When in Rome

by Gemma Townley

  Angry as I am with David, I don’t want him knowing about Mike. I can’t let him find out—there’s no way he’d ever forgive me.

  “Fine. One favor. But you tell David anything and I’m telling someone about the drugs.”

  “Ooh, feisty,” grins Mike as he lights a cigarette.

  We order coffee from room service and spend the next couple of hours reading music magazines that Mike’s brought with him and smoking cigarettes. Just like the old days, I think. No resentment, no big arguments. But no real emotion either. It’s like Mike has very low standards in terms of how he treats other people, and he doesn’t expect much from them either. I look at him laughing at an interview with some club diva and can’t understand what I saw in him for so long. He’s got nothing on David. He isn’t as good-looking, as intelligent, as brave, kind, or exciting. He’s actually very boring.

  “So this favor,” I say eventually, wanting to get whatever it is out of the way as soon as possible. “What is it?”

  “All in good time, my pretty,” says Mike, flicking ash onto the surface of the bedside table. “All in good time.”

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  David hasn’t called. It’s Monday lunchtime, and he hasn’t called once. Which is obviously fine. I mean, he’s got lots of work to do, and he knows that I’m upset with him, so maybe he’s just giving me some time to calm down and then he’s going to call and explain everything. He’s going to beg me to take him back, tell me that the bitch from Rome means nothing to him, and everything will be fine. Of course it will.

  I check my mobile again to make sure I haven’t missed any calls. I haven’t.

  “Do you think work is more important to some people than their family and friends?” God knows why I’m asking Nigel this. Well, actually I do know; it’s because we’re having lunch together and I can’t think of anything else to say.

  He looks at me sympathetically. “Georgie, don’t let this HG thing get to you too much, will you?”

  “No! No, of course not.” God, if Nigel only knew—with Rome and David not calling, I haven’t actually thought about the merger at all.

  I dig into my sausage, bacon, and egg combo with extra baked beans. We are sitting in a greasy spoon round the corner from our office. Nigel doesn’t like cafes; he thinks they’re full of yuppies, even though yuppies don’t exist anymore. But I think another reason why our “business lunch” is taking place in such a nonbusiness place is that he wants to go somewhere they don’t serve alcohol. The research team went out for lunch together once, about a year ago—me, Nigel, and Denise. And Denise and I drank a bottle of wine between us, and Nigel was really twitchy all afternoon. It’s not like a bottle is that much really, but there’s a paragraph in our staff handbook that says we can’t drink at lunchtime unless we’re entertaining clients, and I think he was worried he’d get the sack for allowing it.

  Nigel has ordered pasta, which is really stupid when you’re in a greasy spoon. I mean, you wouldn’t order a vegetarian meal in a restaurant that’s famous for its steak, would you? Unless you were vegetarian, of course. In which case, I’m sure the vegetarian meal would be really nice, maybe even better than the steak. But the point is, Nigel’s pasta is all glupey and the “tomato and basil” sauce looks like ketchup to me.

  “Nice weekend?”

  Nigel gives up trying to wind the spaghetti round his fork and starts shoveling it into his mouth instead. He shrugs. It takes me a while to realize that this is his answer to my question.

  I’m not doing well engaging Nigel in conversation. I’ve tried talking about the weather, the food, even his dodgy-looking parka, all to no avail. And he hasn’t asked me a single question, I notice, except to check that I’ve got cash on me (the greasy spoon doesn’t take credit cards).

  Reluctantly, I give up trying to talk about anything other than work. In offices all around the country, colleagues are bonding, I think; learning more about each other and cementing firm friendships. Offices all around the country, but not ours. At least not in the research department, at any rate.

  “So did you go through those papers from HG?”

  Nigel’s eyes light up.

  “It’s funny you should ask,” he begins, as if I have just asked a completely “out there” question. Still, at least he’s looking up from his food.

