Rachel Does Rome (7 page)

We’re walking to the back of the queue when I hear my name being called. I turn around;
it’s Jay, with his two friends.

‘Rachel,’ he says, as we walk towards him. ‘You look
fantastic
.’ He looks me up and down with a smile, before kissing me on both cheeks.

Jay looks good too. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a white shirt, and dark blue
jeans and polished brown loafers. Very simple, but he’s in great shape so his clothes
always look good on him. He’s an amateur boxer; he took it up when white-collar boxing
became popular among City guys a few years ago. His dark blond hair is slicked back,
showing off his profile, which always reminds me of Ryan Gosling’s . . . but I’m not
thinking about that right now.

We join the queue, and he re-introduces his friends: Henry, the posh, vacant-looking
one, and Rob, the dark-haired one who Maggie liked.

‘So this should be quite fun,’ Jay says, as we reach the head of the queue. ‘At least
I hope so . . . should be better than Inferno’s in Clapham anyway.’ He winks at me,
and I laugh as I remember a hellish night out we had there for a colleague’s birthday.
He gently puts his hand on the small of my back to move me forward. I move away, but
I have to admit, part of me likes it.

Being seen with him, in fact, is another guilty pleasure. It makes me more confident,
especially in such an über-glam setting. I picture what all the people who thought
I was a nerd in school would think if they saw me beside Jay right now, in my Herve
Leger-esque dress, queueing for a secret cool club. They probably wouldn’t even recognise
me. But I’m still relieved when the man on the door, instead of turning me away, lets
me in with the others.

Now we’re walking along a gravelled path in the darkness, on the edge of a lawn in
a park. There are a few little lanterns strung up here and there, but aside from that
it’s pitch dark; everyone’s giggling and bumping into each other as they walk along.
I’m suddenly nervous; I hope it’s not going to be some kind of Eyes-Wide-Shut-style
orgy and that we’re not going to be given a rubber mask and a whip when we get to
wherever we’re going.

I’m certainly not taking part in an orgy, whatever Jay thinks. And I also want him
to know that I haven’t forgotten what happened between us. I want to play it cool,
but I’m not above a pointed hint.

‘How’s Tamara or whatever her name is?’ I ask him levelly.

He looks blank for a minute before saying, ‘Tamsin? God. Rachel. That is so over.’
He shakes his head. ‘She was . . . that was
not
a good idea.’

I’m about to ask him more, but we’re nearly at the dance floor. I can hear music
getting louder; it’s a souped-up dance version of ‘Mambo Italiano’. I suppose that’s
his version of an apology; I’m happy to leave it there for now. We can talk later.
I can also hear Maggie chatting to Rob – good – and Henry trying to chat up Lily;
her Man Repeller dress obviously isn’t repellent enough.

Finally the path turns a corner and we’ve arrived. The first thing I notice is that
on the other side of a lawn there’s an amphitheatre, floodlit, packed with people
dancing; not just on the base of it but on the steps, the better to show off their
tiny black dresses, gold jewellery, bandeau tops and hot pants, or in the case of
the guys, tight white T-shirts or shirts with half the buttons undone. We’re standing
in the garden which is obviously the chill-out zone. It’s lit with lanterns, with
sofas set out under topiary hedges, and a pop-up bar, and a platform where more people
are dancing. There are floodlit fountains and hot tubs. Hot tubs! A guy goes past
us wearing a pale blue suit with a pocket square, and sunglasses. At night!

‘Let’s grab these seats and get a drink,’ says Jay. ‘Ladies, what can I get you?’

Within moments we’re all lounging around on a low white sofa under a tree, drinking
Campari and soda, while cool trance music plays in the background. God, he’s smooth.
A disloyal thought pops into my head: Oliver would never have brought me somewhere
like this, or be able to find us a table or drinks so quickly. He probably wouldn’t
get into a place like this. Whereas Jay . . . But I shelve that thought. Though I
wish Oliver would
help
me shelve it, by texting me.

The others are all chatting, about Rome and what a relief it is to finally see some
sun.

‘This time next year, I’ve promised myself I’m going away somewhere in February,’
Jay says. ‘To get some winter sun before I develop rickets.’

‘Oh my God,’ I say, unguardedly. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. Long-haul break
to Bali or somewhere.’

‘Went there on my gap yah,’ says Henry. Lily, Maggie and I all exchange discreet
glances and I can already predict this comment is going to join the quotable quotes
of the weekend.

