Rachel Does Rome

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. Except travelling is something you do for a few weeks a year at most. And it seems sad if that’s what you’re passionate about, rather than anything in your normal life.’ She starts laughing. ‘One guy I was emailing was the opposite, though. He said he would only date someone who lived within walking distance. It turned out that I was just outside his catchment area, so we never met up.’

  ‘So even if he met a kind, friendly, intelligent Brazilian supermodel who was an amazing cook – she’d still have to be within walking distance? Men are so weird,’ I say.

  Our pizzas have arrived; the thinnest, crispiest ones I’ve ever seen, blackened around the edges. I’m having a pepperoni and mushroom one, which is what I always order. And this is the best one I’ve ever had in my life. Maggie’s ordered a mushroom one, and looks carefully – at Lily’s suggestion – to double-check that there’s no meat, before tucking in.

  ‘Remember that school trip to Paris when you told them you were a vegetarian and they gave you a salad with bacon?’ Lily says. ‘They couldn’t believe that was a problem.’

  ‘Were you two in school together? Is that how you know each other?’ I ask.

  Lily shakes her head, her mouth full. Maggie says, ‘Next-door neighbours. This one is three years younger than me anyway.’

  ‘But we’ve made the relationship work in spite of the age gap,’ Lily says.

  ‘We went to different schools as well,’ says Maggie. ‘Yours was definitely more fun, or it sounded more fun. How about you, Rachel? Did you like school?’

  ‘I went to two secondary schools. Local school until I was sixteen, and then I went to a posh hot-house school in Dublin. It was fine.’

  I won a scholarship, but that’s not worth mentioning. In fact, those two years in Dublin are not worth mentioning. I lived with my aunt; I had no friends, no social life except my trips home to Celbridge every few months. I put my head down and studied like a thing possessed. A girl who was in school with me came up to me, in my first term in Trinity, and was complimenting me on how much weight I’d lost. In fact I was still the same size ten I’d always been; I just spent the previous two years swathed in tracksuits.

  ‘How about a quick nightcap before we go back to the hotel?’ Lily suggests, once we’ve finished dinner and paid the bill.

  ‘Sure. But this isn’t our big night out, is it?’ Maggie says, stopping dead as she puts on her denim jacket.

  ‘No!’ Lily and I reassure her.

  ‘It’s just that if this was our big night out, I wouldn’t have worn this dress.’

  ‘I promise our big night out will come with full warning, and ample dress-up opportunity,’ says Lily, giving her an affectionate poke.

  We pass a bar with tall picture windows opening onto the street, and decide to go in. We prop ourselves up at a table by the entrance, and I buy a round of white wines; it’s so cheap, in fact, that I decide I may as well get a bottle. As soon as I’ve poured out the wine, I excuse myself for a minute to send Oliver a quick text, to say hi and to tell him I miss him. I’ve never actually said that yet.

  ‘Is Jesse at the birthday party yet?’ Maggie asks Lily.

  ‘Oh yes. It lasts all weekend. It’s his mother’s sixtieth birthday,’ she explains to me. ‘That’s typical Diane, to have a birthday on Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t go because I’d already booked to go home and see Dad, but I’m kind of in trouble for missing it. Alice and Sam are there and everything.’

  ‘Sam is Jesse’s cousin,’ Maggie tells me, ‘and he’s married to Lily’s cousin Alice, if you can follow all that.’

  ‘Yep. We’re all practically related.’ Lily says. ‘It’s not weird at all.’

  ‘Long distance must be difficult,’ Maggie says. ‘It puts a lot of pressure on.’

  ‘It does. And . . . sometimes I worry that we want different things,’ she adds quietly, looking very sad. ‘Anyway,’ she says, obviously wanting to change the subject, ‘we seem to have finished our bottle of wine. Shall we head off now?’

  ‘Are we going back to the hotel or for another drink?’ asks Maggie.

  ‘Hotel,’ says Lily, at the same time as I say, ‘One more drink?’

  We decide that as a compromise we’ll have a drink on the way back. It’s still warm; it feels as if we’ve travelled forward by a whole season. I’m beginning to get the hang of this whole wandering thing. When we pass by a little door that looks as if it leads down to a cellar bar, it seems the most natural thing in the world to potter down the stairs and investigate. Just before we descend and lose mobile reception, I check my phone – nothing yet from Oliver but I’m sure he’ll text soon.

