When in Rome

When in Rome Page 9

by Gemma Townley

  Denise comes back from lunch. “Bloody Nigel,” she mutters to me. “We could all be about to lose our jobs, and all he can do is smarm up to Guy and talk about business process reengineering or what have you. They’re standing by the coffee machine now, talking about downsizing like it’s not human beings who’ll be affected. He’s got no emotion, that man.”

  I nod sympathetically and put a few more files on top of myMarie Claire , just for good measure.

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  Nigel doesn’t come back as expected five minutes later. I try to get on with some work, but keep wondering if Guy saw what I was printing out. Maybe he’s issuing my termination notice right now. Maybe he’s keeping Nigel busy while he calls the police and we’re both going to prison and . . .

  The phone rings. It’ll be them! Oh God! The police are calling me and I haven’t thought up any excuse!

  I pick up the phone tentatively.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, who is this please?”

  My voice is faltering and my palms are sweating.

  “Georgie?”

  Oh, thank God, I recognize the voice.

  “Mike,” I say with relief.

  “I knew you’d be pleased to hear from me.”

  “No, it’s not that . . . I thought you were someone else.”

  “My, your life is full of little intrigues, isn’t it. So, who am I up against? What’s his name? I’ll have him.”

  “No, you idiot. It’s a work thing.”

  “Right.” Mike has never been interested in what I do at work. I wish I’d let him think it was another man now.

  “So, anyway, about Rome.”

  I hold my breath. For a moment I think he’s going to say it’s all off, that it was a mistake, that he’s taking someone else and no hard feelings. To my astonishment I’m almost relieved. I suppose it’ll be one less thing to worry about.

  “What about Rome?” I say, trying to sound cool.

  “Well, how do you fancy meeting me there on Friday instead of us going together? I’ve got some business stuff to do first, so I thought rather than you having to hang around on your own, I could get it all done on Thursday and Friday, and then meet you in the evening.”

  Well, that’s okay then. Actually I’m really pleased we’re still going. Obviously I wasn’treally relieved when I thought Mike might be calling it off. This trip is going to be the best.

  “Sounds good to me,” I say enthusiastically.

  “So, I could meet you at the station at nine-thirtyP.M . Italian time. There’s a Eurostar at five and you change at Paris. Sound all right to you?”

  “Okay, I’ll just book the tickets shall I?”

  “You’re gorgeous. Oh, one other thing. Would you mind taking a bag for me? I have to go straight from the airport to a meeting and I don’t want to be lugging loads of stuff with me. I thought you could maybe pop round to my offices later and pick it up.”

  “But . . .” I’m about to tell him that I’ve got enough luggage to bring myself and won’t have room for any of his stupid papers, but then decide against it. I mean, one bag—it’s not that much to ask, is it?

  “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “You’re a star, thanks Georgie. I’ll see you later then? I’ll e-mail you the address of my office. Bye, honey.”

  And he’s gone. I am sufficiently buoyed up by the prospect of a weekend in the city of romance to ignore the fact that now, apparently, I am buying my own ticket, which isn’t quite what I had in mind when Mike said he’d “take me.”

  As I put the phone down, Nigel reappears. He walks over to my desk and bends down so his face is at the same level as mine. I meet his eyes, but, as always, my attention is drawn by a large red protuberance just to the right of his nose. What a nightmare to still get loads of spots at Nigel’s age. I mean, I get the odd one or two every so often, but Nigel’s skin is truly adolescent. I wonder if he’ll have really young-looking skin when he’s older—you know, because of all the natural oils. It occurs to me that I have no idea how old Nigel is. Somewhere in thirty to forty territory I would imagine, but who knows?

  “Georgie,” he says in a loud, jovial voice, “Guy was very impressed with your report on Pensions Bulletin. Do you have another copy you could give me?

  “Pensions Bulletin?” I look blankly at him. I’ve already e-mailed the report to Guy, and who knows where I saved it to on my computer. Me and filing don’t really go too well together.

  “Um, couldn’t you just use Guy’s copy?”

  “No. Could you just give it to me now?”