‘Hate to tell you, mate,’ says Jay, ‘but Bali is over now. You know that book, what’s
it called . . .
Dance Pray Sing
?
Pasta Pizza Pilgrims
? Help me out . . .’ He clicks his fingers, pretending to be at a loss.

‘
Eat Pray Love
!’ we all chorus, laughing at him.

‘That’s the one. Ever since she wrote about the hippie town of Ubud, it’s been swamped
with Americans finding themselves. There’s even a Starbucks now.’

‘How awful,’ I say, genuinely relieved that I’ve heard this before booking my own
flight.

‘The place to go now is Lombok,’ says Jay.

‘Isn’t that a furniture shop on Tottenham Court Road?’ says Lily.

‘Yes! But it’s also an Indonesian island,’ says Jay.

I’m pleased to see that though he smiled at Lily’s wisecrack, he’s not drooling or
staring at her; he’s directing all his comments at me. I’ve demonised him so much
over the past six months I’ve forgotten how nice he can be. He’s sharp and sophisticated,
but he doesn’t take himself too seriously. We don’t talk about anything heavy, the
way I do with Oliver. We discuss restaurants, holidays, even clothes – it turns out
he went shopping today.

‘Did some serious damage at Diesel. Great dress, by the way,’ he adds, eyeing my
outfit. When I tell him I got it here in Rome, he says, ‘I can tell.’

Meanwhile, Maggie is chatting away to Rob, and poor Lily is stuck with Henry, who’s
boring on about his boss, of all things.

‘He’s got a good brain on his shoulders,’ I hear him say. Lily has an ‘I’m fascinated,
tell me more’ expression on her face, but I can tell she’s bored out of her mind.
I should rescue her, but I am enjoying talking to Jay. I can’t help it.

‘You know where I haven’t been back to in ages, though?’ Jay asks me. ‘Floridita.’

I smile. Floridita was where we had our first ever date. Although . . . it’s also
where I went to have a meltdown, after I found out he was cheating on me. I thought
he said he wanted to talk to me about all that? I’m trying to think of a casual way
to bring the topic up, when the music changes to ‘Mambo Number 5’ by Lou Bega.

‘Come on!’ says Lily, jumping up and away from Henry. ‘Let’s dance!’

We walk down the steps of the amphitheatre and squeeze ourselves on to the dance
floor, which is now even more jumping; people are crowded above us on the steps, grooving
and gyrating or just strutting, catwalk-style. The other boys are doing a very typical
restrained boy-dance, where only their bottom halves are moving. But Jay can really
dance, and he’s totally unselfconscious, whirling and twirling me around expertly.
And I’m having the time of my life, jiving back and forth with him. There’s nothing
inappropriate about it; we’re dancing together. That’s what people do! It’s social,
like tennis.

‘Come on,’ he says, when the music changes. ‘Let’s get you another drink.’

I’m not sure if I should be leaving the other girls, but I suppose he wants the opportunity
to apologise properly, so I agree. We fight our way away from the dance floor, Jay
quickly gets us drinks – I ask for an Aperol spritz because I prefer it to Campari
– and then we wander away from the others, towards a secluded garden seat beside one
of the hot tubs.

Hmm. He doesn’t think we’re going skinny-dipping, does he? I should probably tell
him that I have a boyfriend. But he’s not coming on to me. We’re just talking, which
we needed to do ages ago, for closure. Except Jay’s not talking about what happened
between us: he’s talking about Albania, which seems to be his next holiday.

‘Albania?’ I ask, momentarily distracted.

He nods. ‘Totally unspoilt, dirt cheap.’

I nod, but there’s something about the way that he says ‘dirt cheap’ that gives me
the icks. And something else occurs to me. Here we are in Rome, but Jay’s already
talking about Lombok and Albania. And when he goes to those places, he’ll be talking
about Ibiza and Miami. And so on, and on. It’s kind of gross, isn’t it? I’ve also
noticed that at some point, while he was at the bar, he decided to unbutton his shirt
halfway down. So that I can see his man-cleavage. How alluring – not.

Now he’s back on work gossip, talking about a couple we both know who’ve split up
after buying an expensive house together. He’s pretending to look sad but actually
looking ghoulishly happy at having that news to share.

God. Was he always like this? Was I so infatuated I didn’t notice? I remember thinking
he was a bit of a gossip, but I thought it was . . . sweet. Sweet? Sure, in the way
that a poisonous spider is sweet. Or a rat. And he doesn’t look anything like Ryan
Gosling; he just has a long nose.

