When in Rome... (14 page)

I sit up quickly and discover two things. First, moving quickly is not a great idea when you’ve been drinking champagne all night. Second, Mike’s camp bed is empty.

To be honest, I’m actually a bit relieved that Mike isn’t there. It means I can get up slowly and enjoy the morning. He’s probably out getting us some breakfast or something. I notice that there’s a television opposite me on the desk and the remote control is on the bedside table. Within moments the comforting sounds of BBC Worldwide news are filling the room.

I lie back down, propping my throbbing head up with pillows. It’s the business news, which is a shame, but still, at least it’s television and I can understand it. There’s another corporate scandal in the States, and there’s someone talking about the investment community being betrayed, how it’s another Enron. I yawn, and a little box appears saying that “Top Gear” is going to be on in five minutes.

I get up slowly and wander into the bathroom. To my amazement, the television is as loud in the bathroom as in the bedroom. I look around, and sure enough, there are speakers in all four corners of the room. How cool is that? I turn on the shower and wash my hair as the newsreader drones on about the AMT Group propping up its revenues through multiple acquisitions and the disgraced board of directors being investigated. One of them has been arrested, and there’s another one who they can’t pin any blame on.

“Taylor has been exonerated in this episode, but the SEC is still questioning the auditors . . .” the newsreader says as I rinse out my hair. Honestly, I don’t know how people like David manage to listen to this stuff and make sense of it. As soon as I hear the words “and now it’s time for our business news” I start yawning. Luckily, as I get out of the shower, my head feeling almost back to normal, the familiar “Top Gear” music kicks in.

But before I can sit back down on the bed to watch it, the phone rings. It’s Mike.

“Good sleep?”

“Um, yeah, great. Where are you?”

They’re test-driving four-by-fours on the television. I think of my mother and poor James’s attempts to get her out of her antiquated Mini.

“Oh, I woke up early, so I thought I’d get on with a few things. Fancy going to the Vatican?”

The Vatican? What a surprise! Mike is so not the sort to go sightseeing. It suddenly occurs to me that he could be Catholic. To be honest, I have no idea whether Mike is even religious or not. I don’t think it’s ever come up in conversation. I’ve never really done the whole church thing except for a couple of years during the Kensington Church Street period (I divide my life up by addresses) when I went to a Catholic boarding school because my mother thought I might “get into trouble” in London. I hated it at first but then got totally seduced by the structure of the day and the soft-spoken teachers who were all nuns and called “sister.” They looked after us amazingly well—although the teaching was pretty appalling. In the end I left because my mother realized I’d never get my O levels if I stayed, but by then I had decided that I wanted to take my vows and join a convent. I argued fiercely with my mother and she said that if I got my O levels in a more academic private school I could go to a convent if I really wanted to, and of course, by then I’d forgotten all about becoming a nun and wanted to be in a band instead.

Still, I’ve always wanted to go to the Vatican. It’s even on my planned list of activities—it’s got the Sistine Chapel and everything! More to the point, does this mean Mike really has changed and is interested in things and people other than himself?

“Give me half an hour or something,” I croak.

It looks lovely and sunny outside, so I put on a skirt and a T-shirt and slap on some sun cream just in case. I notice that Mike’s holdall has disappeared and make a mental note to quiz him about it later.

By the time I get downstairs, I am absolutely starving. We had a few bar snacks last night, but no proper meal. Maybe this is how celebrities stay so thin; they just drink champagne all the time and don’t have time to eat. Mike is on his mobile by the reception desk. He waves hello, then turns his back on me, continuing his conversation.

He looks irritated when he comes off the phone.

“Shall we go?” he says abruptly. Not even a “how are you.”

“Why don’t we get some breakfast first?” I suggest. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime.”

“Oh, I grabbed something to eat when I got up,” says Mike. “Look, you can buy a croissant on the way, can’t you?”

“I s’pose,” I say doubtfully. I was hoping for a long leisurely breakfast with lots of coffee and orange juice. Still, I should be able to grab something near the Vatican. It’s so nice to be going somewhere cultural with Mike. He used to be so scathing of my attempts to get him to go to art galleries. He’d go if it was “cool” and the right people were going to be there—a Damien Hirst private view, or something—but anything else was out of the question. And even if we did go to a gallery, we’d never actually look at the paintings; Mike would always head straight to the bar and end up flirting with everyone.

