When in Rome

by Gemma Townley

  Mike gives me a little squeeze and starts stroking my side. I feel myself stiffen. It isn’t that I’m not enjoying this—to be honest, I have dreamed of this moment for ages. It’s just that now I seem to have Mike all over me, I feel extremely self-conscious and awkward. It’s all wrong, like I’ve missed a couple of steps, that things have been decided while I was out of the room, and no one thought to tell me. Plus, of course, I’m not here to get back together with Mike; just to make him realize what he’s missing. If David knew that I was in the Atlantic Bar with Mike’s arm round my waist, he would be devastated. I decide I need a bit of breathing space.

  “Um, just nipping to the loo,” I say hurriedly and prise myself out of Mike’s arms. There is a long queue, which I join, and it’s only after five minutes of not moving that I realize the queue is actually people putting on makeup and doing their hair—there are two empty cubicles. Trying to look nonchalant, like I knew all along there wasn’t a queue, I go into one of them, lock the door, and sit down to gather my thoughts.

  I have come for a drink, I tell myself. Mike cannot just waltz in like this and start treating me like his girlfriend. Even though I’m rather enjoying having the best-looking guy in the room all over me. When I go back to the bar I’m not going to let him put his arm round me. I’m going to be friendly but aloof. Absolutely no flirting.

  Some girls come in, laughing loudly. I love listening to conversations in the loos at bars and clubs; you learn more than you could from any magazine or therapy session. Frankly, it beats “Oprah” hands down.

  The girls are talking about a guy one of them fancies and is trying to establish whether he fancies her, too. From what they are saying, I’m tempted to conclude that he probably isn’t interested.

  I am about to flush the chain when I hear someone talking about a “Mike.” It could be anyone, I know, but I hesitate anyway.

  “So, d’you think she’s the one?”

  “What, the girl he’s with tonight? Could be. Thought she’d be thinner, but he’s certainly all over her. Don’t know what he sees in her though. And did you see how much makeup she was wearing?”

  “You don’t think they’re going to get married, do you?” asks one of the girls.

  “Mike get married? Give me a break! Still, I bet he’d throw a great party if he did.” At this the girls laugh raucously.

  I’m fixed to the spot. They are definitely talking about Mike. But how do they know about me? What has Mike been saying? And more to the point, am I really wearing too much makeup? I’m desperate to get out of the cubicle to check my reflection in the mirror, but there’s no way I can move until the girls leave the room.

  They spend what seems like hours talking about other people in the bar—listening to some of the stinging comments, I feel like I’ve got away quite lightly with the makeup criticism. Finally they leave, and I unlock the cubicle door. My face is pale and with plenty of black eyeliner round my eye I resemble a Panda. Dabbing at my eyes with a tissue, I try to work out why those girls would think for a minute that Mike and I could be getting married. A week ago Mike and I hadn’t seen each other for two years; now complete strangers are talking about us spending the rest of our lives together. He must have been talking about me to people. Washing my hands, I wonder if at long last my fantasies must have come true and Mike has realized he needs me in his life. And if he does, why don’t I feel more excited? Why do I have this little thought buzzing around my head, asking whether I still need him?

  I walk back to the bar, feeling slightly unsteady on my feet. Mike and Brian are talking about dance acts and clubs they have been to/played at around the world, and Tracey is giggling a lot. I am finding it hard to listen to a word they say.

  “You’ve been a while, haven’t you?” asks Mike, ruffling my hair. “Been sniffing drugs in there, have you?”

  He laughs and Brian winks at me. I manage a smile.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re far too good for that, aren’t you,” Mike continues. “Georgie is a good woman,” he says to Brian and Tracey, as if to explain. “I need her to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

  “Fat chance!” Tracey replies and giggles again. She is really beginning to irritate me.

  The conversation moves back to music. I try to join in, but my knowledge of dance music is very limited, so mostly I just smile and nod at appropriate moments. It’s such a cool life they lead, I think—all bars and clubs and interviews in style magazines. So why is it that I’m feeling tired and bored? What’s wrong with me?