  Nigel is looking at me strangely. Why does he want it? I thought we’d finished with all that mundane sort of work now. And anyway, doesn’t he know that I totally ripped off his report?

  “Nigel, could you, um, just give me a while to dig it out, and then I could e-mail it to you?”

  “I want thehard copy.”

  He wants me to give it to him now, and he wants the hard copy. Is Nigel flirting with me? Is this his idea of office banter?

  “Nigel, really, I had no idea . . .” I grin at him. But he doesn’t grin back.

  “The report that we were working on earlier,” he hisses, and I suddenly twig.

  “You mean the HG stuff?”

  Nigel looks at me as if I am a complete idiot. Humbled, I pass over the printouts, sandwiched between myMarie Claire and a random pile of files.

  “Thank you, Georgie, much obliged,” says Nigel loudly in a “nothing untoward going on around here” kind of voice, then he gives me a thin little smile before going back to his desk. I’m not entirely sure I’m wild on this “getting to know Nigel better” lark. Still, at least he’s going to be absorbed in those files for the rest of the afternoon, which means I can get on with more important things.

  My trip to Rome is proving problematic. I can’t get a seat on Eurostar—apparently there is some special offer on or something and all the tickets have gone—which means I’ll have to fly instead. Flying’s okay; actually it will be quicker than taking the train, but there aren’t many cheap flights to Rome, and I also need to get from the airport to the train station in time to meet Mike.

  Nigel looks over and I give him a big smile. The great thing about the Internet is that you can be buying flights for a fab weekend away, and as far as everyone else is concerned you’re sitting at your desk working incredibly hard. David thinks a constructive day in the office is one where he’s performed really well and got things done. I think a constructive day in the office is one where I’ve paid all my bills online, booked a holiday, and compared ten different horoscope readings.

  I find a flight for ?60 that gets in at 8P.M ., which will give me loads of time to get to the station in time to meet Mike. Relieved, I fill in my credit card details and press “Buy Now.”

  It’s only when I’ve pressed the button that what I’m doing really hits me. I’m going to Rome with Mike. I’m going to Rome with the person David hates and has asked (okay, told) me never to see. If David’s cross with me now, he will be livid if he ever finds out. He’ll probably never talk to me again. The horrible guilt I felt on Sunday begins to wash over me again. I need to rationalize the trip to myself. The truth is, I decide, that I’m only going away with Mike because David hasn’t ever managed to get a free weekend. If he took me away I wouldn’t need to go with other men, would I? And anyway, he’s going to Geneva, isn’t he? And he won’t take me with him. So in a way, it’s pretty much his fault that I’m going to Rome.

  I glance up and see Nigel sifting through all the printouts on HG, but he’s trying to do it secretly so he’s got some Leary report on top of it. Every time someone walks past he slams the Leary report down on top of the figures and looks around furtively. Honestly, he’d be rubbish as a double agent.

  I try to stop thinking about David, but every time the phone rings I expect it to be him. It’s so unlike him not to call me, even if we have an argument. I don’t want to be the one to call him because fra
nkly he was totally out of line over the weekend, telling me what to do and everything. But I usually talk to David at least once a day and I miss telling him stuff. And I don’t want to go to Rome without seeing him first. I need to make sure we’re okay, that everything’s fine before I go. To be honest, I’m almost hoping that David will cancel his Geneva plans and suggest that we go somewhere instead. Then I can cancel Rome and we can just have a lovely time together.

  Except David never cancels his work plans. I can’t help wondering if this trip to Rome is a sign. David obviously doesn’t want to marry me or anything, and this could be the wake-up call I need. Maybe David just doesn’t love me enough.

  I pick up the phone and hit “1.” (David is on my speed dial. I love speed dial, like I’m far too important and busy to press more than one digit.)

  “Hello?” I’m immediately unsettled—this isn’t Jane on the line. Jane always says “Good afternoon, David Bradley’s office” or “Good morning, David Bradley’s office.” She speaks a bit like the Queen actually. Or like a newsreader from the 1950s. Intimidating, but nice.