But now, well, we are in Rome and I am finally going to fulfill my fantasies of walking round arm in arm, looking at beautiful works of art, and eating delicious ice cream. Okay, so the ice cream bit hasn’t featured in my fantasies before, but I’m really starving.

Actually we don’t walk; we take a cab. It’s not far, but Mike doesn’t do walking. He doesn’t believe in it, he always says. I’ve never established whether he doesn’t believe that walking is actually possible, or whether it’s just the benefits of walking that he doesn’t believe in. Not that it matters, taxis are absolutely fine by me.

As we pull up outside St. Peter’s Square, I come over all overawed and amazed. It’s absolutely huge, a massive courtyard surrounded by statues and engravings and pillars. We stand outside St. Peter’s Basilica for about ten minutes, marveling. Then we stand outside for another ten minutes, kind of looking around.

“Do we need to buy tickets?” I ask.

Mike has shown no inclination to move from our current spot, next to a large fountain. Tourists are milling around everywhere. As he was in such a hurry to get here, I can’t really work out why he doesn’t seem too keen to go into the basilica.

He looks up absentmindedly. “Tickets? What for?”

“To get in.”

“In?”

“Inside. The basilica. The Sistine Chapel. You know.” I gesture at the buildings behind us.

“You want to go in?”

“Of course! Don’t you?”

“Can’t, meeting someone in five. But go ahead. I’ll see you back at the hotel later, okay?”

I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

“Meeting who?”

“Just business stuff, it won’t take long.”

“Business stuff? Oh, bloody marvelous. I’ll just be your personal assistant, shall I?”

How could I have been so stupid? We are not actually going into the Vatican. No, we’re just meeting some stupid contact of Mike’s. We’re not spending the day together at all. I feel so stupid. And now I’ve got tears in my eyes. Dammit. Why am I so upset? It’s not like the pope is actually here or anything.

I turn away from Mike so he can’t see how upset I am, but I needn’t have bothered; he’s already whipped out his mobile and is making another call.

I can’t believe I’ve come all the way to Rome and lied to David, and Mike just expects me to fit in with his bloody meetings. And he doesn’t even care that I’m hungry. If I’m not careful, the prickling around my eyes is going to turn into full-fledged crying, which would be incredibly uncool, particularly since I’m not wearing waterproof mascara.

I turn around and blink furiously. Mike is not worth crying over. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t really care if he is meeting someone or not. But actually it does matter. Not just that we’re not going to go into the Vatican when we’re right outside, but that I’m never going to have my Roman Holiday. And the worst thing is, I knew it would be like this. At least, I should have known. This was what it was like when I was Mike’s girlfriend. I was always just kind of tagging along. I never felt I was the focal point for Mike; I was an appendage, and if I disappeared, well, I was never entirely sure Mike would even have noticed.

Not for the first time I begin to wish I was here with David. David would come into the basilica with me and let me read out all the information in my guidebook, even though he’d have the same guide in his hand. David would take me somewhere lovely for breakfast as soon as I even hinted I was hungry, and would hold my hand when we walked down the street.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that David isn’t perfect either—I mean, he wouldn’t even have made it to Rome in the first place because he’d never manage to leave his beloved work behind.

No, if I want a Roman Holiday, I’m better off on my own.

Mike wanders over and I feel his arms wrap round me. I stiffen slightly—a hug from him is the last thing I want.

“You’re not pissed off, are you, gorgeous?” he says into my ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were interested in religious stuff. But we can look round later if you want? I just have to see this guy, okay? It won’t take long. You have a wander around and then we can grab some lunch. What do you say?”

He turns me around and kisses me on the nose, then smiles at me hopefully. I relax slightly. I mean, I’m here with Mike, so I may as well make the best of it, even if he is a selfish guy. It’s only two days, after all. And if he’s got a business meeting, well, that’s not so bad. To be honest, it’ll be nice to have a bit of time on my own.

“Well, I am pissed off,” I say pointedly, “but you’ve got time to make it up to me. You have your meeting. I’ll see you back at the hotel, shall I?”