  Nigel looks around, to check if anyone is listening. There is an old lady at the next door table muttering to herself. I kick Nigel under the table and look at her meaningfully. “D’you think she’s one of them?”

  He looks round with a start, then turns back to me crossly. “You may not take this seriously, Georgie, but I think you will when you’ve heard what was in those files.”

  I seriously doubt it, but Nigel is looking so excited I stop teasing him and listen attentively.

  “HG, or, if we go back to the original company, Horowitz and Sons, has grown steadily for a number of years,” Nigel tells me. He is talking quietly, but the pace of his words suggests that he may have rehearsed this particular speech. “One hundred ten years to be precise,” he adds.

  “However, in the past ten years, the company has taken over and/or merged with more than fifty smaller publishing companies, both in the U.S. and around the world.”

  “So we’re being swallowed up by a giant?” I ask.

  Nigel nods. “The thing is, in each of those mergers, within a year of the deal being done, every single employee of the original firm has been fired or made redundant.”

  “What? Every single one? That’s ridiculous—I mean, it must cost loads to get in a whole new team.” In spite of myself, I am actually interested.

  “Precisely. The point is, they don’t get in a new team. They take over the companies, and they close them down. All they keep is the customer base and the local brand. They just exchange the existing products for their own.”

  “Yikes. So why would Leary want to go ahead?”

  “Why indeed.”

  “You think they know?”

  “Someone must know. But I don’t think everyone does.”

  “What about Guy? Does he know?”

  “I’m, well, I’m currently in the planning stages on how to best communicate this piece of information to him. If he doesn’t know already, I think he should be informed.”

  “He can’t know. If he did, he’d never be so excited about the merger! Nigel, you’ve got to just tell him. He won’t want this any more than the rest of us.”

  Nigel concentrates hard on his plate. He looks apprehensive. Poor old Nigel is actually scared about getting into trouble.

  “Let’s think of a way in which you could have got those papers without breaking the law,” I suggest.

  This obviously doesn’t help. Nigel looks more scared than before. “Breaking the law” may not have been the best choice of words.

  “Or you could give them to him anonymously?”

  “Anonymously?

  “Yes, you know, put them in a blank envelope and leave it on his desk. Or even send it to him.”

  “I could send it to him,” agrees Nigel. “I could photocopy the pages wearing gloves so there aren’t any fingerprints on them, put them in an envelope and send it to him from the other side of London,” he continues, but his voice is definitely faltering.

  “Definitely. Nigel, you’ll be doing the right thing. All you’re doing is making sure Guy has all the information before he makes a huge mistake.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. It’s my duty,” says Nigel. “And don’t worry,” he adds, “if I do get caught, I will tell them that I worked alone.”

  I look at Nigel with what I hope looks like a smile of relief.

  When I get back to my desk there’s an e-mail waiting for me from Mike. I’m about to open it when the phone rings.

  “Hello, Georgie Beauchamp.”

  “Georgie, it’s me.”

  There’s a long pause. It’s David.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “Georgie, I’m s
o sorry about yesterday. Look, I need to explain properly. I would have called last night—I mean, I wanted to, but I couldn’t. We just didn’t stop until really late. Look, I’ve got to drop in on the Paris office today, but I’m back tomorrow. Are you around in the evening? I need to see you. I need to explain . . .”

  His voice sounds so confident and trustworthy I can’t believe he’s the same person who was so dismissive in the hotel reception yesterday. I can feel myself melting. I want to forget all about the horrible brunette and have David come over and sweep me off my feet.

  “You just didn’t stop?” Well, I want to forget her, but I can’t actually do it. I beg myself to play it cool, but my voice is tinged with bitterness.

  “Georgie, don’t. We were working. Just working. Please don’t overreact.”

  “Overreact?” I hiss. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re right, I really should be more understanding. I mean, it’s absolutely fine for you to tell me you came to Rome to see me when actually it was for work. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to say you love me and then to leave me on my own while you bugger off with some sneering bitch.”

