When in Rome

When in Rome Page 10

by Gemma Townley

  He nods sheepishly. “Thanks Georgie. And thanks for being fucked off. It means a lot to me that you care enough to be pissed.”

  “So I’ll see you in Rome?”

  “Rome,” says Mike softly as he kisses me on the lips. Dropping the holdall again, I reach my arms around his neck. I can feel his light stubble grazing my cheeks and can taste beer on his tongue as my lips part.

  “Better go,” says Mike reluctantly as he gives me a final kiss.

  I nod, wave good-bye, and, clutching the holdall as I walk down the street, assure myself everything is great. I’m going to Rome and I’m going to have a fantastic time. Aren’t I?

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  I don’t like flying. It’s not that I get scared or anything, I just hate the tedium. I mean, you don’t just jump on and jump off, do you? There’s getting to the airport, all the waiting around, passport control, and getting your baggage at the other end. If I was rich enough I wouldn’t have luggage. I’d just buy everything at the other end. I hate airports.

  So far today I have been traveling for exactly five and a half hours, and I’m still in Rome airport waiting for my luggage. I wish I’d just taken my stuff in a small bag that I didn’t have to check, but I wanted a fancy suitcase to bring with me, and the salesman convinced me that I should get a larger size because it would be so much more practical. On the plus side, it was big enough to fit Mike’s bag in it along with all my clothes. Still, I wouldn’t call having to wait forty minutes for my luggage practical.

  I manage to get a trolley and wheel it over to the conveyor belt. Two little boys are seeing how far they can jump off the belt, and their harassed mother is trying to stop them. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone else, I think to myself. Traveling on your own is quite hard enough; traveling with someone else brings a whole load more stress. Except traveling with David, that is. He’s the sort of person who looks after everything so all you have to do is sit around and drink tea. I get a slight pang and wonder what he’s doing now in Geneva.

  According to the screen in front of me, my flight’s luggage is next in line for this conveyor belt. Mind you, that doesn’t mean much; it’s been next in line for twenty minutes at least. The airport is heaving with people, and I let the Italian conversations wash over me. It’s such a romantic language. I resolve to start learning it as soon as possible. I can already ask for a bottle of mineral water without gas in Italian, so I’ve probably got a flair for languages. Plus Italians are so well dressed—if I could learn to speak Italian I’m sure I would start dressing in tan, black, and beige like the women around me. And I wonder if I’d suit highlights? I gaze at a couple of women standing a few yards away from me, both wearing floppy linen trousers with really nice sandals and smart tops. One of them looks like Sophia Loren and the other one could easily be Penelope Cruz, just a few years older. They are talking animatedly about something and I wish I could understand what they are saying.

  There’s no doubt about it, when I get back to London, I’m going to start Italian classes. How great would it be to have another language under my belt! I’ll be able to really impress people in restaurants—well, Italian restaurants anyway. And then I could even come and work in Italy. I could work for an Italian record label!

  I imagine Nigel and Guy’s shocked faces as I tell them that I’m leaving Leary to pursue a career at . . . well, I can’t think of the name of any Italian record labels, but they must have them. I’ll move to Rome and get a gorgeous little apartment, and I’ll walk around in full skirts and chic little shoes. Actually, if I’m working for a record label, I’ll probably be wearing low slung jeans and trainers most of the time. I wonder what David would say if I told him I was moving to Rome. Would he want to come with me?

  As my thoughts turn to David, my eyes start to play tricks on me because I could swear I can see him on the other side of the airport walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. I mean, it’s obviously impossible because David’s in Geneva, but it does look very like him. And he’s with a woman.

  Of course it can’t actually be him. I mean, what on earth would David be doing with some other woman in Rome? But I could almost swear it’s him. I’m about to call out when it occurs to me that if it is David, it wouldn’t be very sensible to go charging across the airport to confront him. For one thing, there is the teeny-weeny problem that I’m not actually meant to be in Rome myself. If it is David, and if there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, bounding up to him when he’s with some gorgeous-looking woman and explaining that I’m actually here to meet my ex-boyfriend who David has explicitly asked me not to see or even speak to, is not the best idea in the world.