  It’s a funny little place, dimly lit with dark red stone walls that look as if they’ll start dripping with condensation later in the night. There are lots of Roman hipster types, and a DJ is playing a remix of some old gospel or soul number about the walls of Jericho tumbling down.

  ‘What do we think?’ I ask, looking around.

  ‘I like it! It reminds me of the jazz bar in The Talented Mr Ripley,’ Lily says.

  ‘Here’s a table,’ says Maggie, moving towards a dark corner.

  ‘Wait a sec. Let’s not hide ourselves away,’ says Lily, indicating a table that’s got no seats and is more centre stage.

  ‘Ladies. Can you help us settle an argument?’

  We turn around and see a pair of guys our age. The taller man, who’s just addressed us, is in black tie, with a camel coat thrown over his shoulders. He looks like something out of a Brat Pack movie – James Spader or Andrew McCarthy. His friend is also cute, but in a different way: dark, jowly and bearded, with circles under his eyes, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘What argument?’ asks Maggie.

  ‘We were wondering if you were Brits or Yanks,’ says Black Tie. He himself has an American accent, but a sort of old-fashioned drawl; he talks the way they do in 1940s films. ‘Joe here thinks you’re English but I’m getting a sort of transatlantic vibe.’

  ‘You’re both sort of right,’ says Lily. ‘Maggie and I are English, but I live in LA. And Rachel is Irish.’

  ‘Delightful,’ he says. He shakes all our hands. ‘Carter DeWinter. This is Joe – my cousin – visiting from San Francisco. What are you gals drinking, anyways?’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have a beer,’ I say.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘Three spritz all’Aperol, coming up.’ And he sweeps off to the bar. His cousin looks at us for a minute, and then trails off after him, obviously seeking safety in numbers.

  ‘They’re so strange,’ Lily whispers as soon as they’re gone. ‘Do you think he’s live street theatre or something?’

  ‘He can’t really be called Carter DeWinter,’ I say. ‘It sounds like a law firm.’

  ‘Well, they’ve bought us drinks so we’re committed to them for at least fifteen minutes,’ says Maggie.

  ‘No we’re not,’ I say. ‘It’s not payment, it’s a gift.’

  The guys come back with our drinks, and Lily starts talking to Joe, and Maggie and I chat to Carter, who tells us he’s doing a PhD in art history, and spending a semester in Rome. The spritzes are bright orange and very tasty: they go down like lemonade, but they’re obviously very strong. After a few sips, I feel wasted.

  ‘Our palazzo is right next door to the one where Shelley used to live. It’s a bit stuffy, but we’ve tried to make it homely by hanging up our art and so forth. We’ve got one Picasso over the bath.’

  ‘Where’s the other Picasso?’ I ask.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘We only have one. We’re students.’

  ‘Where are you guys staying?’ says Joe, looking longingly at Lily. When we tell him, he says, ‘Why are you staying in a hotel? That’s, like, old school. You should do Air B and B.’

  ‘Air B and B,’ Carter says, rolling the unfamiliar tones on his tongue. ‘What is that?’

  Joe laughs. ‘Oh, man! You never h
eard of Air B and B? It’s where people rent out rooms in their houses. The houses are always awesome and it’s so cheap. These two dudes just thought it up in their bedrooms and now they’re millionaires,’ he adds, obviously wishing that he was one of those dudes.

  Carter frowns. ‘So these strangers take you into their homes? It sounds very . . . biblical.’

  ‘Twelve o’clock,’ Maggie says out of the corner of her mouth, while Carter DeWinter is momentarily distracted. ‘See? Doesn’t he look like Fabrizio Moretti from the Strokes?’

  He does: a very handsome young guy, obviously Italian. But Fabrizio, though he keeps staring at Maggie, makes no move to come over. I think he’s being put off by Carter DeWinter and Joe. Carter is now talking about shopping in Rome.

  ‘Of course Saddlers is the only place for moccasins,’ he’s saying.

  ‘Why are you in black tie, Carter?’ I ask.

  ‘Drinks at the Embassy. I’m afraid Joe has been blackballed,’ says Carter.

