delicious chocolate-dipped biscotti.

Decisions, decisions.

‘Yes,’ I say, crossing my fingers under the table. ‘I’ll have an espresso. Double. Thank you.’

Stefano has an afternoon meeting, so I spend the rest of the day bouncing around the back streets of Rome like someone’s wound my gears up to full spring, then let me loose. I’m not sure if the heart palpitations and light-headedness are from the coffee, or from the thought of seeing Stefano again, but either way, by early evening I’m still a bit manic, and having trouble deciding what to wear that will best impress Stefano.

I end up choosing the Black Widow Spider outfit, as after all, wasn’t it the Italians who invented the colour black? And then when the doorbell rings, after I’ve changed and then changed back again, I take a deep breath and just hope I’ve got it right.

When I open the door, Stefano looks me up and down, nodding approvingly. Not in a chauvinistic, patronising or judgemental sort of way, but – I suspect – from a more generous place in his heart. A place where men don’t see women as mere decoration, but as – well – women. Which I’ve got to say, does wonders for an ego somewhat deflated after some of my recent dates. And only makes me more enamoured of him.

Damn.

Stefano and I head down in the elevator, but we haven’t even got to the first floor when I feel one of the press-studs in the crotch of my lace bodysuit go ‘pop’ and it’s undone. I wonder if it’s an omen. I’m careful not to catch Stefano’s eye, as I don’t want to give him the faintest impression that I fancy him, for that would surely send him running. No – I’m going to play it cool.

I know I’m reneging on my deal to be more open and honest in my dealings with men, like I’d tried with Eduard, but look where that got me. Nowhere. And Stefano’s ten times more gorgeous, so I have to get it right. To be gentle. ‘Softly softly, catchy monkey’, as my Mum would say, and she won my father over, so it’s worth a shot. Then, once Stefano’s fallen madly in love with my winsome charms, I’ll crank up the pace a bit.
We catch a taxi, leaving behind the busy streets of Rome, and meandering up a long and winding road beneath a handsome avenue of towering ancient oak trees.

‘I am taking you to one of the best views of Roma,’ Stefano says in an accent as luxuriant as cashmere.

‘It is on one of the Seven Hills. I think you will like it.’

‘Pop’ goes the second press-stud.

We drive through the grand wrought-iron gates of the Cavalieri Hilton, where we enter a ballroom-sized marble lobby with huge white-on-white floral arrangements, and sculptured fish gargling water into granite basins filled with white roses. We are then ush- ered upstairs into a restaurant with a broad terrazzo.

‘We are not eating here,’ Stefano says, leading me outside. ‘But we have a drink with a nice view.’

For a moment I’m speechless, as ‘a nice view’ hadn’t prepared me for the spectacular sight below. Night has fallen and beneath its velvet mantle Rome is all lit up like a firefly convention. Before me are two of the seven hills and the softly illuminated dome of St Peter’s Basilica arching majestically into the blackness above.

Buildings well familiar from history books glow golden-yellow, and the tail-lights of cars stuck in traffic on Via Flaminia – once an ancient Roman road – look like a procession of red-eyed centaurs. It’s so beautiful that I have to suck back in a little spurt of tears so as not to smudge my mascara. Stefano seems pleased at my reaction. He leads me back inside where we sit on huge white couches, and as if on cue a waiter brings out two champagne flutes on a silver tray.

‘The best sparkling wine in Italy,’ says Stefano. ‘It’s like French champagne but better.’

It’s a 2005 prosecco di Valdobbiadene from the north of Italy, just below her boot cuff. The drink is fragrant, elegant with a delicate nose of peach and apple, and it’s going to my head so fast that I’ve already given up the thought of writing any notes tonight. In fact, I couldn’t care less if I just wrapped things up right now and never had another date in my life. Apart from with Stefano.

‘Pinot grigiou is like a woman,’ I hear Stefano saying through the haze, and I realise I’ve missed a great chunk of conversation whilst I’ve been spinning about in my own little universe, complete with exploding suns and spiralling galaxies.

‘It only grows if taken care of,’ he’s saying. ‘No care – no reward. It’s like a princess. I think perhaps you too Bambi, are a princess.’

Now I’ve been called a princess before – by Harry, who thought it was cute – but with Stefano I’m not quite sure what he means. In Australia ‘princess’ is a term reserved for spoilt little misses who can’t even hoist their Louis Vuitton totes onto a train rack for fear of snapping a fingernail. Unlike me, who’s already hauled my Samsonite with a wobbly wheel through seven countries.

