When in Rome... (5 page)

“Yes!” I squeal. “I bet it’s there.” And indeed it is.

“You want me to e-mail the report to you?”

“I do love you, you know,” I grin. “Any time you want me to take you away from all this, just say the word.”

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see Nigel and Guy coming down the corridor.

“Quick, he’s coming.”

Unflustered, Denise hits a button and picks up Nigel’s phone. As he turns into the office, Denise’s dulcet Essex tones can be heard on the phone to an imaginary customer.

“No, absolutely, Mr. Bingham, I’ll arrange that for you.”

By the time Denise has carefully put the phone down and written an imaginary name and number on a bright yellow Post-it note, Nigel is hovering over his desk looking at her.

“Hi Nigel,” Denise says calmly. “Your phone was ringing and I was on my way back from the Ladies, so I picked it up for you.”

“Very kind of you. Anything important?”

“Oh, no, just someone wanting a sample copy ofAccounting Facts, Part Two .” Denise winks at me and takes the Post-it note back to her desk.

I race back to my desk and open the e-mail Denise has sent. The report is attached, one hundred questions ready to go. I quickly go into Edit and replace “Investment Analysis” with “Pensions Bulletin,” then print it out.

“So, Georgie,” Nigel turns to me. “I assume you have the Pensions Bulletin research ready for Guy?”

“Absolutely, just printing it out.”

I move over to the printer, which is churning out page after page. Feeling utterly pleased with myself, I hand the report over to Guy.

He looks at it briefly. “Looks very impressive. You must have worked very hard,” he says, handing it back to me. “Would you mind e-mailing it to me?”

Nigel is staring at me. “Yes, well, Georgie has had the project for a while,” he says.

“Really?” replies Guy. “But we only commissioned the research last week. I think it’s a great effort from your team.”

Nigel smiles thinly as Guy strides back down the corridor. “Well done, Georgie,” he finally manages as he sits down.

“Oh, it was definitely a team effort,” I say, raising my eyebrow at Denise, who splutters into her coffee.

I leave work on time and get home in time to have a hot bath before “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” starts on BBC2. I know I’m probably not the target age group for this program, but I like it, and anyway, no one has to know. Not that I’m a Buffy nut, or anything. I mean, I haven’t even watched its spin-off, “Angel.” It’s just something I do if I have the time. And I generally make sure that I do. Have the time, that is. Anyway, Buffy has just managed to pin down a particularly nasty-looking demon when the phone rings.

“Georgie Beauchamp.” I am so engrossed in the fight action that I answer the phone as if I was at work. “Sorry, I mean, hello?”

“Hello Georgie Beauchamp. It’s Mr. Bradley here,” says David, mocking me.

“Oh sod off, I’m just have a bad day. How are you?”

“Busy. But missing you. Do you want to do dinner later?”

“When you say later, just how late do you mean?” I’m looking at my watch and it’s already gone seven.

“Eight-ish.”

“I have a better idea. How about you come round here at eight-ish with a take-away and we can watch the Paramount Comedy channel?”

I love television. I mean, I do other things, it’s not like I just sit on my own and watch TV all day long, but there’s really nothing better than curling up on the sofa with a good take-away and “Friends” or “Cheers” or something.

“Sounds perfect. See you then.”

When I first started going out with David we went out constantly. I was so pleased to finally have a boyfriend who would actually do some of the things I wanted to do, instead of Mike, who always told me where he was going and asked if I wanted to come, too, which just isn’t the same at all. It was so great to be asked what I wanted to do that I got a bit carried away. In one week we would go to the cinema twice, check out two exhibitions, go to the theater, and eat out at any new restaurant that opened. After a couple of months we were both exhausted, but neither of us wanted to admit it, so we carried on for another month. I think it was me who finally broke, and one night suggested staying in rather than going to an Albanian film night at our local arts club. David thought it was because I thought he didn’t want to go, and spent twenty minutes trying to convince me of his enthusiasm for film as an artistic medium and the importance of emerging cinema from countries like Albania. I was all “no, really, we don’t have to go,” and David was like “I really want to.” Finally I told him that I didn’t know anything about Albanian cinema, didn’t care about it, and wanted nothing more than to watch reruns of “Friends” eating takeout. As I said it I suddenly got really scared that he would realize that I wasn’t his type after all and would dump me immediately, but instead he burst out laughing and gave me a huge hug.