‘So. You said there were some things you wanted to say to me?’

He smiles, that slow smile that used to make my heart weak. ‘Yes, of course. I wanted
to say that, well . . . it’s good to see you, Rachel. I miss you.’

‘Right. I thought you might have some kind of explanation about what happened. You
know, with that other girl.’

‘Oh, that. Well, it was difficult for me too.’

I nod, before I can actually process what he’s saying. Him cheating on me was difficult
for him too? What?

‘I was having a nightmare at work . . . I was confused, and I did the wrong thing.
But now, maybe . . .’ He gives me the slow smile again, charmingly uncertain. ‘Maybe
it could work?’

It’s the scenario I fantasised about so many times: Jay wanting me back. But now
that it’s happening, I feel nothing, because Jay is a twat. I once thought I wasn’t
cool enough for him, and maybe that was why he cheated. But now I realise there is
nothing
wrong with me. And Oliver is one hundred, no, one billion times the man he is. I
would rather be in the grottiest old-man-pub with Oliver, than in the world’s best
nightclub with this . . . fuckmuppet. And I never swear!

‘Either way, Rachel,’ Jay says, ‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend.’

Urrrrrggggh. The F-word!
This
was how he got away with it. He could do anything he liked because we were so much
more than a boring old boyfriend and girlfriend; we were friends. It sounded so sophisticated
and mature but it was just bullshit.

Lily and Maggie have left the dance floor, trailed by both the guys, and are standing
nearby, at the bar. They’re watching me and looking concerned. I’m so glad they’re
here to see this.

I smile sweetly at Jay. ‘
Of course
we can be friends. And maybe more? Nothing too complicated? No strings?’

He’s practically drooling now. ‘Yes. Definitely! You know, Rachel, you always were
a goer.’

A
goer
. A goer! With that one word, his fate is sealed. I keep my smile in place as I say,
‘By the way, I love your jacket. Where did you get it from?’

He shrugs. ‘Armani, I think. Or no, sorry. Hugo Boss. The jeans are Armani.’

‘It’s gorgeous.’ I stroke his shoulder. ‘Do you want to play a game?’

His eyes light up;
of course
he wants to play a game. Because he is a
player.

‘OK. Stand up, and come over here . . . closer . . . Now hand me your mobile and
your wallet.’ I put down my drink and hold out my hands for them. ‘Great. Now –’ And
before I can lose my nerve, I push him as hard as I can, backwards into the hot tub,
where he lands with a beautiful and satisfying splash.

‘What . . . the . . . FUCK?!’ He bobs up, spluttering and dripping all over; his
half-unbuttoned shirt is clinging to him, and his jacket and his artfully done hair
are ruined. ‘You crazy bitch! What the fuck was that for?’

‘It was for being a GOBSHITE and cheating on me. Now button your shirt up!’

Then, giggling madly, I drop his stuff on the grass, and sprint off towards the other
two girls, who are standing beside the bar with the two guys, all of them open-mouthed.
Catching my breath, I manage to gasp out, ‘RUN!’ And we run as fast as our heels and
hysteria will allow us, shrieking and laughing like maniacs.

‘Oh, shit! They’re coming after us, hide!’ says Lily. ‘This way!’ We zigzag off the
path, into the trees, and sneak along SAS-style until we’re safely out of sight and
back on the gravel path, stumbling towards the exit.

‘Oh my God, Rachel,’ Lily says, gasping for breath. ‘I cannot believe you did that.
I don’t know what he did, but I bet he deserved it. Respect.’ She holds up a hand
for a high-five.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life,’ says Maggie. She’s much fitter than
me and Lily, so she’s breathless with laughter rather than from the running. ‘Rachel,
you pushed him into a
hot tub
.’

This makes us all laugh again; I’m actually doubled over in pain, I’m laughing so
hard. ‘I know . . . wasn’t it great? In fairness, I did take his wallet and phone
from him first, so they wouldn’t get wet.’

‘I absolutely love it,’ says Lily. ‘You pushed him into a hot tub, but in an organised,
sensible way. Brilliant.’

‘Yes! It could have been a fountain, but that would have been dangerous.’

‘Anyway it was his fault for taking us to a nightclub with hot tubs,’ says Lily.
‘What was that about?’

‘Exactly!’