“You’re one in a million. Have fun?” Mike grins and ruffles my hair.

“You too.”

I walk over to the entrance to St. Peter’s Basilica. There are hordes of people outside, shouting and screaming in every language possible. Mike turns away and makes another call. I join the queue. Already I’m feeling better, and actually, looking at art and architecture and stuff is better when you’re on your own anyway—you can really think about what you’re looking at and interpret it without being influenced. Plus, you don’t get people asking you what you think. I once went to the National Gallery in London with this art student bloke I quite fancied, and every time I said something like “Oh, I like that,” he’d start asking me why, and what I thought the artist was trying to say and stuff, when all I meant was that the colors were nice or I liked the look of the house/person in the painting. Looking at art can be hard work when you have to actually talk about it.

An English couple in front of me are arguing. Evidently the woman is less than keen on going into the Vatican and wants to go shopping instead.

“We always go bloody shopping,” her husband says in a weary tone. “We’re in Rome; let’s do something we can’t do at home. We’ve come all this way; let’s at least go inside, shall we?”

“But you hate churches! I hate churches! For God’s sake, Alan, you don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here. Let’s just go.”

“I don’t want to go shopping.”

“We don’t have to go shopping—that was just one idea. We could go and drink coffee in a cafe. Or we could go back to bed. For one weekend we don’t have the kids, and I don’t want to be walking round a sodding church.”

Apparently Alan doesn’t want to either. He immediately agrees to the “go back to bed” option and they leave arm in arm. I watch them as they pass Mike, who is still on his mobile waiting for his elusive business partner to show up. I notice that he’s getting really deep lines on his forehead—maybe running his own business is really getting to him.

I realize I’ve been so taken in by Mike’s good looks and charm that I’ve never really looked much deeper. I never really noticed how troubled he looks, how worried he seems. Maybe the problem is that I’ve never really stood up to him. I mean, if I didn’t just accept the fact that he had a business meeting and got really mad instead, maybe he would cancel it for me. He looks so distant, even though he’s only forty feet away. Could it be that he just needs someone to talk to?

I leave the queue and wander back over to Mike.

“No good?” he asks me. He looks stressed.

“If the person you’re meeting isn’t showing, why don’t we just bugger off?” I say, and tentatively put my arm through his. “We could explore Rome and—”

Before I can finish my sentence the mobile is ringing again. I’ve lost my chance, and he’s already shouting down the phone and walking away from me.

“Look, what is this? You think I’m lying? Is that it? I take you on, you start doing well, and now I have to put up with your shit just because you think you’re too good now. Is that where we are? Because if it is, you can stick your fucking record deal. . . . Fine, well, that’s okay. Look mate, you’ll get the money, okay? These things can just take some time. Fine, now put Bill on the phone . . .”

I give up. If Mike’s going to act like he’s still in London, I’m certainly not going to. I wander off to buy myself a coffee and something to eat. There’s a cafe by the side of Via Republica, the road leading back into the town center. If he needs me, Mike will be able to see me from here. I order a latte and a croissant, sit back and let the spring sun warm my face.

When I open my eyes again I see Mike talking to someone. The guy looks pretty smartly dressed, considering it’s Saturday; he’s wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Maybe it’s an Italian thing—he probably thinks the English are a really scruffy lot, because Mike’s wearing jeans and a pretty old T-shirt. They walk off quickly before I’ve got time to shout and let them know where I am. To be honest, I really couldn’t care less. Right now, I just want to sit here and enjoy Rome.

I pull out my guidebook and marvel at the photographs of the frescos in the Sistine Chapel. I read all about how Michelangelo painted the ceiling (he delegated a lot by the looks of it), and by the time I’ve finished I almost feel like I’ve actually seen them for myself.

Having paid for my coffee I wander off down the road. A group of Italian men look me up and down appraisingly and murmurbellisima! as I walk past. I smile and get a warm glow inside. Personally I’ve never understood people who don’t like being whistled at in the street. I mean, you wouldn’t get upset if someone stopped you and said politely that the dress you’re wearing really flatters you, would you? And that’s all a wolf whistle is, just punctuated.