We talked for hours that night—it was the first time we both admitted which bits of us were real and which were more for effect. You know, like I always say that my favorite band is some really obscure one with lyrics that are really deep, when, in actual fact, when no one’s there I dance around to Madonna. And I always say I much prefer homemade food and hate artificial additives, but I’ve actually got a cupboard full of chocolate biscuits and cakes with bright pink icing that bears no resemblance to anything in the natural world. David admitted that he doesn’t really understand poetry, that he likes Jack Higgins novels, and that he prefers Stallone films to anything with subtitles.

Since then, we probably stay in more than we go out, which I actually love, but there’s still a bit of me that wants to be the person who would prefer the Albanian film evening.

David arrives at eight-thirty with fish and chips. I carefully arrange the food on two large white plates. (I always try to re-create the look of food in expensive restaurants. So the fish goes on top of the chips, with the mushy peas kind of circled round them, interlaced with the ketchup. Actually, a lot of really smart restaurants serve fish and chips and it’s not like it’s that much better than the stuff you get from the chip shop; the only difference is presentation and ambience. So by re-creating the presentation I’m sort of making our night more of a postmodern ironic statement. At least that’s what it said in some magazine article I picked up on how eating in is the new eating out, and really I think it’s true.) We position ourselves on the sofa, food resting on cushions.

“Nice day at the office?” I’m not really expecting an answer, but I always ask the question.

David looks distracted for a moment. “Mmmm. No, not really.”

It’s not like David to say anything other than “Oh, not bad,” so I look at him quizzically.

For a moment he looks like he’s about to tell me all about it, but then the music for “Frasier” starts and my eyes flicker away for a second or two. By the time I’ve refocused on David, the moment has gone.

I tell him about my star turn today over the Pensions Bulletin research, and he laughs, but I don’t mention my lunch with Mike. If things are tough at work, he’s hardly going to be in the mood to hear about his girlfriend going out to lunch with her ex. And anyway, I’m not going to see Mike again, I think to myself as I nestle into David’s shoulder.

I don’t think about it again until later that night as we’re falling asleep. “You haven’t heard from Mike, have you?” David murmurs. Suddenly I’m wide awake.

“No,” I lie, trying to work out why David would think that I had. “Why would I?”

“Oh, nothing,” David says, rolling over. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. You will tell me if he tries to get in touch with you, won’t you?”

Does he know about the lunch? Why would he ask that?

“You’re not jealous are you?” I ask hesitantly.

“Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous?” David says incredulously. I start to sulk slightly, but then figure that he’s hardly going to admit that he’s jealous. I know I should be feeling bad but instead I feel like a femme fatale.

But before I can sink into dreams of men fighting over me, David turns on the light and looks at me intently. “Look, I just don’t trust Mike,” he says seriously. “So tell me if he calls you, okay?”

I don’t ask him if e-mails count.

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I don’t hear from Mike until Friday. All week I have been telling myself that I am relieved that he hasn’t tried to get back in touch. But my stomach has been lurching every time I get an external e-mail, just in case it’s him.

I’m on the phone to Candy, arranging a shopping and gossip session for the following afternoon when I hear the familiar“ping .”

Candy and I are discussing the relative merits of Kensington High Street and Oxford Street. (I favor Ken High Street. Oxford Street is too busy, and anyway, my favorite shop on Oxford Street is Top Shop, and I’d never be able to go in there with Candy. She buys things featured inVogue instead of searching the high street for rip-offs like the rest of us.) I absentmindedly go to my e-mail inbox, and there it is.

MIKE MARSHALL: So, I went away. Now it’s Friday afternoon and you can’t tell me you’re still busy. I feel like getting drunk tonight, fancy joining me?