  “Hi, can I speak to David?” I’m not looking for reassurance that David loves me. I just want to see how he is. You know, in a totally nonparanoid kind of way.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Yes, it’s Georgie.”

  “Georgie . . . from where, please?”

  “Georgie, his girlfriend, actually.” I sound a bit more agitated than I’d like to, but who is this woman making me feel like I need to justify myself? Why doesn’t everyone in David’s office know my name?

  Okay, I’m overreacting a bit. Must be the guilt.

  I go on hold briefly, and then I hear David’s voice.

  “Georgie. I’m so glad you called. I’m really sorry about the other night. I had no right to talk to you that way.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I say and I actually mean it. There’s something incredibly reassuring about David’s voice. Whenever I’m feeling even slightly unsure of myself, or don’t know what to do about something, I just talk to David and feel like everything’s okay again.

  “I wish I wasn’t going away this weekend. I’d invite you along but there’s a new partner working on this case with me and I don’t think I’m going to get a lot of free time.”

  “That’s fine, don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’ve got loads to do this weekend anyway. We’ve got lots on at work.”

  “You’ve got a lot on?”

  He sounds really surprised and I find myself getting defensive. Why should David have the monopoly on being really busy at work? I also have important things to do.

  “Yes, you know, strategic stuff,” I say airily.

  He chuckles. “Right, well, you have fun with that. Is my girl becoming a fearsome business executive?”

  “Sort of.” Fearsome. I like that.

  “Look, darling, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you after the weekend, okay?”

  “Okay, have fun.”

  “Bye.”

  For some reason I feel very flat as I put the receiver back.

  It isn’t too far to walk to Mike’s offices, even though it isn’t exactly on my way home. Although I use the wordoffices in its loosest sense. For one thing, they’re in Soho, right in the middle of Frith Street, near all the cool pubs and bars. And for another thing, inside they don’t have nasty flecked wallpaper like the Leary building; they have exposed brickwork with groovy circular desks and posters from gigs and clubs covering the walls. The radio is on and there are beanbags on the floor, a TV in the corner, and a bar. A bar, for God’s sake!

  Tracey, the girl I had met at the Atlantic Bar, is sitting at a desk at the front of the office with two phones on it. She’s looking pretty bored. I smile at her.

  “Hiya! Do you always have to work this late?”

  “I wouldn’t feel sorry for her if I were you. She doesn’t get in till twelve,” says Mike, who’s just appeared. Tracey raises her eyebrows at me and then goes back to looking bored. Mike gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Drink?”

  I look around and take in my surroundings. “Mike, I can’t believe you have a bar in your office. Do you ever actually work?”

  “Bar’s essential. Need it to keep DJs and bands happy,” shrugs Mike. I sit down on one of the beanbags and immediately regret it. I’ve always liked the idea of beanbags—I mean they look really cool—but somehow the reality never lives up to expectations. They aren’t very comfortable, and it’s impossible to look good when you’re on one.

  Mike brings me over a beer and then tosses a holdall onto my lap. It’s heavier than I expected and larger, too. Still, I’m going to Rome, I keep reminding myself.

  “Won’t be a problem, will it?” I wonder what Mike would say if I said “yes.”

  “It’s quite heavy,” I say instead, but Mike doesn’t answer.

  “So what’s in it?” I ask. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?

  Mike looks up sharply. “Georgie,” he says with a sigh, “if you don’t want to help me out here, just say so, okay? If you want me to have to pay another ?500 in excess baggage costs to take it with me, just say the word and I’ll do it.”

  I stare at him. I forgot he could be such a drama queen.

  “Fine, I’ll take it,” I say crossly. “I was only asking a question.”

  “Thanks, Georgie. Look, sorry for snapping. I’ve just got so much shit to deal with right now, y’know?”

  I wonder what sort of shit, but don’t think it’s really the time to ask. Instead, I lean back on the beanbag and take a gulp of my beer. These are seriously cool offices. Maybe if I get made redundant from Leary’s I could get a job at a record label or something. I could sit around and listen to records and sign up cool young things. I could end up going out with a pop star.

  “Do you have to do much research—into bands and stuff, I mean?” I ask Mike.