  But it really does look like him, and he’s even wearing a coat like David’s. I whip out my mobile and dial David’s number. You know, just to see how he is. In Geneva. The phone rings, and the man keeps walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. He’s walking. It’s ringing. Ooh, he’s stopped. Still ringing. Now, he’s walking again, but he’s reaching, he’s . . . damn, he’s out of sight.

  “Georgie!”

  I always forget about other people’s caller ID.

  “Hi darling!” I’m trying to sound all breezy. “Just wanted to see how things are going in Geneva!”

  “Oh, you know, it’s not exactly a laugh a minute, but I’d say we’re making progress. I’d much rather be at home with you, though.”

  Now that I can’t see whether the man I saw in the airport is on the phone or not I can’t think of anything to say to David.

  “So what’s Geneva like?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t really seen much of Geneva, just the inside of offices.”

  “Okay, well, have a lovely time,” I say, and hang up just in time to hear an announcement telling me my luggage has arrived on carousel number four.

  Of course my suitcase is the last to appear on the carousel, and I’m half an hour late by the time I get to the station to meet Mike. I even take a taxi, which wipes out a whole load of cash. But naturally Mike hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe he hasn’t adjusted to Italian time. I sit on my suitcase and start reading a copy of ItalianVogue I bought at a kiosk. Not that I really understand any of it, but I like the pictures, and also I like the idea that people walking past me may think I’m Italian.

  “Georgina,” I mutter under my breath, practicing my accent. “Buon giorno,Georgina.” A man sitting next to me looks at me oddly and I refocus on my magazine.

  I can’t stop thinking about the man in the airport. It couldn’t have been David, could it? Before I’ve even asked myself the question, I know the answer. Of course it wasn’t David. David is the most predictable man I’ve ever known. If he says he’s in Geneva, well, that’s exactly where he must be. I get another pang of guilt about being in Rome. But decide to ignore it. You are Audrey Hepburn, I tell myself. This is your weekend of indulgence. It’s fine. David had loads of chances to bring you here, and he didn’t. End of story.

  But if I’m Audrey Hepburn and this is my Roman Holiday, who is my Gregory Peck going to be? I know David’s not exactly rough around the edges, but I did always think that he would be my Gregory Peck. And now I’m going to be spending the weekend here with Mike instead. I try to imagine Mike wearing a baggy 1950s suit and driving me around on a Vespa and smile slightly at the thought. I mean, I can imagine Mike on a Vespa, I’m just not sure about the suit. Plus, if he did get a scooter, he’d almost certainly become a boy-racer, trying to beat everyone else on the street.

  I put down my magazine and look around. To be honest, Rome station isn’t particularly different from any other major station I’ve been in; there’s a big sign for departures and arrivals, and lots of people waiting around. But the air is warmer, and people look more . . . well, not exactly glamorous but certainly more Italian. There are lots of curvaceous women wandering around wearing skin-tight jeans and high heels, and men in sharp suits talking into mobile phones. In Italian.

  I loo
k at my watch. Mike is nearly an hour late. I would get annoyed, but I figure I’m in Italy now; you can’t get too hung up on people being a bit late, can you? And I quite like the people watching. I’m absorbed in a couple standing about twenty feet away who seem to be having a massive argument when Mike appears. Even when he’s late, he doesn’t run, I notice. He ambles slowly over and gives me a kiss on the lips.

  “Been here long?”

  “Oh, you know, a bit.”

  “Sorry I’m late, gorgeous, had a nightmare meeting this afternoon,” he says, putting his fingers through his hair and looking around the station. “Still, made a wad of cash, so what the fuck. Have you got the bag?”

  “It’s in my suitcase.”

  “Cool. Come on then, let’s go!”

  I trot after Mike, dragging my suitcase. I can’t believe I didn’t get one with wheels. I look ahead at Mike and am pleased to see he’s looking utterly gorgeous. He’s wearing a gray V-neck jumper and dark blue jeans, with a sixties-style beaten up leather jacket.

  He looks like he’s come straight out of a really cool black-and-white film. Only it isn’tRoman Holiday , it’sThe Thomas Crown Affair orBullit , and he’s Steve McQueen. He looks a bit dangerous, like a lion that’s prowling around looking for its next prey. His eyes are incredibly alert and watchful, and you get the feeling that he could pounce at any minute. I get a little flutter in my stomach, as if I’m nervous, but that’s ridiculous. I have no reason to be nervous.

