Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

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.

I take a sip of my drink and remember why I used to smoke—waiting in a bar is so much easier if you have a cigarette in your hand. It’s something to focus on, something to do. You don’t feel quite so vulnerable. For some reason, when I met David I stopped wanting to smoke. Plus, of course, he happened to mention over dinner that he hated the habit, so I just didn’t mention the packet of Marlboro Lights in my bag and I haven’t smoked since.

The bartender is trying to attract my attention, and I turn round, slightly irritated, to discover that I haven’t actually paid for my drink yet. I get out my purse to find some cash and feel an arm slip round my waist.

“Put it on my tab, will you?” says a familiar voice, and a gold-colored credit card is passed to the barman.

“Mike!” I experience a frisson of excitement as I turn to kiss him hello. He’s slightly unshaven and wearing a black suit and black shirt open at the neck. He has such an air of confidence about him, an insouciance that is so attractive. His hands move round my waist and my instinctive reaction is to turn and kiss him on the lips and move my body into his, but instead I manage a light kiss on the cheek. I am doing, I hope, a pretty good impression of someone who is totally unfazed and unimpressed.

“Georgie, this is Tracey, my PA. And this is Brian, a top DJ—at least he is when he plays our records, eh Brian?”

Brian grins and Tracey titters. Brian, I notice, is more interested in Tracey’s expansive cleavage than anything Mike has to say.

“You known each other long?” Tracey inquires.

“Years and years,” Mike replies before I can speak. He has turned to face Tracey and Brian, but his left arm is still wrapped round my waist. When we were together, Mike’s arm would rarely be anywhere near me if we were out. I told myself then that public demonstrations of affection were really tacky and that I was pleased not to be in a couple that kissed and hugged in bars and clubs. But I had always suspected that Mike didn’t touch me because he liked to give the impression that he was single.

“Have you got any cigarettes?”

Willpower be damned—this is an emergency; I need something to steady my nerves. Tracey offers me a Silk Cut, and I put it in my mouth gratefully. It is lit immediately by a platinum lighter that Mike has whisked out of his pocket. This really is the four-star treatment—I didn’t know Mike had it in him.

“Georgie’s the one who encouraged me to start my own business,” Mike tells Tracey and Brian.

This is news to me. I do remember shouting at Mike and telling him to “go and get a bloody job, or start making some money out of your stupid plans,” but I’m not sure I would class that as encouragement. Then again, maybe that was the kick-start he had needed. Brian and Tracey both give me a sort of “well done” smile and I smile back.

Mike gives me a little squeeze and starts stroking my side. I feel myself stiffen. It isn’t that I’m not enjoying this—to be honest, I have dreamed of this moment for ages. It’s just that now I seem to have Mike all over me, I feel extremely self-conscious and awkward. It’s all wrong, like I’ve missed a couple of steps, that things have been decided while I was out of the room, and no one thought to tell me. Plus, of course, I’m not here to get back together with Mike; just to make him realize what he’s missing. If David knew that I was in the Atlantic Bar with Mike’s arm round my waist, he would be devastated. I decide I need a bit of breathing space.

“Um, just nipping to the loo,” I say hurriedly and prise myself out of Mike’s arms. There is a long queue, which I join, and it’s only after five minutes of not moving that I realize the queue is actually people putting on makeup and doing their hair—there are two empty cubicles. Trying to look nonchalant, like I knew all along there wasn’t a queue, I go into one of them, lock the door, and sit down to gather my thoughts.

I have come for a drink, I tell myself. Mike cannot just waltz in like this and start treating me like his girlfriend. Even though I’m rather enjoying having the best-looking guy in the room all over me. When I go back to the bar I’m not going to let him put his arm round me. I’m going to be friendly but aloof. Absolutely no flirting.

Some girls come in, laughing loudly. I love listening to conversations in the loos at bars and clubs; you learn more than you could from any magazine or therapy session. Frankly, it beats

“Oprah” hands down.

The girls are talking about a guy one of them fancies and is trying to establish whether he fancies her, too. From what they are saying, I’m tempted to conclude that he probably isn’t interested.

I am about to flush the chain when I hear someone talking about a “Mike.” It could be anyone, I know, but I hesitate anyway.

“So, d’you think she’s the one?”

“What, the girl he’s with tonight? Could be. Thought she’d be thinner, but he’s certainly all over her. Don’t know what he sees in her though. And did you see how much makeup she was wearing?”

“You don’t think they’re going to get married, do you?” asks one of the girls.

“Mike get married? Give me a break! Still, I bet he’d throw a great party if he did.” At this the girls laugh raucously.

I’m fixed to the spot. They are definitely talking about Mike. But how do they know about me?

What has Mike been saying? And more to the point, am I really wearing too much makeup? I’m desperate to get out of the cubicle to check my reflection in the mirror, but there’s no way I can move until the girls leave the room.

They spend what seems like hours talking about other people in the bar—listening to some of the stinging comments, I feel like I’ve got away quite lightly with the makeup criticism. Finally they leave, and I unlock the cubicle door. My face is pale and with plenty of black eyeliner round my eye I resemble a Panda. Dabbing at my eyes with a tissue, I try to work out why those girls would think for a minute that Mike and I could be getting married. A week ago Mike and I hadn’t seen each other for two years; now complete strangers are talking about us spending the rest of our lives together. He must have been talking about me to people. Washing my hands, I wonder if at long last my fantasies must have come true and Mike has realized he needs me in his life. And if he does, why don’t I feel more excited? Why do I have this little thought buzzing around my head, asking whether I still need him?