by James Bailey
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve told Josh yet,” she says, looking at me dramatically. “On my birth certificate Lucy is my middle name. My real first name is Jenny.”
“What? Really?” We all look at each other shocked.
“No, not really. I’m only joking!”
We all stand in the hallway laughing.
41
Can you believe that Keats was only twenty-five when he died? I’m older than him and I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”
“But then Van Gogh was twenty-seven before he picked up a paintbrush for the first time, so we all work on different time zones,” Lucy reassures me.
I still don’t know what I want to do, but at least I have a better idea of who I want to be.
We are in Rome for just a few days, the first stop on our global adventure. We don’t have much of a plan of where we are going, or when, we are just going to see where we end up. Rome is one of the few places Lucy was adamant about visiting—a literary pilgrimage to the city that inspired Henry James, Louisa May Alcott, Charles Dickens, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. First on our to-do list is to compete with the feral cats to pay our respects to John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley, whose graves sit amid the lush gardens of the Protestant Cemetery, before visiting their Memorial House beside the Spanish Steps.
“Did you know 1.5 million euros are collected from the Trevi Fountain every year? Amazing, isn’t it?”
By the time night falls, we are sitting perched on the side of the very same fountain, gelato cones shivering in our hands, underneath the white glare of the looming streetlamps. It is biting cold, but when in Rome you have to eat gelato.
“How do you know all these random facts?” Lucy replies, concentrating intently on licking her cornet as a pink trail of ice cream starts to slowly drip and trickle past her turquoise nails.
“I’m just a genius, what can I say?” I joke, deciding not to reveal the truth about the events of that quiz, and of how that question kickstarted a million other choices for the coin. Since she’s only seen me in action the once on TV, I’ll let her continue to think I actually know some stuff.
She checks her phone, one-handed, to see if I’m correct. She clearly doesn’t trust me.
“Yes, you’re right, about four thousand euros a night, and apparently it’s all given to charity. That’s cool. Hmm, it says the fountain is made from the same material as the Colosseum . . . it spills about 2,824,800 cubic feet of water every day . . . and Pannini was the architect who completed it. There you go, some more facts for you to add to your repertoire.”
“I’m guessing it was not the same Panini who invented the toasted sandwich or the sticker book?”
She rolls her eyes, as a couple in the distance can be heard laughing at something else.
“That guy thought it was funny at least,” I say, which finally makes her giggle and her eyes squint.
“You’re so stupid.” She playfully pushes me, and I pretend to fall back into the water, only confirming her statement.
I doubt the area surrounding the Trevi Fountain is ever very quiet, but tonight the plaza is packed with Roman residents and foreign revelers alike, celebrating New Year’s Eve. Fairy lights dangling in the sky twinkle exuberantly, knowing their annual run is coming to a close. Joining in the illuminated performance are the green neon signs of the United Colors of Benetton shop opposite, the blue siren of the police car monitoring the proceedings, the white lights of mobile screens, and the yellow camera flashbulbs.
With our backs to the majestic sculptured fountain, I take in the panorama. I look at the grand church opposite. It stands there rooted to the spot like a jealous, forgotten lover who used to be the attractive one until the fountain showed up. I gaze up at the flats that surround us—a Christmas tree peeps out of the window, trying to see what is going on. I imagine waking up to this view every morning but then think of having to contend with the constant noise and busyness.
I look across at the crowds, at the people bobbing up and down, making their way closer to the fountain through the sea of scarves and selfie sticks, ducking out of the way of other people’s photos. A blonde woman in a pink wool jumper has no concerns about hogging the best position as she poses for pictures, firmly instructing her boyfriend on the exact camera angle. Two thirty-something Italian women, sitting with their Christmas sale shopping bags, celebrate with a bottle of Peroni and a cigarette. The smell of the tobacco wafts through the crowds, competing with the burning smell coming from the roast-chestnut stand. Among all the various accents and languages contributing to the hubbub, a middle-aged British couple loudly discuss the directions back to their hotel, drowning out the sound of the cascading water, as they look intently at their fold-up map, reminding me of Eva in Amsterdam. Everyone checks their watches as midnight looms closer.
I struggle to believe twelve months have passed since I was stuck in the London Eye capsule with Jade. What a difference a year can make.
“Do you know, I think it’s been the best year of my life,” I say half to myself, and half to Lucy.
“What, having a proposal rejected, losing your job, moving back with your parents, your grandad dying—yeah, sounds like a really fantastic year. I’m not sure how next year can possibly compete,” Lucy says, completely deadpan, with only the glint in her eye revealing her sarcasm.
I nearly spit out my pistachio-flavored ice cream as I burst into laughter. I realize I should have sent out my own round-robin Christmas card with all these stories.
“And don’t forget about me being knocked over by a cyclist, knocked out by a middle-aged woman, and having to endure New Year’s Eve in Rome with the most sarcastic person in the world,” I reply. “No, seriously, even despite all those lows, I wouldn’t change anything. I’ve learned so much about myself, and with the help of the coin I’ve ended it here in one of the best cities in the world with definitely the best girl in the world.” I wrap my arm around her and kiss her cheek.
