Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

I walk back to the bar, feeling slightly unsteady on my feet. Mike and Brian are talking about dance acts and clubs they have been to/played at around the world, and Tracey is giggling a lot. I am finding it hard to listen to a word they say.

“You’ve been a while, haven’t you?” asks Mike, ruffling my hair. “Been sniffing drugs in there, have you?”

He laughs and Brian winks at me. I manage a smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re far too good for that, aren’t you,” Mike continues. “Georgie is a good woman,” he says to Brian and Tracey, as if to explain. “I need her to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

“Fat chance!” Tracey replies and giggles again. She is really beginning to irritate me.

The conversation moves back to music. I try to join in, but my knowledge of dance music is very limited, so mostly I just smile and nod at appropriate moments. It’s such a cool life they lead, I think—all bars and clubs and interviews in style magazines. So why is it that I’m feeling tired and bored? What’s wrong with me?

After a couple of hours I decide I’ve got to go home. The music’s getting louder, Mike is getting more drunk, and I need some time to think.

“Mike, I’ve got to go now—I’m meeting some friends,” I lie. Well, I’m hardly going to say I want to get back home in time for “Will and Grace,” am I?

He puts on his puppy-dog expression. “What, already? But I’ve barely seen you.”

“Call me during the week,” I say and kiss him on the cheek. He turns his head so that his lips meet mine, then he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Try and stop me.”

Out in the cold night air I go over the evening’s events in my mind. The arm round the waist, the girls in the loo, the hand squeezing, the kiss. Especially the kiss. The truth is, I wanted it to last longer. Even though I was the one who pulled away, I wanted it to go on and on. My little plan to make Mike feel bad about dumping me might be backfiring slightly, and I need to be careful. I have a lovely boyfriend who adores me, and I really don’t want to hurt him.

But as I walk down the street, I can’t help my lips breaking into a little smile. Mike was doing a pretty good impression of someone who wants me back. I am maybe, just maybe, a bit of a femme fatale. After all this time of thinking I wasn’t cool or pretty enough for Mike, I suddenly feel like I’m in control, and it feels really good. Seeing Candy tomorrow is suddenly looking far more appealing. I’m going to enjoy telling this particular story.

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I’m just about to leave when the phone rings. I look at the caller ID and it’s my mother. Should I pick it up and risk being late for Candy because of an hour-long diatribe from my mother on nutrition or the joys of gardening/macrame/weekends in the Dordogne, or should I ignore it and risk her calling me on my mobile at an even worse moment? I decide to pick up.

“Darling,” she begins before I’ve even said hello. “Tell me, are you taking iron supplements? I think you should go and get some. I’ve been listening to the radio and vegetarians are in real danger of becoming anemic. And you’ll need to take vitamin C, because it helps you absorb the iron. Now, do you want me to send you some? Let me see how much I’ve got . . .”

I can hear her sorting through jars and containers. My mother and James, her latest husband, have an entire cupboard full of supplements. They eat supplements for breakfast with a plate full of the oddest assortment of foods—a brazil nut, a piece of avocado, some tofu, dried apricots, that sort of thing—which they eat with freshly juiced carrots and celery. My mother calls it their insurance plan: whatever foods the latest health magazines tell them to eat, they add to the plate; they then feel free to eat and drink whatever they want for the rest of the day because they’ve had all their essential nutrients already.

“Mum, I’m not a vegetarian.”

“Here we are, maximum strength iron. Oh and this has added vitamin C, so you don’t even need to buy it separately. Shall I pop some round to you later?”

“Mum, I am not a vegetarian.”

“But you always eat so many vegetables, darling. You’re always eating salads.”

“Yes, but I also eat meat. I get plenty of iron.”

My mother pauses. “You’re absolutely sure you’re not a vegetarian? I could have sworn—”

“Look, I’m sure, really. I don’t need any vitamins.”

“Fine, fine, well, if everything’s okay, I’d better be getting on. I’ve got a reflexology appointment this afternoon, although I’m not sure this new woman they’ve got is any good. I mean, Paul really knew what he was doing and he also did cranial, which is very beneficial, but of course he’s moved to L.A. now, and this new girl—can’t remember her name—I’m not sure she’s entirely up to scratch. I suppose she does have all the best qualifications—the Club would never employ someone who wasn’t absolutely top notch . . . I suppose we’ll just have to see, won’t we. I’m thinking about trying some lymphatic drainage massage, though. Apparently it does wonders for the thighs. Are you still going to that nice masseuse in Kensington darling?”

After nutrition, my mother’s favorite pastime is alternative health. Actually, I think it started with reflexology, and the supplements came next. She’s a member of a very smart gym in Chelsea, but as far as I know has never actually gone to the gym. She does go there very regularly, though, to have her feet rubbed, neck yanked about, or skin covered in oil. She has been trying to get me to join for about five years now—I think she has visions of us sitting in the steam room talking about colonic irrigation or something.

“Mum, I don’t go to a masseuse. I had a massage once at my hairdressers—there was a special offer.” Actually, it was lovely, and I had been meaning to go back, but somehow I can’t commit an hour and ?50. And undressing in front of a complete stranger to have them rub your back, well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

“You should go more, you know,” continues my mother. “Why don’t you come down to the Club one day and have a massage there? They only employ the best of the best, you know. And then we could have a spot of lunch? Why not today?”

“Sorry, Mum, I’m meeting Candida in about half an hour. Maybe next week?”

“As you wish,” says my mother in a slightly cross tone. Honestly, it’s as if I’ve said “No, I’m washing my hair.”

“Shall I call you during the week?” I venture.

“Well, I’m going to be very busy next week, but you can always leave a message with James.

Right, well, I’ve got to go now. Bye!” Before I can say anything further, she’s put the phone down.

James and my mother have been together for about four years now, so I’m beginning to see him as a semi-permanent fixture. It’s always difficult when you never know if your mother is about to up and leave the person you are starting to bond with. James is very solid though, physically and mentally. I like him a lot actually. He has learned how to tune my mother out when she’s going off on some tangent and doesn’t seem to mind that she picks up a new hobby/obsession/ailment each week, only to discard it the following week for another fad. And he’s even quite good-looking, in an “older man” kind of way. Most important, my mother seems really happy.

I look at my watch. Bollocks. I’ve got ten minutes to get to Oxford Street. I’m going to have to get a cab even though I promised myself I would use my Tube pass more. Seventy pounds a month! No wonder people who live in London need so many massages to get over their stressful lives.