  We jump in a cab and make our way to a small hotel near the Castel Sant’Angelo. A short man in uniform takes my luggage and says something to me in Italian. Not wanting to appear really English, I just smile sweetly as Mike presses the button for the lift. But the guy keeps standing there, looking like I should be saying something. I feel myself go red—I can hardly admit now that I didn’t understand a word he said, can I? Hoping he’ll go away, I stare ahead at the lift doors, but instead he starts talking to me again.

  “Room Fifty-four,” says Mike, and the man nods and walks away. I go redder and look up to see Mike laughing at me.

  “Italian’s a bit rusty,” I mutter.

  “Idiot,” laughs Mike, “he was speaking English! The guy just has a thick accent!”

  Mortified, I get into the lift, but Mike doesn’t join me. Instead he winks and grins.

  “Why don’t you take your stuff to our room. Brian and I’ll be in the bar,” he suggests.

  Our room. Okay, that’s fine. We’re sharing a room. I mean, I expected that. But hang on, what was the other thing he said?

  “Brian?”

  “Yeah, you know, you met him at the Atlantic Bar.”

  “I know who he is; I just didn’t know he was here.” I try very hard to stop my voice going squeaky and indignant, and tell myself not to get upset. I want this weekend to be perfect, and getting upset because Brian is here is not going to get things off on the right note.

  “Yeah, well, we had some business stuff to sort out, you know. He’s only here till tomorrow. Come on, he’s a laugh, Brian.”

  I smile. Of course it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine? Actually, this is more than fine. Two men taking me out in Rome. What could be better than that?

  As soon as I get to the room, I dump my things on the floor and run myself a bath. Then I have a quick look around the room (nice view, huge big wardrobe). By the time I get into the bath, the whole room is steamy and smells of the orange flower and lavender bath oils that I found by the basin. Quite frankly, I could stay here all evening. There is something very nurturing and comforting about hot water, and if the bath oil smells this nice, I want to check out the face wash and shower gel, too. David and I once stayed at a lovely hotel in Bath and they had Molton Brown stuff all over the bathroom. How cool is that? Hot water and fluffy white towels—frankly, that’s a recipe for happiness in my book. I decide that when I get back I’m going to take a good look at my bathroom and fill it with nice things. I can’t believe I haven’t done it before. So much pleasure for such a small amount of effort.

  After a good long soak I force myself to get out, wrap myself in a waffle robe, and shuffle back into the bedroom.

  Getting dressed is not going to be easy. I’m looking for sexy but chic and none of my clothes really seem to fit the bill. I don’t understand how that works. I mean, how many times do you buy something thinking of all the millions of occasions you’ll wear it and look amazing? And how many times do you stare frustratedly at your wardrobe unable to find a thing to put on? It’s even more weird when you’ve packed a suitcase full of clothes you consider to be sexy and gorgeous, only to arrive at your destination unable to find anything that makes you look halfway decent. Maybe Nigel is right about all that conspiracy stuff.

  After getting everything out of my suitcase I finally decide that maybe with a dash of red lipstick my tight pencil skirt and sleeveless cashmere tank top will do the business. I actually wanted to bring more clothes but Mike’s holdall took up quite a bit of room so I had to leave a few things behind. Like my gym kit, which I was going to bring, just in case the hotel had a spa or something.

  I take the holdall out of my suitcase and gaze at it. I really want to know what could be so important that I had to sacrifice packing space, but obviously I couldn’t look inside because that would be really wrong. And anyway, it’s got a padlock on it. Mike said it was important papers and it certainly feels like paper, but why would Mike carry important papers around in a holdall rather than a briefcase? David’s got a lovely old battered briefcase that used to be his grandfather’s. But I don’t want to think about David. If I even let the thought of him seep into my consciousness, I get huge pangs of guilt and I start wanting to call him, which would obviously be a very stupid thing to do. Instead, I pull out the wide selection of underwear I bought for Rome and try to decide between silk and lace.