More intrepid tourists pour out of the gelato, crêpe, and pizza shops that surround the square, and which must be making a fortune this evening. The walls of the pizzeria are adorned with football flags and an oversized poster of Francesco Totti. Meanwhile, the man serving inside the gelateria gesticulates wildly with his hands as if he is an Italian caricature, pointing to the array of flavors ranging from limoncello, kiwi, and peach to Bounty, KitKat, and Snickers.
The boy sitting next to me, who has been allowed to stay up past his usual bedtime, is singing “Johnny B. Goode,” as if he is from a different generation, while his parents teach his sister how to toss the coin properly over her shoulder. It seems that lots of the other tourists need lessons, as coins fly from every direction and distance. It’s almost dangerous to be sitting down here.
“So, are you going to throw a coin in, then?” I prompt Lucy, as a stray coin nearly lands on my head.
She fumbles through the change we got from the ice-cream seller, making sure not to contribute too much to the four-thousand-euro-per-night fund.
“So, if we throw a coin in, it means we’ll come back to Rome, right?”
“Apparently so, Sunflower.” The nickname seemed only natural.
“I’d love to come back here with you.” She smiles. “But we’ve got lots of other places to explore first.”
“Of course.” We’ve both decided, wherever else we go, we want to reach Tokyo to see the final Sunflowers painting in Van Gogh’s collection. I may not, yet, be a globally famous, multimillionaire entrepreneur who drives a Lamborghini, but at least I am ticking off one of my goals of traveling the world.
“Shall we do it together? Have you got a coin to throw in?” She offers me a rusty twenty-cent coin, but I’ve already got a coin out of my pocket.
“Yes, on the count of three. One, two, three.” I swing my right arm over my left shoulder. Just as I’ve watched my coin spiral up in the air countless times over the past year, it twists and twirls in the sky, only this time i
t lands behind me rather than back on my hand. As the coin dives into the basin of the fountain, joining thousands of others, which shimmer like swimming fish under the translucent water, I wrap my arms around Lucy and kiss her strawberry-gelato-flavored lips. Our embrace is caught in the background of a hundred photographs.
“Hang on, was that the coin?” she asks, trying to spot it in the water, before looking at me, surprised, her dark eyes peeking out from underneath her green woolly hat.
I nod. She just smiles. As a pigeon flies past, we stand up and stroll away, hand in hand, leaving behind us the hordes of tourists, and the memories of the past year.
Fireworks explode above our heads, decorating the night’s sky with myriad colors. At street level, two narrow, maze-like gaslit roads greet us.
“Let’s go this way,” I say, confidently.
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel doesn’t happen overnight, and there are plenty of people who have supported me throughout. I would like to say a massive thank-you to you all. Special mentions to:
My family. Mum, who is always my first proofreader. Dad, who thinks he came up with most of the plot ideas. Nan, who believed in me from the very start. Pap, who really would slip me a tenner and a piece of Toblerone when no one was looking. Rebecca, who was my earliest writing collaborator. Tim, whom I can always count on for an honest opinion. Nana and Gramps, who told me to get a proper job “with a pension and a paper tray” and inadvertently motivated me the most.
My friends. Jack Chesher and Josie Stay, for their inspiration, humor, and real-life friendship. All the members, regular or fleeting, of “The B Team” and “Wolf Star” pub-quiz teams. Lisa Shvartc, for being there for all the highs and the lows. Josh Oware, whom everyone will think is the main character.
My English teachers at school, whose passion for their subject greatly influenced me. Mr. and Mrs. Conquest, Mr. Earp, Mr. Harris, Mr. Lewis-Barned, Mrs. Waite-Taylor, and, especially, Mr. Plowden, who still owes me the Year 8 English Prize.
The team at Curtis Brown Creative for helping me on my way. Chris Wakling, for his expert tuition. Simon Wroe, for his guidance. My fellow course mates, whose critiques, suggestions, and encouragement truly shaped this book. Look out for much better novels from Tim Adler, Daniel Baker, Bella Dunnett, Brenda Eisenberg, Michael Goldberg, Sadiq Jaffery, Sarah Masarachia, Sophie O’Mahony, Michele Sagan, Chris Steer, Hilary Tailor, Claire Tulloh, Alex Wall, and Margot Wilson.
Hardman & Swainson. My amazing agent, Hannah Ferguson, for her belief, passion, and support. She has guided me through the entire journey and turned my dream into a reality. Thérèse Coen, for bringing my novel to readers across the world. Nicole Etherington, for sending me lots of boring forms to fill out.
My editors. Rebecca Hilsdon in the UK and Tessa Woodward in the US, for having faith in the novel and for bringing their expertise to the editing stages and improving my writing. My thanks also to all their colleagues at Michael Joseph and William Morrow for their hard work behind the scenes. And likewise to all the other publishers around the world. It is amazing to think that these words will be read in different languages.
And finally, Lucas Moura, for that game against Ajax.
About the Author
JAMES BAILEY was born in Bristol, England, and currently lives and works in his home city. A graduate of King’s College London, James has previously carried the Olympic torch, made a speech at the House of Commons, and worked as a red carpet reporter. The Flip Side is his debut novel. James can be found on Instagram @JamesBaileyWrites, and at JamesBaileyWrites.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Copyight
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE FLIP SIDE. Copyright © 2020 by James Bailey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by Nathan Burton
Originally published as The Flip Side in Great Britain in 2020 by Penguin Random House UK.
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-301940-9
Version 08312020
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-301939-3
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com