Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

I glance up and see Nigel sifting through all the printouts on HG, but he’s trying to do it secretly so he’s got some Leary report on top of it. Every time someone walks past he slams the Leary report down on top of the figures and looks around furtively. Honestly, he’d be rubbish as a double agent.

I try to stop thinking about David, but every time the phone rings I expect it to be him. It’s so unlike him not to call me, even if we have an argument. I don’t want to be the one to call him because frankly he was totally out of line over the weekend, telling me what to do and everything. But I usually talk to David at least once a day and I miss telling him stuff. And I don’t want to go to Rome without seeing him first. I need to make sure we’re okay, that everything’s fine before I go. To be honest, I’m almost hoping that David will cancel his Geneva plans and suggest that we go somewhere instead. Then I can cancel Rome and we can just have a lovely time together.

Except David never cancels his work plans. I can’t help wondering if this trip to Rome is a sign.

David obviously doesn’t want to marry me or anything, and this could be the wake-up call I need. Maybe David just doesn’t love me enough.

I pick up the phone and hit “1.” (David is on my speed dial. I love speed dial, like I’m far too important and busy to press more than one digit.)

“Hello?” I’m immediately unsettled—this isn’t Jane on the line. Jane always says “Good afternoon, David Bradley’s office” or “Good morning, David Bradley’s office.” She speaks a bit like the Queen actually. Or like a newsreader from the 1950s. Intimidating, but nice.

“Hi, can I speak to David?” I’m not looking for reassurance that David loves me. I just want to see how he is. You know, in a totally nonparanoid kind of way.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Yes, it’s Georgie.”

“Georgie . . . from where, please?”

“Georgie, his girlfriend, actually.” I sound a bit more agitated than I’d like to, but who is this woman making me feel like I need to justify myself? Why doesn’t everyone in David’s office know my name?

Okay, I’m overreacting a bit. Must be the guilt.

I go on hold briefly, and then I hear David’s voice.

“Georgie. I’m so glad you called. I’m really sorry about the other night. I had no right to talk to you that way.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I say and I actually mean it. There’s something incredibly reassuring about David’s voice. Whenever I’m feeling even slightly unsure of myself, or don’t know what to do about something, I just talk to David and feel like everything’s okay again.

“I wish I wasn’t going away this weekend. I’d invite you along but there’s a new partner working on this case with me and I don’t think I’m going to get a lot of free time.”

“That’s fine, don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’ve got loads to do this weekend anyway.

We’ve got lots on at work.”

“You’ve got a lot on?”

He sounds really surprised and I find myself getting defensive. Why should David have the monopoly on being really busy at work? I also have important things to do.

“Yes, you know, strategic stuff,” I say airily.

He chuckles. “Right, well, you have fun with that. Is my girl becoming a fearsome business executive?”

“Sort of.” Fearsome. I like that.

“Look, darling, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you after the weekend, okay?”

“Okay, have fun.”

“Bye.”

For some reason I feel very flat as I put the receiver back.

It isn’t too far to walk to Mike’s offices, even though it isn’t exactly on my way home. Although I use the wordoffices in its loosest sense. For one thing, they’re in Soho, right in the middle of Frith Street, near all the cool pubs and bars. And for another thing, inside they don’t have nasty flecked wallpaper like the Leary building; they have exposed brickwork with groovy circular desks and posters from gigs and clubs covering the walls. The radio is on and there are beanbags on the floor, a TV in the corner, and a bar. A bar, for God’s sake!

Tracey, the girl I had met at the Atlantic Bar, is sitting at a desk at the front of the office with two phones on it. She’s looking pretty bored. I smile at her.

“Hiya! Do you always have to work this late?”

“I wouldn’t feel sorry for her if I were you. She doesn’t get in till twelve,” says Mike, who’s just appeared. Tracey raises her eyebrows at me and then goes back to looking bored. Mike gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Drink?”

I look around and take in my surroundings. “Mike, I can’t believe you have a bar in your office.

Do you ever actually work?”

“Bar’s essential. Need it to keep DJs and bands happy,” shrugs Mike. I sit down on one of the beanbags and immediately regret it. I’ve always liked the idea of beanbags—I mean they look really cool—but somehow the reality never lives up to expectations. They aren’t very comfortable, and it’s impossible to look good when you’re on one.

Mike brings me over a beer and then tosses a holdall onto my lap. It’s heavier than I expected and larger, too. Still, I’m going to Rome, I keep reminding myself.

“Won’t be a problem, will it?” I wonder what Mike would say if I said “yes.”

“It’s quite heavy,” I say instead, but Mike doesn’t answer.

“So what’s in it?” I ask. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?

Mike looks up sharply. “Georgie,” he says with a sigh, “if you don’t want to help me out here, just say so, okay? If you want me to have to pay another ?500 in excess baggage costs to take it with me, just say the word and I’ll do it.”

I stare at him. I forgot he could be such a drama queen.

“Fine, I’ll take it,” I say crossly. “I was only asking a question.”

“Thanks, Georgie. Look, sorry for snapping. I’ve just got so much shit to deal with right now, y’know?”

I wonder what sort of shit, but don’t think it’s really the time to ask. Instead, I lean back on the beanbag and take a gulp of my beer. These are seriously cool offices. Maybe if I get made redundant from Leary’s I could get a job at a record label or something. I could sit around and listen to records and sign up cool young things. I could end up going out with a pop star.

“Do you have to do much research—into bands and stuff, I mean?” I ask Mike.

He looks at me uncertainly. “Research? Nah. It’s all in here.” He points to his head.

I lean back again, imagining myself in an interview at Polygram or somewhere, pointing to my head and saying confidently “All my music knowledge doesn’t come from research—it’s all in here.”

There’s a loud buzzing noise and Tracey calls over to Mike, “The boys are here. They say they’ve come for the gear.”

Mike stands up quickly. “Yeah, right. Um, let them in, will you?”

He turns to me. “So don’t you have to make a move?”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve got to clear out in a minute. Got a record launch to go to. I’d love you to come but it’s a stupid guest-list thing. You can get back all right, can’t you?”

I struggle to my feet. I was rather enjoying my beer actually.

“Oh, no problem—I’m going out tonight anyway.” I’m not really, but I can’t help lying—

something about Mike always makes me want to make out like I’ve got a more exciting life than I actually do. As I pick up the holdall two men appear at the door. They don’t look like record label types. For one thing, they’re wearing really bad jeans, the sort of thing people wore in the eighties. Although I suppose the eighties is meant to be back in again. It could be me who’s out of touch.