Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Darling, has anything actually happened yet?” My mother puts her newspaper down. At last, a proper audience.

“No. Apart from, you know, a bit of flirting. But he’s really been pursuing me. And he’s actually got a proper business that’s doing really well. And these girls were talking in the loo about him being serious about me when I hadn’t seen him for ages. But obviously I’m with David so . . .”

“So, what? Why are you with David?”

Why am I with David? Why does my mother ask such silly questions?

“Because I am. Because I love him. Because he’s, well, just because,” I reply hotly.

“Eloquent as always, darling,” says my mother, folding up her newspaper. “Look, it’s really very simple. If you love David, then that’s all there is to it. You wave good-bye to Michael and wish him well. If, on the other hand, David is just a stopgap, a poor man who happened to be there at the right time—or, rather, the wrong time, as far as he is concerned—then you need to tell him before you take things with Michael any further.” My mother doesn’t like shortening names. If Candy ever asked to speak to “George” on the phone when I was younger, my mother would reply that no one of that name lived in her house. And I’m sure she warmed to David more when he confirmed that he hated being called Dave.

“You can’t have both,” continues my mother. “And don’t always think that the grass is greener.”

“That’s a bit rich,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

Mum stares at me and her eyes narrow.

“We all make mistakes,” she says quietly. “That doesn’t mean we advise others to. And anyway, whatever I may or may not have done, I have never cheated on anyone. I make my choices and I stick by them.”

I know she’s right, but I don’t like looking at the situation in such a black-and-white way. The idea of leaving David is just awful—I couldn’t bear it. But still, I can’t quite push the fantasy of Mike from my mind. He’s so exciting, and I long to flirt with him, to dance the evening away and have him seduce me. He’s so sexy, and the idea of him being in love with me is very intoxicating. You know, if he actually is. And maybe David and I are just a bit too comfortable. I know everything about him, he knows everything about me, and there’s no real potential for flirting anymore. I mean, when Audrey Hepburn met Gregory Peck in Rome, they didn’t stay in and watch television, did they? She took a risk, she chose excitement.

James wanders back in. “Have you seen my reading glasses, Cammy?”

“On the mantelpiece, James.”

“Of course, there they are.”

The two of them live so happily together, I muse. Will I ever achieve that with someone, the ability to be contented without wondering what else is out there? Will I also have to go through four husbands and who knows how many relationships to get there?

“Anyway,” continues my mother. “You don’t want to end up like that Bellinger girl, do you?”

I look up in annoyance. The Bellingers are friends of my mother. Their daughter Sarah is a hugely successful lawyer and has a great big house in Chelsea or somewhere. She is also a lesbian. A well-adjusted lesbian with a long-term partner, two dogs, and lots of paintings by real artists, as opposed to framed prints. She’s far more sorted and successful than I could ever hope to be, but evidently my mother thinks otherwise.

“Mum, how could my situation possibly lead to me ending up like Sarah?”

My mother looks at me as if I am mad.

“She could have had any number of young men, if she’d been more sensible.”

“Mum, she’s a lesbian. She doesn’t fancy men!”

“If you say so.” My mother turns back to her crossword.

So much for sensible advice. Draining my teacup, I decide to make my way home. I need to clear my head and decide what I want. David or Mike. Comfort and reliability or flirtation and uncertainty? I decide to write a list when I get home. A sort of pros and cons on both of them.

Perhaps I could do a SWOT analysis. It’s something I learned from Nigel last year: you look at the strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats of a new product and assess whether it’s viable or not. I could do one on both of them and then I’ll have my answer!

My mobile rings. I look at the caller ID. Shit, it’s Mike, and I haven’t had time to do my analysis yet.

“Hello?”

“Georgie Porgie Pudding and Pie, Kissed the Boys and made them—”

“Mike! I thought I told you to call me next week?”

“Ah yes, but that was before I found out that I have to go to Rome next weekend, and I thought you could come with me.”

Ohmygod. Breathe, Georgie, breathe.

“Rome, you say. Are you serious?” Immediately my mind starts racing. Rome, of all places.

Already I’m seeing us kissing at the Coliseum, walking hand in hand down little cobbled streets.

But then an image of David and me wandering round Rome hand in hand comes into my head. I couldn’t possibly go to Rome with Mike. I mean, I’ve promised David so many times we’d go together. And actually I want to go with David, I really do. It’s just that David never has the time. Two years of promises and we’ve never come close to actually going. Maybe, just maybe, fate is telling me that a trip to Rome with David isn’t in the cards. That I should go with Mike instead.

“Totally. Got to check out a new band and meet with some people. Look, we’ll be staying in a great hotel, we’ll have a cool time. Tell me you’ll come with me—it’ll be so much better if you’re there!”

Rome. I want to go there so much, but how could I go there with Mike when I’ve watchedRoman Holiday so many times with David? Actually I’ve always had a little suspicion that when David proposes to me it’s going to be in Rome. But to be honest I’ve sort of given up on the whole proposing thing, too. He hasn’t mentioned Rome for a while—even when we watchedRoman Holiday on Sunday he didn’t do his usual “One day, my darling, I’m going to take you up those Spanish Steps, and show you how beautiful Rome is.” But obviously that doesn’t mean I should go with Mike. I mean, how dare he think that he can just ring up out of the blue and that I’ll just drop everything?

I’m going to say no. I’m going to tell him that I have plans.

“I’d love to.” Did I say that?

“You won’t regret it. Look, I’ll e-mail you the details, okay? We leave Friday evening. Bye!”

I’m grinning ear to ear. I know that I’m going to have a hard time explaining a weekend away to David. I know that I haven’t written up any pros and cons, and I know that I am a very bad person. But Rome with Mike! Italy! This is so exciting!

By the time I turn onto my street I’ve planned every minute of the weekend. I’ve allowed two hours for Mike’s meetings—very generous in my opinion—and decided where we’re going to go and exactly what I’m going to wear. It’s going to be the most amazing weekend ever.

As I approach my building I see someone standing outside the door. For a moment I think it’s Mike and my heart lurches with alarm. I know I’ve agreed to go to Rome with him, but somehow I don’t want to see him in the flesh just yet—it would make everything a bit too real. I have managed to justify the Rome trip to myself on the grounds that it is something completely unrelated to my normal life; I keep telling myself I can just go, have a lovely time, and then come back home as if it never happened. Just like Audrey Hepburn did. But I don’t want to see Mike, especially not here at my flat. I don’t want to really face the fact that I’m doing something very bad. I squint to see if it’s definitely Mike—if it is, I can always turn round. But my eyes pick out a more familiar figure . . . it’s not Mike. It’s David. He’s carrying groceries and reading theFT . Gorgeous, dependable David. My stomach is lurching again, but for very different reasons.