I’d hate Stefano to think I was pathetic. Or precious. Or even worse – stupid. For me, being thought of as stupid is tantamount to a beauty pageant contestant being called ugly. After all, never hav- ing thought of myself as beautiful, I had to have something about which to feel proud, and being reasonably smart was about all I thought I had.

Here's some of the food (and dates) Bambi had around the world: Post continues after video.

Stefano must see the horror on my face. ‘What I mean is you deserve to be treated like a princess,’ he says gently.

I suddenly want to cry, for a thousand reasons, and all of them to do with the emptiness from which I’ve been trying to escape, and the love I’m so desperate to find. So maybe I am a princess after all, if even the tiniest grain of perceived criticism bruises me so deeply – like a pea twenty mattresses down.

I’m saved from bursting into tears by the arrival of Alex the waiter, who presents us with a plate of appetisers, then patiently explains each offering, giving me time to collect myself.

‘Here is a crème brûlée di fegato di anatra. Crème brûlée of goose liver,’ Alex purrs. ‘It is to be eaten with a gold spoon.’

At first I think I’ve misheard him, but then I see it – a gold tea- spoon, tucked in beside a small white dish crowned with a delicate caramelised glaze. A gold spoon. Oh yes. Silly me to be confused. Of course a crème brûlée of goose liver must be eaten this way.

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Stefano leans back nonchalantly into the embrace of the couch and smiles. ‘Silver or stainless steel oxidises and affects the taste,’ he tells me. ‘It must be pure on your tongue so you think of noth- ing else.’

Speaking of which, I’m not thinking of much else either, as with every little beguiling trick Stefano pulls out of his neatly turned sleeve, I’m becoming even more infatuated. But, to bring me back into the Now so I don’t make a complete idiot of myself, I try the best I can to focus on Alex’s ongoing culinary commentary. ‘Here we have spigola dorata fritta su letto di rucola e olio al basilico,’ Alex says, the words rolling off his tongue like an acrobat at the Circus Maximus. ‘And this is alici con zenzero e salsa al lime.’

The dishes Alex is presenting don’t just sound good, they look good too. The spigola dorata is a delicate piece of fried sea bass with a single curl of rocket wrapped around its shoulders like a feather boa, and the alici con zenzero are anchovies individually threaded like dollar signs onto wooden skewers, and drizzled with dark syrupy oil. I cross my legs carefully to preserve my third and last press-stud – as a mishap now could prove extremely embar- rassing with such a short skirt – and eat the morsels one by one,so as not to mix the flavours, each of which is worthy of a gold medal, let alone a gold spoon.

‘I’m overwhelmed,’ I tell Stefano, who – again – seems pleased at my reaction. Not, I suspect, because it makes him look good for having organised such a treat, but because it’s making me feel good.

‘Buon appetito,’ he winks at me, and as we sip the rest of our prosecco whilst the lights of Rome blaze away beneath us, I feel a little dizzy, like I’m floating, lost somewhere between one of the world’s most ancient centres of civilisation, and a place in the clouds where Venus – Goddess of Love – surely resides.

After the appetisers we head for the famous Trastevere neigh- bourhood with its gorgeous medieval cobblestoned side streets. On Via dei Genovesi we duck our heads beneath the lintel of Osteria, a cosy little restaurant buzzing with locals, where the owner greets Stefano warmly. The air is heavy with the rich scent of garlic and grilled meats. Stefano has booked a table right beside a glass partition into the kitchen, where we can see the four deep-fry tubs and eight burners going full bore, and the six cooks in white aprons at a stainless steel workbench madly chopping and peeling and mixing and whisking with barely a moment to draw breath.

‘What would you like to eat?’ asks Stefano, handing me a menu written in Italian, which I’m happily unable to read.

‘I’m in your hands. You make the decisions,’ I reply, a little breathlessly.

Stefano looks at me for quite some time with a cheeky grin playing on his face.

‘Okay, I will for now,’ he says, ‘but you will have to make some decisions later.’

I nearly fall off my chair. Decisions about what? Eating dessert? Having sex? Not that it really matters what he means, because I’m happy for him to make the call for pretty much everything in the next few hours. And I mean everything. The only decision I can foresee me having to make is whether or not to get on a train tomorrow and leave him behind.

Our wine is a falanghina from Campania – a nicely floral white with a vanilla finish.

