When in Rome... (13 page)

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 look 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?

At the door to our room, Mike slips his arm round me as he turns???? key in the lock. Then he cups my head in his hands and kisses me. Before I can engage my brain and decide what to do, he maneuvers me onto the bed and gets on top of me, tugging at my skirt and sticking his tongue down my throat. There’s just no way I can do this. I pull away and roll over onto my front.

“Playing coy with me, are you, Georgie Porgie?” grins Mike, undoing the zip of my skirt. “Come on, you little tease, get your kit off.”

So this isn’t exactly an ideal situation. I’m in a foreign city, sharing a room with someone who has just spent huge amounts of money on champagne for me. I am half undressed, and I don’t want to sleep with him. Oh, and there’s only one bed. I manage a little smile, and then with a flash of inspiration, I put my hand to my mouth.

“I’m sorry, I think I drank a bit too much champagne,” I smile apologetically.

Mike moves back in alarm. “You’re not going to puke are you?”

Once, when we were going out, I got horrendously drunk (we were at a party where Mike was flirting with pretty much everyone except me, and drinking wine straight from the bottle seemed to be a pretty good idea), and on the way back I was sick on Mike’s shoulder. He was absolutely furious and wouldn’t talk to me for weeks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ll probably be okay . . .” I say, getting up quickly and walking toward the bathroom. It does the trick. Mike’s squeamishness is stronger than his sexual appetite, and he grabs a blanket and a pillow. “Look, I’m going to sleep here, just in case,” he says quickly, pulling a camp bed out of the wardrobe.

“You, um, get some sleep, okay?”

I’d be offended if I wasn’t so relieved.

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I wake up slowly. The sun is shining on my face and is deliciously warm. As soon as I open my eyes I feel a tremor of excitement pass through me. I’m in Rome! I’m really here, and it’s sunny, and I didn’t sleep with Mike, and I’m going to have a lovely day walking around the city, having coffee in little roadside cafes, and visiting the Coliseum. Maybe Brian could come, too, then it really would be likeRoman Holiday . Although actually I’m a lot more clued up than Audrey Hepburn was. I would have sussed Gregory Peck right away if it had been me.