Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Drink?” asks Mike.

The two men both stare at me.

“Georgie’s just leaving, aren’t you,” he says, looking at me pointedly.

I walk toward the door. Honestly, I’m doing Mike a favor with this stupid bag, and he’s desperate to get rid of me. I’m going to be revisiting my SWOT analysis just as soon as I get home.

“Sorry mate, can’t stay,” says one of the men. “Just give us the goods and we’ll be on our way.”

Tracey places a blue carrier bag with a large package in it on the reception desk.

“Got a sample, have you?” the other one asks. I pause at the door. I somehow don’t think they’re talking about music samples.

Sure enough I see Mike reach into his back pocket and pull out a small wrap.

“Drugs?” I say indignantly before I can stop myself. “Mike, I can’t believe you.”

Everyone stares at me.

“Georgie, weren’t you on your way out?” Mike says angrily.

“Yes, yes I was,” I fume, dumping the holdall and slamming the door behind me. As I stomp down the steps I wonder if this is what David meant when he said that Mike was involved in stuff I didn’t want to know about. I knew that Mike sometimes did a few lines of coke—I mean, everyone in the music industry does it, he says. But this . . . well, this is different. Is this how he’s been making his money? God, what a bloody idiot. As I reach the main front door, I hear someone coming down the stairs after me.

“Georgie, stop a minute, will you?” It’s Mike.

“No, I won’t stop,” I say, walking more quickly. “I just can’t believe you. You tell me you’re running a successful record label, and all you’re doing is selling drugs. No wonder David didn’t want me associating with you.”

“David? What did he say?” Mike is looking agitated.

“Just that I should give you a wide berth. And I think he’s right.”

“Georgie, it’s not what you think,” Mike says quickly. “Honestly, you’ve got to believe me. I’m not into that stuff anymore. It was just a favor for a client. A major client, actually, and we need to keep him onside otherwise we’re screwed. I don’t want to do it, but I just said we’d hold on to some gear for him for a bit—and now we’re giving it back. End of story. Please don’t be angry.”

I give Mike my best withering stare.

“So why were they asking for a sample if it’s their gear?”

“They’re just the idiots who do the collections,” Mike replies quickly. “They don’t know me from Adam, so they want to check I’m not ripping their boss off. Come on, Georgie, you’ve got to believe me. Look, come and ask them if you like. I mean, we’ll probably lose the client, but I’d rather that than have you think I’m a drug dealer.”

He stands aside so I can go back to the office. If it’s a bluff, it’s a clever one. I mean, there’s no way I’m going back in there.

“Georgie Porgie, look, you know me. I’m not a drug dealer,” Mike pleads, looking me right in the eye. “Don’t let this mess things up for us, please?”

He looks so sweet, I think, when his eyes do that gooey thing. I mean, it’s so hard to stay angry.

Resignedly, I take the holdall from him. “Okay, but don’t do it again, okay? It’s so stupid. You could end up in prison.”

He nods sheepishly. “Thanks Georgie. And thanks for being fucked off. It means a lot to me that you care enough to be pissed.”

“So I’ll see you in Rome?”

“Rome,” says Mike softly as he kisses me on the lips. Dropping the holdall again, I reach my arms around his neck. I can feel his light stubble grazing my cheeks and can taste beer on his tongue as my lips part.

“Better go,” says Mike reluctantly as he gives me a final kiss.

I nod, wave good-bye, and, clutching the holdall as I walk down the street, assure myself everything is great. I’m going to Rome and I’m going to have a fantastic time. Aren’t I?

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I don’t like flying. It’s not that I get scared or anything, I just hate the tedium. I mean, you don’t just jump on and jump off, do you? There’s getting to the airport, all the waiting around, passport control, and getting your baggage at the other end. If I was rich enough I wouldn’t have luggage.

I’d just buy everything at the other end. I hate airports.

So far today I have been traveling for exactly five and a half hours, and I’m still in Rome airport waiting for my luggage. I wish I’d just taken my stuff in a small bag that I didn’t have to check, but I wanted a fancy suitcase to bring with me, and the salesman convinced me that I should get a larger size because it would be so much more practical. On the plus side, it was big enough to fit Mike’s bag in it along with all my clothes. Still, I wouldn’t call having to wait forty minutes for my luggage practical.

I manage to get a trolley and wheel it over to the conveyor belt. Two little boys are seeing how far they can jump off the belt, and their harassed mother is trying to stop them. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone else, I think to myself. Traveling on your own is quite hard enough; traveling with someone else brings a whole load more stress. Except traveling with David, that is. He’s the sort of person who looks after everything so all you have to do is sit around and drink tea. I get a slight pang and wonder what he’s doing now in Geneva.

According to the screen in front of me, my flight’s luggage is next in line for this conveyor belt.

Mind you, that doesn’t mean much; it’s been next in line for twenty minutes at least. The airport is heaving with people, and I let the Italian conversations wash over me. It’s such a romantic language. I resolve to start learning it as soon as possible. I can already ask for a bottle of mineral water without gas in Italian, so I’ve probably got a flair for languages. Plus Italians are so well dressed—if I could learn to speak Italian I’m sure I would start dressing in tan, black, and beige like the women around me. And I wonder if I’d suit highlights? I gaze at a couple of women standing a few yards away from me, both wearing floppy linen trousers with really nice sandals and smart tops. One of them looks like Sophia Loren and the other one could easily be Penelope Cruz, just a few years older. They are talking animatedly about something and I wish I could understand what they are saying.

There’s no doubt about it, when I get back to London, I’m going to start Italian classes. How great would it be to have another language under my belt! I’ll be able to really impress people in restaurants—well, Italian restaurants anyway. And then I could even come and work in Italy. I could work for an Italian record label!

I imagine Nigel and Guy’s shocked faces as I tell them that I’m leaving Leary to pursue a career at . . . well, I can’t think of the name of any Italian record labels, but they must have them. I’ll move to Rome and get a gorgeous little apartment, and I’ll walk around in full skirts and chic little shoes. Actually, if I’m working for a record label, I’ll probably be wearing low slung jeans and trainers most of the time. I wonder what David would say if I told him I was moving to Rome. Would he want to come with me?

As my thoughts turn to David, my eyes start to play tricks on me because I could swear I can see him on the other side of the airport walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. I mean, it’s obviously impossible because David’s in Geneva, but it does look very like him. And he’s with a woman.

Of course it can’t actually be him. I mean, what on earth would David be doing with some other woman in Rome? But I could almost swear it’s him. I’m about to call out when it occurs to me that if it is David, it wouldn’t be very sensible to go charging across the airport to confront him.