  He’s so ridiculous, but he’s also very cute and he smells nice – something I always notice in a man. In fact, I’m finding him bizarrely attractive. What is wrong with me?

  Joe has suddenly come alive and is talking to Lily about his flat in San Francisco.

  ‘It’s right by the ocean . . . my neighbours are the seals, man. They make a sound like this.’ He snuffles expressively. ‘The seals are mellow.’

  Lily’s cracking up and Maggie and I are exchanging ‘I don’t get it’ looks.

  Joe does impressions of more marine life, before concluding, ‘But the seagulls . . . the seagulls are my kings, man. They’re my kings.’

  ‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ says Carter DeWinter. ‘West Coaster.’

  ‘Hello.’ Fabrizio Moretti has suddenly materialised beside us, clearly intent on talking to Maggie. They chat briefly, and then they disappear off to the bar together – leaving me having a one-on-one with Carter DeWinter. Lily is still in fits of laughter at something Joe’s saying.

  ‘So . . . what’s your PhD about?’ I ask.

  He starts telling me and to my surprise, it’s fascinating. He’s writing about a female, Jewish Italian artist who was active in the Resistance during the war and painted pictures while she was in an internment camp. Carter seems to have been very active collecting funding money from various bodies – though I’m guessing he’s not short of a few pennies himself.

  Then he looks in alarm at some people coming in. ‘Shuffle me this way,’ he hisses, and before I can say anything, he’s put an arm around me and has whirled me into a corner of the room.

  ‘That woman keeps trying to get me to read her screenplay,’ he says in a stage whisper.

  I’m beginning to suspect he’s properly crazy now. Either that, or this is a ruse for him to get me in a corner by myself. Maggie is now on the dance floor going great guns with Fabrizio Moretti. Lily is at the bar, with Joe, having what looks like another Aperol spritz. Carter still has an arm around me . . . and then he leans in to try and kiss me.

  I lean back immediately. ‘I have a boyfriend,’ I explain at the top of my voice.

  Carter takes it well. ‘My mistake,’ he says, gallantly.

  Suddenly Lily rushes up to me. ‘Can we get out of here?’ she says urgently in my ear. ‘Like, now? Where’s Maggie?’

  ‘OK. Carter, we have to go – thanks for the drink!’ We hurry over to Maggie, who’s now kissing Fabrizio Moretti. As soon as they stop for breath we drag her away and the three of us race right out the door.

  ‘Why did we have to leave? I was having a good time,’ Maggie complains, once we’re outside.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Lily. ‘I had to get out of there or something would have happened with Joe.’

  ‘Lily, please tell me we’re not going to have to spend all weekend fleeing your admirers,’ says Maggie. ‘I’m not up to it.’

  ‘I almost kissed him,’ says Lily, sounding scared.

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Maggie points out. ‘And that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Did you get Fabrizio’s number, Maggie?’ I ask. She shakes her head. ‘What would be the point?’ she says happily. Fair enough. I’m feeling as relieved as Lily. The moment of madness with Carter was just that.

  As we walk back towards our hotel, Lily starts to laugh again. ‘I was thinking of something Joe said.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said . . .’ she deepens her voice and does a brilliant impression of Joe’s stoner drawl. ‘I study every drug I take very carefully. VERRY CAREFULLY.’

  This makes us all crack up. We’re nearly back at the hotel now. The piazza is still full of people although it’s well after midnight, and the roar of conversation rises into the mild night air. I check my phone to see if Oliver’s replied, feeling ready to text him a very passionate message . . . but there’s nothing. Frowning, I decide he’ll probably reply in the morning.

  I set my alarm for eight a.m. with the intention of getting up early to fit in all our sightseeing, but I must have slept through it, because it’s well after ten when I’m finally woken up by a feeble knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I call.

  The girls both shuffle in, looking white and drawn, wearing their fluffy hotel bathrobes.

  ‘I am never drinking again,’ says Lily.

  ‘And it wasn’t even supposed to be our big night out,’ says Maggie.

  ‘Do you think we can get breakfast in bed here?’ yawns Lily. ‘Or coffee?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Did you want to have your jog first, Maggie?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I need a cup of tea.’

  I’m much less hung-over than they are, so I volunteer to ring reception to find out about breakfast. I put down the phone with a grave face.