‘It’s a bit frizzante,’ I say, showing off about the only thing I remember from a wine appreciation course I did before I left Australia in order to impress my dates.

‘Yes,’ Stefano replies, ‘like life.’

Now Jens was good, and Olivier was better, but Stefano is mak- ing them both look like first graders in the School of Charm. And he delivers it with such warmth and sincerity that I’m deliriously believing every word he’s saying. Although there is one question I should ask him before the evening progresses any further. Just so I can avoid any embarrassment or heartache or knuckle-chewing later on. So I bring out my questionnaire as if it’s a frightfully official document, and one to which I don’t have any personal attachment. Which of course I do.

‘So what’s the deal on infidelity?’ I ask Stefano, feeling my ears turning pink. ‘Are affairs acceptable in Italy?’

Stefano smiles knowingly, and looks right into my soul. ‘Men compartmentalise,’ he replies. ‘They put things in boxes.

Sex. Love. Trust. It all can be kept separate.’

‘And so does that work for Italian women too?’ I ask, hoping it cuts both ways. In which case there’ll be less chance of finding myself with a bowl of minestrone over my head if Stefano is indeed married and his wife tracks us down.

Stefano leans back in his chair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him quite so serious, and I’m guessing I’ve hit a nerve.

‘Not so much,’ he says. ‘A woman has to have the whole package, she’s not so happy with different boxes.’

Now perhaps I’m a wishful thinker, but such a comment leaves me with the very strong impression that Stefano – perhaps having juggled those boxes once too often – is indeed separated. Which means that maybe – just maybe – there’s a chance of him and I hitting it off, and who knows where that may lead? Indeed, the more I find out about Stefano, the more hooked I become. He sails, he cooks, he game fishes, he skis, he travels extensively. He thinks in a past life he was a Viking. He thinks in a future life he’d like to be a woman. Not because he’s weird, but because he’s the sort of man who wants to experience everything life has to offer. He’s la dolce vita personified.

‘A fish,’ Stefano replies, when I ask him the animal question. ‘Why?’

‘Because I am free to explore new depths, and places that have never been discovered before.’

I nearly choke on my wine. He’s not only exciting, he’s danger- ous, and I’m starting to fantasise about him leaping over the table, kissing me passionately, ripping off my clothes, and . . . well . . . discovering places that have never been discovered before. And yes, there are still a couple left.

My thoughts are interrupted when the waiter sets down a large plate, neatly laid out with thin slices of meat, translucent like the finest handmade lace, scattered with small brown shavings of unidentifiable origin. It smells absolutely amazing – like earth and poetry and hot summer nights – and I bend my head to the plate reverently to inhale it deep into my lungs.

‘This is sea bass carpaccio with truffles,’ Stefano explains. ‘You eat first with the nose, then with another four or five senses to appreciate all the dimensions.’

The lacy carpaccio is so delicate it falls apart as I lift it. The taste is subtle, and only slightly fishy. The flavour of the truffle is exquisite; however, it’s quite impossible to accurately describe it – perhaps somewhere between the rich black soil of an enchanted forest, and heaven. Maybe this is a good match for Stefano.

Another plate arrives – oysters, prawns, clams and an octopus carpaccio in such incredibly thin slices and not a chewy sucker in sight, I’d never have guessed what I was eating. It’s sweet and delicately flavoured, helped along by a drizzle of fragrant Sicilian dressing.

‘I had some great octopus in Monaco. France too,’ I say, bliss- fully wiping a dribble of oil from my chin.
‘French is shit,’ Stefano responds, grinning.

More dishes arrive – seafood linguini with smoked cod-roe, a bowl of fettuccini e porcini, and a salad of baby fennel and blood orange. I try to protest that there’s already far too much food, and with even more to come I’m worried that it will be more than my press-studs popping.

But Stefano won’t have a bar of my remonstrations. ‘You don’t have to finish it, but I want you to at least taste all the flavours of Rome,’ he says encouragingly, sliding yet another portion onto my plate. ‘This is homemade spaghetti with garlic, oil and red pepper.’ ‘It sounds hot – perhaps this is your food match?’ I suggest,emboldened by my second glass of wine.

‘Well, it doesn’t look that good,’ Stefano says as he looks at me unwaveringly with those hypnotising eyes. ‘But it’s very good, and you only know it when you taste it. When it’s in your mouth you can appreciate the full flavour.’