  After a couple of hours I decide I’ve got to go home. The music’s getting louder, Mike is getting more drunk, and I need some time to think.

  “Mike, I’ve got to go now—I’m meeting some friends,” I lie. Well, I’m hardly going to say I want to get back home in time for “Will and Grace,” am I?

  He puts on his puppy-dog expression. “What, already? But I’ve barely seen you.”

  “Call me during the week,” I say and kiss him on the cheek. He turns his head so that his lips meet mine, then he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Try and stop me.”

  Out in the cold night air I go over the evening’s events in my mind. The arm round the waist, the girls in the loo, the hand squeezing, the kiss. Especially the kiss. The truth is, I wanted it to last longer. Even though I was the one who pulled away, I wanted it to go on and on. My little plan to make Mike feel bad about dumping me might be backfiring slightly, and I need to be careful. I have a lovely boyfriend who adores me, and I really don’t want to hurt him.

  But as I walk down the street, I can’t help my lips breaking into a little smile. Mike was doing a pretty good impression of someone who wants me back. I am maybe, just maybe, a bit of a femme fatale. After all this time of thinking I wasn’t cool or pretty enough for Mike, I suddenly feel like I’m in control, and it feels really good. Seeing Candy tomorrow is suddenly looking far more appealing. I’m going to enjoy telling this particular story.

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  I’m just about to leave when the phone rings. I look at the caller ID and it’s my mother. Should I pick it up and risk being late for Candy because of an hour-long diatribe from my mother on nutrition or the joys of gardening/macrame/weekends in the Dordogne, or should I ignore it and risk her calling me on my mobile at an even worse moment? I decide to pick up.

  “Darling,” she begins before I’ve even said hello. “Tell me, are you taking iron supplements? I think you should go and get some. I’ve been listening to the radio and vegetarians are in real danger of becoming anemic. And you’ll need to take vitamin C, because it helps you absorb the iron. Now, do you want me to send you some? Let me see how much I’ve got . . .”

  I can hear her sorting through jars and containers. My mother and James, her latest husband, have an entire cupboard full of supplements. They eat supplements for breakfast with a plate full of the oddest assortment of foods—a brazil nut, a piece of avocado, some tofu, dried apricots, that sort of thing—which they eat with freshly juiced carrots and celery. My mother calls it their insurance plan: whatever foods the latest health magazines tell them to eat, they add to the plate; they then feel free to eat and drink whatever they want for the rest of the day because they’ve had all their essential nutrients already.

  “Mum, I’m not a vegetarian.”

  “Here we are, maximum strength iron. Oh and this has added vitamin C, so you don’t even need to buy it separately. Shall I pop some round to you later?”

  “Mum, I am not a vegetarian.”

  “But you always eat so many vegetables, darling. You’re always eating salads.”

  “Yes, but I also eat meat. I get plenty of iron.”

  My mother pauses. “You’re absolutely sure you’re not a vegetarian? I could have sworn—”

  “Look, I’m sure, really. I don’t need any vitamins.”

  “Fine, fine, well, if everything’s okay, I’d better be getting on. I’ve got a reflexology appointment this afternoon, although I’m
not sure this new woman they’ve got is any good. I mean, Paul really knew what he was doing and he also did cranial, which is very beneficial, but of course he’s moved to L.A. now, and this new girl—can’t remember her name—I’m not sure she’s entirely up to scratch. I suppose she does have all the best qualifications—the Club would never employ someone who wasn’t absolutely top notch . . . I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we. I’m thinking about trying some lymphatic drainage massage, though. Apparently it does wonders for the thighs. Are you still going to that nice masseuse in Kensington darling?”

  After nutrition, my mother’s favorite pastime is alternative health. Actually, I think it started with reflexology, and the supplements came next. She’s a member of a very smart gym in Chelsea, but as far as I know has never actually gone to the gym. She does go there very regularly, though, to have her feet rubbed, neck yanked about, or skin covered in oil. She has been trying to get me to join for about five years now—I think she has visions of us sitting in the steam room talking about colonic irrigation or something.