  Okay, so I’m not going to play it cool. I’m going to play it extremely bloody hot under the collar.

  Too late I realize I’m talking rather loudly. Nigel is looking up at me with wide eyes. As soon as he sees me look at him, he hunches back over his computer.

  “So Vanessa is a sneering bitch?”

  I realize David is chuckling. How dare he not take this seriously.

  “It’s not Vanessa I’m cross with,” I lie. “I’m sure she’s perfectly nice. But you . . . you wouldn’t even introduce me as your girlfriend. How do you think that made me feel?”

  “Georgie, my darling, I’m really sorry. Vanessa is working with me on a particular case. She had to work on her own on Saturday because I was with you—we actually owe her one, okay? I was hoping she wouldn’t find out I was with you all day; I had made some excuse about being ill and told her that the maid had answered the phone. Then you turned up and started shouting at us!”

  “Really?” I start to feel a bit silly.

  “Yes, gorgeous.” David’s laughing now. “I am now the butt of a million jokes in the office. But that’s okay—you, and our night together, are absolutely worth it. But don’t read anything sinister into the fact that I had to work on Sunday, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree. “But you could have said you were in Rome to work. And not told me you were going to Geneva,” I say pointedly.

  “I know. Georgie, I was a fool. I didn’t want to tell you I was going to Rome because I knew you’d want me to take you. In the event, it turns out that I could have done—and I’m so glad you were there—but I didn’t want our first trip to Rome together to be a business trip so I told you I was going to Switzerland instead. And then I was just so shocked to bump into you that I wasn’t thinking straight. Look, don’t be cross with me. I’ll make it up to you. How about we go out tomorrow night? I’ll take you out dancing again and if I even look at another woman you can get into a jealous rage and wallop me on the behind and—”

  “Okay,” I giggle, “enough! I forgive you. But less of the touchy-feely stuff in future.”

  “You don’t like me touching and feeling you?”

  “Not me,her .”

  “Okay, no touching. And certainly no feeling. I promise. So what do you say, shall we go out tomorrow for a night on the town?”

  “We could . . .” To be honest I’m not really in the mood for going out.

  “I hear hesitation. What’s the matter?”

  “No, I’d love to, it’s just . . . I mean, I love dancing and everything, but it might be nice to, you know, stay in, just this once . . .”

  Now David is laughing. “My darling, whatever you want. Why don’t you come round and I’ll cook?”

  I agree gratefully and put the phone down. I know I thought I wanted a glamorous boyfriend who goes out all the time, but when it comes to it, I don’t actually. I want David, who I like being at home with.

  Nigel looks up and gives me an odd look. I realize that I’m talking to myself out loud. I go red and turn back to my computer. Mike’s e-mail is waiting for me.

  MIKE MARSHALL: Georgie Porgie. Can you come over this evening? I’m in St. John’s Wood. 22 Arcacia Road—flat 14. I need to talk to you about this favor.

  Oh God. I’d managed to push Mike out of my head, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to go away. If I don’t go round, he might tell David I was in Rome with him, and I don’t think David would forgive me for that. But I can’t bear to see Mike again and find out what sordid little favor he wants me to do for him. Haven’t I done enough? I keep wondering what was in the bag I took to Rome for him. What if there were drugs in there? I could have gone to prison. I shudder at the thought. Still, one more favor and then that’s it. I will never see Mike again and everything will be fine again. I mean, how hard can one little favor be?

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  It’s five o’clock, the time that I would usually be packing up my things in order to make a swift exit. But today I don’t have my usual enthusiasm for leaving the building. I feel a mixture of frustration, nausea, and excitement. Excitement about seeing David tomorrow, frustration because I’m not seeing him tonight, and nausea because I don’t want to go round to Mike’s, don’t want to spend any more time with him. If we’re absolutely honest here, what Mike is doing is no better than blackmail: me doing him a favor in return for his silence. And I didn’t even do anything! Well, nothing really bad anyway. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting David.