My heart starts beating. I’m meant to be going round to David’s tonight. Iam going round to David’s tonight. At least I think I am. I mean, of course that’s what I want to do, but it could be a good idea to meet Mike, just to, you know, reinforce the fact that he wants me and can’t have me. If you think about it, that would actually be really good for David, too, because it would show Mike that David is way better than him. And if I don’t go, he might think I’m too scared to go, that I don’t trust myself around him, which is obviously ridiculous because I don’t find him attractive anymore. Really. And David won’t mind, I’m sure.

“George? Are you still there?” Candy has always called me George rather than Georgie. I think it started at school—though we lived near each other during my Kensington Church Street phase, we went to different schools, and Candy liked being able to tell her friends at school about her friend George, without mentioning that I was actually a girl. I’ve had a couple of odd meetings with people who went to school with Candy who looked really astonished to find out I was “George.”

I realize I haven’t been listening to Candy for five minutes. “Sorry, something’s just come up,” I say. “So, tomorrow at twelve?”

Candy is not happy. She was at the beginning of some story or other and is obviously annoyed to have lost my attention. “Fine,” she says casually, as we agree on a meeting place (Oxford Street—arguing with Candy, I remember in time, is hopeless).

I stare at my computer screen and read Mike’s message again and again, searching for the meaning behind it. Could it be that he is actually interested in me again? Why now? Having made no effort to contact me in years, why is Mike now so keen to see me? Of course, it’s possible that he saw me with David and realized how much he missed me, but somehow that doesn’t entirely ring true. I mean, he could have anyone, why would he come back for me? Perhaps he has some ulterior motive? In the past I’d have assumed he wanted to borrow money, but now he seems to have enough of his own, so it must be something else. But what?

Only one way to find out, I reason, and hit the Reply button.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: I suppose I could meet you for a couple of drinks. The Atlantic Bar at 7?

As I hit the Send button I feel a pang of guilt. The Atlantic Bar is where Mike and I always used to go. It was too expensive for us to actually drink there, but we would hang out anyway, and he would steal drinks from the bar for us. I wish I had suggested somewhere more neutral, but reason that changing the venue now would be worse. I don’t want to acknowledge to myself or anyone else that what I’m doing is of any consequence.

Not wanting to talk to David directly about it, I send him an e-mail, blushing at my lie as I send it.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi gorgeous, do you mind if I don’t come round tonight? Going for drinks after work for someone’s birthday. I’ll see you tomorrow evening? Seeing Candy in the afternoon, so wish me luck! xx

About thirty seconds later, the phone rings.

“You’re seeing Candy? I didn’t know you two were still friends.” It’s David.

“Hello to you, too. Just because I haven’t seen her for a while doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore. Why should you care anyway?”

“Nothing. I don’t care. I just thought it was a bit odd, that’s all, suddenly seeing her again.”

“David, is everything all right?”

“Of course it is. You have a great time tomorrow. I’ll come round afterward, shall I?”

“Yes, come round about six. And give me loads of compliments because I’ll be feeling dreadful after spending time in changing rooms with Candy.”

“Gorgeous girl. You’re much prettier than that skinny creature. See you then.”

Gorgeous girl. When David says that, I know he actually means it. So why am I getting so excited about meeting Mike tonight?

At 7:05P.M. I’m at the Atlantic Bar and Grill. I managed to get home early and had time to change and redo my makeup, and to tell the truth I’m feeling pretty hot to trot. Or is it just that I haven’t been properly dressed up for a while? David and I do go out to nice restaurants, and I’m always going to the pub after work, but there never seems to be a reason to really dress up with full makeup and stuff. David always says I look better without it anyway, so there’s not much point putting on more than a bit of mascara when we go out. Tonight, though, I’ve gone for the full works. I need to—you should see the girls in the Atlantic Bar; I’m sure they’re all models or something.

I walk up to the bar and have a look around for Mike, trying to be as casual as I can. It doesn’t look like he’s here, so I order a gin and tonic. Turning my back on the bar, I survey the room. It isn’t very busy but it’ll be packed later on. There are lots of tall thin girls walking around with amazing tans and high-heeled shoes pointing out from the bottom of their jeans. And not wearing very much on top at all—one girl appears to have wrapped a ball of wool around her breasts and that’s pretty much it. The men are either in suits with gold AmEx cards or arty types with odd haircuts.