  ‘Bad news. We have to go to another hotel for breakfast.’

  ‘Aaarrrggh,’ says Lily, burying her head in my pillows. ‘Can’t deal.’

  ‘Why don’t we go to a café?’ Maggie suggests.

  Once we’re showered and dressed we feel better, and we have the energy to go outside. It’s a beautiful day; blue skies with a few little clouds scudding overhead. It rained in the night and the cobbles of the square all look freshly washed. We find a table outside a café and order cappuccinos for me and Lily, tea for Maggie, and croissants. Lily puts on her sunglasses very slowly and theatrically. Maggie is huddled in her trench coat, still looking a bit green. There’s a light breeze, but it’s going to be a sunny day; the silver zinc table is already warm to the touch.

  We discuss last night all over again and swap impressions of Carter and Joe. Lily thinks the funniest part was when I asked Carter, ‘Where’s the other Picasso?’

  ‘Like, one wasn’t enough for you,’ she says.

  ‘I was confused! He said they had one over the bath so I assumed there was another one somewhere. I think Joe and the seagulls were funnier.’

  ‘I’m so glad I didn’t go there,’ Lily says soberly.

  ‘What was the appeal?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘He made me laugh,’ she says.

  ‘Intentionally?’ I ask, and we all laugh.

  Our waiter arrives with our croissants and cappuccinos. My cappuccino is the best I’ve had since I was last in Italy; short and dense and rich, totally different to the watery, milky froth you get in London. The croissant is rich and flaky, with an unexpected but very tasty custard filling. The only disappointment is Maggie’s tea, which is a cup of warm water with a tea bag floating on top.

  ‘Oh,’ is all she says, sadly. ‘Just like France.’

  ‘Let’s find out the Italian for boiling water,’ Lily suggests. She looks it up on her dictionary app and signals to the waiter.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying. I also liked his beard,’ she says, once he’s gone.

  ‘Who, the waiter?’

  ‘No, Joe. I love a good beard.’

  ‘Your dream man is Russell Brand, isn’t it,’ says Maggie.

  ‘He is my dream man. Or Jesus,’ says
Lily. ‘I love that bearded Messiah look.’

  ‘I’m not keen on beards,’ I say. ‘Or tattoos. Or jewellery. Those are all deal-breakers.’

  ‘Really?’ says Maggie. ‘I don’t mind jewellery. Fabrizio had a thin gold chain; it was quite sexy.’

  ‘I like tattoos,’ says Lily. ‘So many people have them in LA. It’s more of a hipster thing there. The girl in my local coffee shop has tattooed sleeves, and she’s training to be a pre-school teacher.’

  ‘So your ideal man is a bearded, tattooed prophet,’ I suggest. ‘With piercings?’

  ‘And yours is a Ken doll,’ Maggie says. ‘Do you like them to have that bit of plastic moulding between their legs?’

  We all laugh at that, though I’m remembering that Jay did in fact have a sort of wooden necklace thing. He used to wear it with a low-cut V-necked T-shirt. A bad sign. Oliver would never wear anything like that. Speaking of Oliver, why has he still not replied to my text?

  ‘Does Oliver have any piercings in funny places?’ Maggie asks, reading my mind.

  I shake my head, smiling. ‘No. No tattoos, beards or metalwork. Though he did recently cut his own hair.’

  ‘What?’ the girls say.

  ‘Only because he didn’t have time to go to the barber’s and it was driving him crazy,’ I explain. ‘I think he thought, how hard can it be. If you’re used to cutting bones and things, hair probably seems simple.’

  ‘Does it look OK?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘It’s fine – his hair’s wavy anyway so you don’t notice it. That’s when he’s pushed for time. Most of the time he goes to Mr Topper’s beside the hospital.’

  I’m sort of wishing now that I hadn’t mentioned it; it is a bit embarrassing, and makes Oliver sound mad. Jay used to go to some place in Kensington where Kate Middleton supposedly goes. I think that’s mad as well. But surely there’s some middle ground between Kate Middleton’s hairdresser and Mr Topper’s?

  Maggie’s tea has now reappeared; this time, it’s a cup of hot water, with a tea bag floating on top.

  ‘Bit better,’ she says, frowning and pushing the tea bag down.