  He looks at me uncertainly. “Research? Nah. It’s all in here.” He points to his head.

  I lean back again, imagining myself in an interview at Polygram or somewhere, pointing to my head and saying confidently “All my music knowledge doesn’t come from research—it’s all in here.”

  There’s a loud buzzing noise and Tracey calls over to Mike, “The boys are here. They say they’ve come for the gear.”

  Mike stands up quickly. “Yeah, right. Um, let them in, will you?”

  He turns to me. “So don’t you have to make a move?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “We’ve got to clear out in a minute. Got a record launch to go to. I’d love you to come but it’s a stupid guest-list thing. You can get back all right, can’t you?”

  I struggle to my feet. I was rather enjoying my beer actually.

  “Oh, no problem—I’m going out tonight anyway.” I’m not really, but I can’t help lying—something about Mike always makes me want to make out like I’ve got a more exciting life than I actually do. As I pick up the holdall two men appear at the door. They don’t look like record label types. For one thing, they’re wearing really bad jeans, the sort of thing people wore in the eighties. Although I suppose the eighties is meant to be back in again. It could be me who’s out of touch.

  “Drink?” asks Mike.

  The two men both stare at me.

  “Georgie’s just leaving, aren’t you,” he says, looking at me pointedly.

  I walk toward the door. Honestly, I’m doing Mike a favor with this stupid bag, and he’s desperate to get rid of me. I’m going to be revisiting my SWOT analysis just as soon as I get home.

  “Sorry mate, can’t stay,” says one of the men. “Just give us the goods and we’ll be on our way.”

  Tracey places a blue carrier bag with a large package in it on the reception desk.

  “Got a sample, have you?” the other one asks. I pause at the door. I somehow don’t think they’re talking about music samples.

  Sure enough I see Mike reach into his back pocket and pull out a small wrap.

  “Drugs?” I say indignantly before I can stop myself. “Mike, I can’t believe you.”

  Everyone stares at me.

  “Geor
gie, weren’t you on your way out?” Mike says angrily.

  “Yes, yes I was,” I fume, dumping the holdall and slamming the door behind me. As I stomp down the steps I wonder if this is what David meant when he said that Mike was involved in stuff I didn’t want to know about. I knew that Mike sometimes did a few lines of coke—I mean, everyone in the music industry does it, he says. But this . . . well, this is different. Is this how he’s been making his money? God, what a bloody idiot. As I reach the main front door, I hear someone coming down the stairs after me.

  “Georgie, stop a minute, will you?” It’s Mike.

  “No, I won’t stop,” I say, walking more quickly. “I just can’t believe you. You tell me you’re running a successful record label, and all you’re doing is selling drugs. No wonder David didn’t want me associating with you.”

  “David? What did he say?” Mike is looking agitated.

  “Just that I should give you a wide berth. And I think he’s right.”

  “Georgie, it’s not what you think,” Mike says quickly. “Honestly, you’ve got to believe me. I’m not into that stuff anymore. It was just a favor for a client. A major client, actually, and we need to keep him onside otherwise we’re screwed. I don’t want to do it, but I just said we’d hold on to some gear for him for a bit—and now we’re giving it back. End of story. Please don’t be angry.”

  I give Mike my best withering stare.

  “So why were they asking for a sample if it’s their gear?”

  “They’re just the idiots who do the collections,” Mike replies quickly. “They don’t know me from Adam, so they want to check I’m not ripping their boss off. Come on, Georgie, you’ve got to believe me. Look, come and ask them if you like. I mean, we’ll probably lose the client, but I’d rather that than have you think I’m a drug dealer.”

  He stands aside so I can go back to the office. If it’s a bluff, it’s a clever one. I mean, there’s no way I’m going back in there.

  “Georgie Porgie, look, you know me. I’m not a drug dealer,” Mike pleads, looking me right in the eye. “Don’t let this mess things up for us, please?”

  He looks so sweet, I think, when his eyes do that gooey thing. I mean, it’s so hard to stay angry. Resignedly, I take the holdall from him. “Okay, but don’t do it again, okay? It’s so stupid. You could end up in prison.”

 

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