  On my way down to the bar I start feeling a bit light-headed and realize I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. Unless you count the little chocolates the hotel left on my pillow. The hotel’s quite a smart one—lots of leather seats and important-looking people striding around purposefully. Brian and Mike are sitting at a small table in the corner drinking champagne and look very pleased with themselves. As I approach them Mike pulls up a chair and Brian pours me a glass of champagne. “To success,” grins Mike, and we all drink a toast.

  I don’t know why, but I’m feeling very jumpy. Or is it excited? It’s probably because I haven’t eaten. Although, thinking about it, I’ve been feeling a bit odd ever since I thought I saw David. Maybe it’s guilt. I look at Mike and Brian looking all relaxed and tell myself not to worry. I mean, I am not doing anything wrong; I’m just enjoying a night out with friends. I mean, who knows what David’s doing in Geneva? It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

  “So,” I say to Mike, “do you drink nothing but champagne now? Is that a strategic decision?” I smile at both of them and down the contents of my glass very quickly. If I’m tipsy, these feelings of guilt are bound to go away.

  “He tries not to,” grins Brian. “Spends all the money he owes people like me on champagne and caviar, don’t you Mike?”

  Mike looks at Brian sharply.

  “I told you, that’s all being dealt with. Next week I’ll sort you out, okay?”

  Brian slaps Mike on the back good-naturedly, but his face suggests he’s more stressed than he’s letting on. So Mike owes him money, does he? I wonder how much? It must be just lack of ready cash, though. I mean he’s obviously loaded. I raise my eyebrows at Mike, but he looks away and lights a cigarette.

  It’s good champagne, and we’re soon on the third bottle. Brian tells us stories about groupies in clubland and I can’t stop laughing. Although in all the stories, the girls come out terribly. I mean, they do sound pretty awful—sleeping with anyone who owns a pair of decks and doing all sorts of unmentionable things in limousines, but still, I hope no man has ever talked about me like that. I’m sure they wouldn’t have though, mainly because I’ve never done anything like that.

  But I hope Brian doesn’t put me in
the same category as them. You know, thinking I’m some sort of floozy. During the evening Mike’s hand has kind of maneuvered itself onto my leg, and while I’ve sort of been enjoying having it there, I’m now all self-conscious and paranoid. But at the same time, I kind of like the idea of having his hand there. I’m in Rome, with one very sexy man and one who is all right I suppose, and they are buying me champagne and Mike can’t keep his hands off me. When I’m with David, I feel loved, looked after, and safe. But right now I’m feeling desirable, strong, and slightly wicked.

  Except that while I like the hand being there, I’m not entirely comfortable with the implication. It’s like I’m playing a role, and loving it, but I sort of want someone to shout “Cut” so I can go back to my own room and go to sleep without worrying that Mike is going to expect a bit more than that.

  To my alarm, Brian yawns and says he might call it a night. That means it’s just going to be Mike and me left down here. Although being down here is probably going to be easier than going up to the bedroom. I’d kind of hoped the two of them would settle down for a night of drinking and that I’d have been able to make my excuses.

  I look at Mike, who grins at me. “Yeah, I think we should probably make a move, too. Early start tomorrow, gorgeous,” he says, squeezing my knee. I move my legs quickly and stand up, but regret it immediately. I am, I realize, very drunk indeed. According to my watch, it’s two in the morning and I appear to have drunk an entire bottle of something called Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque. I’m definitely going to have a truckload of the stuff delivered to my hou????n a regular basis, because it is just the most amazing champagne I’ve ever drunk in my life. However, I would rather have more control over my coordination.

  Mike calls the lift and Brian staggers off to the Men’s leaving Mike and me alone. I am swaying, or the room is—I’m not sure. All I know is that I want to go to sleep. A cloud of sleepiness has descended on me and I feel too drowsy to even attempt conversation. We get into the lift and as we travel up we don’t say a word to each other. If Mike was David, I think to myself, I would lean my head on his chest now. I might even insist he carry me into our hotel room. And he would, too. But he isn’t David. It’s Mike. And we’re sharing a room, w???? means sharing a bed. This thought wakes me up with a jolt. Sharing a bed with Mike? Oh my God, do I really want to do this?

 

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