  “Mum, I don’t go to a masseuse. I had a massage once at my hairdressers—there was a special offer.” Actually, it was lovely, and I had been meaning to go back, but somehow I can’t commit an hour and ?50. And undressing in front of a complete stranger to have them rub your back, well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

  “You should go more, you know,” continues my mother. “Why don’t you come down to the Club one day and have a massage there? They only employ the best of the best, you know. And then we could have a spot of lunch? Why not today?”

  “Sorry, Mum, I’m meeting Candida in about half an hour. Maybe next week?”

  “As you wish,” says my mother in a slightly cross tone. Honestly, it’s as if I’ve said “No, I’m washing my hair.”

  “Shall I call you during the week?” I venture.

  “Well, I’m going to be very busy next week, but you can always leave a message with James. Right, well, I’ve got to go now. Bye!” Before I can say anything further, she’s put the phone down.

  James and my mother have been together for about four years now, so I’m beginning to see him as a semi-permanent fixture. It’s always difficult when you never know if your mother is about to up and leave the person you are starting to bond with. James is very solid though, physically and mentally. I like him a lot actually. He has learned how to tune my mother out when she’s going off on some tangent and doesn’t seem to mind that she picks up a new hobby/obsession/ailment each week, only to discard it the following week for another fad. And he’s even quite good-looking, in an “older man” kind of way. Most important, my mother seems really happy.

  I look at my watch. Bollocks. I’ve got ten minutes to get to Oxford Street. I’m going to have to get a cab even though I promised myself I would use my Tube pass more. Seventy pounds a month! No wonder people who live in London need so many massages to get over their stressful lives.

  I grab my bag and run outside.

  Of course I’m late. I’m always late for Candy. I haven’t seen her for years and it’s still the same old story. With Mike, it was always me who was on time and him who was late. With David, we pretty much get to places the same time. With my mother, well, she’s either really early or really late, or one of us doesn’t turn up at all.

  I think you develop certain patterns with people that get so ingrained, you can’t get out of them—like Candy never compensates and gets places a bit late. And even if I’m early when I leave to meet Candy, something always happens. Or maybe it’s just that I’m always so worried about what I’m going to wear that I end up changing ten times.

  Take today. A girly catch-up and shopping trip round Oxford Street. So that’s jeans, maybe a nice top (wearing crap clothes when you’re shopping is very dangerous—shop assistants sneer at you and anything you try on looks better than what you’re wearing so you end up buying too much), and some cool flat-ish shoes. Flat because of all the walking. But not too flat because then my legs look stumpy and I won’t be able to try on anything that requires heels, which is pretty much everything. Plus also, flat shoes make me look about forty, unless they’re really pointed, in which case they’re so uncomfortable that they defeat the object of wearing flats in the first place.

  Getting dressed isn’t usually this complicated for me. I manage to dress myself most days without a second thought. But Candy is one of those tall, thin, Gwyneth Paltrow types—blond hair, a constant light tan, and the ability to make a pantomime cow outfit look sexy. In fact, it’s worse than that. I know plenty of beautiful people, and they don’t make me react this way. No, with Candy, it’s the way she looks at my clothes and says things like “That skirt’s a really nice idea. So I guess you need some cowboy boots now to make it work. Shall we try . . .” and then lists a whole load of shops that sell cowboy boots, when I had got the skirt specifically to go with my trainers, or whatever I’m wearing. She talks about “looks” instead of outfits, and as yet I don’t think I’ve ever got a “look” right, in her opinion. But rather than accept defeat, I just keep on trying.

  Today I think I’ve cracked it, though. Tod’s loafers—they’re comfortable, but they’re also Italian, and I once saw Elle McPherson wearing a pair, which demonstrates just how stylish they are. (If I’m really honest it was seeing Elle wearing them that got me extending my overdraft to buy a pair.) So with my black trousers and black turtleneck I think I’m actually looking quite Audrey Hepburn inFunny Face . A kind of beatnik Euro-chic look. Shit, I’m even talking like Candy now.