Things are getting steamier by the minute, and it’s not just coming from the pots bubbling away in the kitchen. Stefano seems to be a consummate flirt, and I’m thinking that tonight might be the night to finally flick off that annoying Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes-Keep-Yourself-Nice-Party-Pooper from my shoulder, and go for it. It’s been six months since I was with Mark, and quite frankly I’m missing the sex. I love sex, and I used to have lots of it. But now I feel like that last chocolate in the box, blotchy and crazed and brittle on the outside, and dried up inside. Not having sex for 183 – and a half – days simply isn’t healthy for a red-blooded woman.

So what the heck, let’s see where some flirting gets me.

‘So what Italian food works as an aphrodisiac?’ I ask, this time not shifting my gaze when he catches my eye.

‘Spaghetti,’ he replies, after some consideration.

I laugh, hardly thinking that anything as limp as spaghetti could be a turn-on.

‘Why?’

‘Because you can eat together, each starting at the other end and eating it to the middle, and then seeing what happens,’ Stefano says, not breaking his gaze either.

‘But it’s not a food so much that’s an aphrodisiac,’ he adds, ‘it’s a place and a state of mind.’

Then he looks at me even more intensely.

‘And do you know that the hypothalamus in the brain controls urges for both sex and food? If you like food, you must like sex too.’

Stefano says this just as I’m halfway through slurping down a triple strand of garlic-infused spaghetti, and clearly enjoying it. Ah, now I understand why he’s been watching me all evening with a knowing little smile on his face. Indeed, I’ve been gobbling food like there was no tomorrow. How embarrassing.

Once the plates are cleared, Stefano suggests we have an espresso to finish off, which I decline as I’m still having heart palpitations from the double at lunchtime.

‘Maybe for your book I’m an espresso,’ Stefano suggests.

‘Why an espresso?’ I’m thinking that’s a little too bitter for him.

‘Because it is quick to drink, but intense and very good,’ he replies, whereupon I get the unsettling feeling that he’s been reading my mind like a Romani gypsy, which means he’s probablyseen the bodice-ripping table-top scene. Oh God.

By the time we get through an after-dinner liqueur – an amaretto that tastes like liquid almond cookies – I’ve pretty much convinced myself that Stefano isn’t married. If he were, surely he wouldn’t have been quite so charming, quite so suggestive, quite so generous – because yes, he absolutely insists on paying for dinner despite my protestations. Just as he had for lunch. I know he’s Italian and such behaviour comes with the territory, but if he were married surely he’d have held back a little? And surely he wouldn’t be inviting me to go somewhere else for a nightcap?

But he does, and of course I say yes, because married or not, I don’t want the night to end. Ever.

Beneath a nearly full moon we stroll arm in arm through the empty streets of Rome, strangely quiet on a Thursday night, with the normally exuberant fountains in the piazzas turned off, and a few sheets of newspaper dancing in the breeze like pagans at an Easter festival. And as we walk I ponder again why I like Stefano so much. I don’t think it’s just because he’s exception- ally charming, and warm, and smart, and funny. It’s something more – something that transcends the superficial and obvious.

Stefano, it seems to me, grasps life like there’s no tomorrow, squeezing from it every sweet ounce of juice. And I’m enormously attracted to such a quality, because I too am a great believer in carpe diem – seize the day. And I also believe that you can add so much flavour to your life if you’re just willing to add a few extra ingredients to the recipe. A pinch of positivity, a spoon- ful of good humour, a good slug of courage. And with Stefano so piquing my interest, it’s not just sex I’m fantasising about now, but a vine-clad cottage in Tuscany, with – heck, let’s go for broke – Antonietta, Paola and bambino Stefano tumbling about under my feet.

As the slightly ferocious dolphins in the Fontana del Pantheon seem to lick their lips at me as we pass by – or that could just be all the wine I’ve drunk – it suddenly occurs to me that I might be feeling all soppy about Stefano because I’ve finally found a man from whom I don’t feel the urge to run away. Or in whom I keep finding petty faults like he’s too short, or too chubby, or too handsome, or too nice. And why should I? Stefano seems to me about as perfect as they come, and as the bright lights of the Piazza Navona up ahead flicker warmly in the purple gloom of night, I dare to hope that perhaps there’s another life for me, at the ripe old age of forty-seven. Because . . . well . . . because I think I’ve finally found The One.

Extract from ‘Men on the Menu – 75 Delicious Affairs Around the World

Published by The Five Mile Press Pty Ltd

© Bambi Smyth, 2014

Published October 2014

RRP A$32.95

Available in leading bookshops and mass market retailers