  I feel like going for a run or something, which is odd because I never exercise. I mean, I go to a Pilates class about once a month (usually the week after I buy a copy ofVogue orCosmopolitan and read an article on some glamorous supermodel who swears by it) and got really into tennis for a week last year, but I never go to the gym and I absolutely hate jogging.

  I decide to go for a walk before making my way up to Mike’s flat. But as I walk past Nigel, he calls me over.

  “Georgie, before you go, there’s something I want to . . .”

  Much as I don’t want to get to Mike’s any time soon, the last thing I need is more boring work.

  “Nigel,” I interrupt. “Is it really important? There’s something urgent that I need to do, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

  “Oh. Okay. I just thought you might be interested in seeing something.”

  Seeing something? Unlikely. But before I can say no Nigel is opening up his briefcase. Inside is a large, bright pink envelope with orange flowers all over it. It’s so hideous it’s quite wonderful.

  “Nigel, I’m, well, I’m lost for words actually. Is it a present or something?”

  Nigel looks at me as if I am completely stupid.

  “The printouts,” he hisses. “I thought this envelope would throw Guy off the track. He wouldn’t expect me to send the information in an envelope like this, would he?”

  He’s got a point. Suddenly I get a huge urge to give Nigel a hug. He’s probably been sitting here all afternoon waiting to show me the envelope. He must have gone out especially after lunch to get it.

  “When he gets it, he’ll assume that it’s come from a drag queen or seven-year-old girl! Nigel, you’re a genius.”

  He grins sheepishly. “Always pays to be thorough.”

  On my way out I wonder what Guy is going to think when all that HG information arrives on his doorstep in a bright pink envelope. I bet Nigel will be logging on to his chat rooms tonight, showing off and telling everyone about his cleverness. I wonder what his chat room pseudonym is.

  As I approach Mike’s road, I wish that I had a cozy group of chat room friends I could talk to. People who could sympathize with me and make me feel better about going round to Mike’s flat. I want to forget I ever thought I might fancy him more than David.

  Mike lives in a really smart apartment block with off-street parking. All the cars are BMWs and Merc
edes, and there are bits of grass here and there with immaculate borders. He must be doing really well to afford a flat here. There is a For Sale sign outside, along with three Sold signs. I make a mental note to ring the estate agent to find out how much the flats are going for. Just out of interest.

  “I’ve called out for take-out,” Mike tells me as he kisses me hello. “You like Indian, don’t you?”

  I don’t like Indian, actually, but I’m not going to remind Mike of that. I wonder if he remembers and has ordered it to spite me.

  While we’re waiting for the food, he shows me round the flat. There are spare bedrooms—in the plural. I mean who has spare bedrooms? And an office. The bathroom is even nicer than the one in the Rome hotel, complete with fluffy towels. And the kitchen, well, David would adore it. It’s all chrome and full of gadgets. Mike doesn’t cook, so I’m not sure why he’s got so many cooking instruments, but it’s incredibly pristine.

  I’m impressed, in spite of myself. “Mike, this place is amazing! Is it all yours?”

  “Course it is. Cool, isn’t it.”

  It is cool. I mean, it’s amazing. Although I can’t help but think that he needs some more things in it. You know, pictures, books, old magazines. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe other people don’t need to clutter their flats with piles of junk that they keep because it has sentimental value (or because they never get round to throwing things out).

  The flat does have amazing furniture, though. Sumptuous leather sofas and a glass coffee table that looks bigger than my sitting room. And he’s got a huge television that swivels round when you turn it on. It’s like a five-star hotel or something.

  The doorbell goes and it’s the curry. Mike cracks open a couple of beers and we perch at his huge dining room table.

  “So,” I say expectantly.

  “So?”

  “So what is it that you want from me?”

  “My, you’re impatient!”

  “Yes, of course I am,” I say crossly. Honestly, does he think I’ve got nothing better to do than to trek up to St. John’s Wood for food I don’t even like?