  Luckily I get a cab without too much difficulty and am only ten minutes late. Candy is waiting for me outside Browns on South Molton Street. She is in combats, trainers, and a little pink T-shirt that sits just above her belly button, revealing an expanse of tanned skin. She looks me up and down when we’ve kissed hello.

  “You look very formal. Have you been working this morning?” she asks.

  This is not going to go well.

  We decide to go for a coffee first. Last time I saw her, Candy insisted on drinking cocktails—“makes shopping so much more fun, don’t you think?”—but today she is ordering a large latte with extra cream. I decide to order the same thing—it’s sunny but windy outside and I need warming up.

  We sit down in the Starbucks next to Office Shoes and I find that I am actually rather excited. I can’t wait for Candy to say “So tell me, what’s going on with you,” so that I can give a little smile and say “Oh, you know, the usual. Although, you know I bumped into Mike recently? Well, you’ll never believe it, but he’s been pursuing me . . .” She’ll probably squeal and fill me in on his side of the story (“He just called me up and asked how you were—said he’d seen you in the street and he just couldn’t stop talking about you”), and we can laugh about it. I can talk at length about the relative merits of David and Mike, and the problems that come with being so darn desirable. And then we can go shopping and buy some fabulous new clothes to go with my fabulous new heartbreaker image.

  Our seats are by the window and the sun is streaming through the glass, giving the impression that it’s summer even though it’s barely April. The coffee shop is full of glamorous-looking people with huge numbers of shopping bags. I notice that none of them are from shops that I frequent—I don’t suppose Top Shop and Oasis bags really hold their own against Miu Miu and Fenwicks.

  Maybe I should start buying designer clothes like Candy. I wonder if Mike would take me shopping with his platinum credit card and then I immediately feel guilty. David hates shopping, unless it’s for gadgets—he can happily spend four hours finding out just how many functions a television has, but try and get him into French Connection and he suddenly remembers how much work he’s got to do. But he is my boyfriend and I love him. There is no way I would ever go shopping with Mike. I’ll just max-out my own credit card like normal people.

  Candy has arranged herself delicately over her chair. She is looking amazing. Her cheeks are pink, her skin is glowing, and her blue eyes are gleaming. I resolve that I will only try clothes on in shops with separate chang
ing facilities.

  I wait for her to start talking, but strangely, she’s silent.

  “So,” I begin. “How’s things?”

  She’s about to start talking, when, before I can help it, I interrupt with “Seen much of Mike?”

  It’s no use. I just can’t wait for her to tell me about her life. I’ve been bottling this Mike thing up for days, and I need to talk about it. I try to sound nonchalant, but unfortunately the question comes out a bit quickly, with a little bit too much emotion attached.

  Candy looks up sharply.

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. I’ve got to impress upon Candy that I am over Mike, but that he is obviously not over me. Far from it. Maybe I should try a different tack.

  “I mean, well, you’re friends, aren’t you?” I mutter, trying to make out that there was no significance to my question. I don’t want to just tell her about Mike. I want her to ask. I want her to drag the facts out of me.

  “So how are you?” I ask again.

  “George, look, I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other for such a long time. I’ve been really busy at work and . . . well, you know. The things is, I kind of brought you out under false pretenses today,” she begins slowly.

  Oh God, Mike’s here, I think. He’s asked her to get me out so that he can spend the afternoon with me. I look around, but can’t see him.

  Candy is staring into her coffee.

  “The thing is, George, I’m pregnant.”

  Okay, I was not expecting that. “Pregnant? Candy, I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone!”

  It occurs to me that I wouldn’t really know.

  “How . . . how did it happen?”

  Candy sort of snorts and stares at me. “George, I don’t think I need to go into that level of detail do I?”

  “No, sorry, of course not. I just . . . it . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all. So, are you, I mean, do you think you’ll . . .”