Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

I sit down on a sofa and discover that someone’s conveniently left a copy ofInStyle on a table in front of me, so I pick it up and flick through it idly. A young, glamorous-looking woman brushes past me as I turn to a feature called “How to Look Like a Million Bucks on a Budget.” I’m so interested in the idea of making ?40 shoes look like ?400 shoes that I almost miss David coming out of the lift. But out of the corner of my eye I register the strong face and assured walk, and my heart flips slightly. I stand up and smooth down my clothes (according toInStyle , grooming is an easy way to make an inexpensive outfit ooze sophistication). But before I can get David’s attention I see that the glamorous woman who brushed past me earlier is now hanging on his arm. How dare she! I’m about to shout out when I realize that this is not the first time I’ve seen her. She was also at the airport with David on Friday.

My heart feels like it’s stopped beating. It’s obviously the woman who called earlier. “My colleague,” David had called her. But she doesn’t look like a boring accountant. She’s wearing red lipstick for a start. And why would a colleague hold on to his arm like that? I hesitate. I don’t want to accost David with this woman yet, not until I’m sure what she’s doing here. But as they swish through reception and walk up to the concierge’s desk, I lose all sense of proportion. She is openly flirting with him, and he is hardly shrinking back. There is no apologetic moving away or look of embarrassment—David looks like he’s enjoying it. Where is the sad look on his face because I’ve gone? Why isn’t he wondering where I am? And to think that a minute ago I was all ready to forgive and forget. Well, we’ll see about that.

I stand up and can feel my hands shaking. This is what people must mean by “shaking with rage.”

“David,” I call out. I was hoping for an accusatory tone, but instead my voice sounds shrill and stressed.

David turns round quickly.

“Georgie, you’re still here.” I wouldn’t say his eyes are lighting up at the sight of me. And now he looks embarrassed. God, this is much worse than I thought. This is really serious—if it wasn’t, he’d have run over and said how sorry he was. But he’s just looking at me as if he wished I wasn’t here.

“Yes, I’m still here. I just wanted to say how glad I am that you’ve got work to do. I hope you enjoy it,” I say pointedly, looking at the brunette.

“Um, this is Georgie,” David says to the bitch. “She’s . . .” He seems to be having difficulties explaining who I am.

“I’m his ex-girlfriend,” I announce loudly. “So you’re welcome to him. Fucking welcome to him.” My voice breaks as I fight back the tears, and I run from the hotel.

I walk around the block for about half an hour. I don’t know where to go, what to do. The only place I can think to go is back to Mike’s hotel, but somehow I can’t face seeing him yet. I want to cry, but I’m too angry, too desperate. I can’t believe that everything was a sham. I can’t believe that David would lie to me like that. No sooner do I realize how much I love him than David turns out to have a whole life I know nothing about, complete with a total bitch of a mistress. Sorry,colleague .

I need to sit down. No I don’t, I need to keep walking. To be honest I don’t know what I need to do, but there must be something I can do to dull the pain. To stop my mind racing with horrible thoughts of David with that bitch on his arm, of them laughing behind my back. God, what a fool I’ve been.

I look around and see that I’m in the shopping district. Not just the shopping district, but the designer shopping district. David’s hotel is right next door to Valentino. I turn the corner, and have to blink several times. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many designer shops in one place. All the names you usually see in magazines are here: Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Missoni. I always thought designer labels were only worn by pop stars and models in magazines, but here everyone seems to be walking around with Prada and Moschino shopping bags.

I am suddenly gripped with the desire to go shopping. I mean, I deserve some nice clothes, don’t I? Maybe I’ll find something that makes me look so gorgeous that David will ache with desire when he sees me. He’ll take one look at me and forget all about the bitch. Yesterday was for Mike and David, for window shopping. Today is for me, and I want to buy.

I gear myself up to walk into one of the designer shops. I mean, how hard can it be? I’ll just amble in, have a look around and maybe buy a bag or something. My eyes alight on Prada. I take a deep breath and get ready to open the door. But just as I’m about to push it, it opens before me and I find myself almost falling over. This isn’t a good start—of course, they have doormen. I should have known that. I start to look around. The walls are painted a duck-egg green and there is a hushed silence. I approach a row of shirts self-consciously and try to study them. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Within a second an assistant is at my side. Do I need any help? I shake my head. How did she know I was English, I wonder. But instead of walking away, she persists.

“Ees there something in particular you are looking for?”

I smile and say no.

“But Madam does know that this is the menswear shop?”

I can’t believe it. I assumed that the men’s and women’s clothes would all be together. Actually that’s a lie. I had no idea Prada even did menswear. I feel my cheeks flush and walk out as quickly as I can. I can hear the assistant calling after me explaining that the womenswear shop is right next door, but I don’t want to listen. This is a mistake. I’m not a Prada person. I should just go and find the cheap shops I know so well. Unless . . . right in front of me is Gucci. Gucci! I can’t simply walk past it, can I?

I loiter outside for a moment or two. It’s incredibly busy and people (mainly Japanese, by the looks of it) are going in and out continuously. I should easily be able to wander around unnoticed. I see a group of people walk in and take my chance, following in behind. As the heavy scent and cool air hit me I almost gasp. It is amazing in here. The carpet is thick, the assistants are stunning, and everything looks better than in real life. Even the bags are presented like works of art in holes in the wall. People are quietly milling around and all I can hear is the busy hum of the cash desk. I make my way up to women’s clothing on the first floor. Lots of black trousers. A couple of nice-looking tops. But to be honest I’m a bit at a loss. This isn’t like Miss Selfridge where there are loads of different things to try on. Just as I’m about to give up and leave a nice-looking young man appears at my side.

“Would Madam like to try something on?” He smiles at me.

Would I like to try something on? In Gucci? Is he mad? Of course I would.

I nod gratefully and he looks at the trousers I’ve been eyeing up.

“These are nice,” he says, “but we have a better style for you, I think.” He walks over to the other side of the room and picks out a gorgeous pair of black trousers with a little leather buckle at the front. I swear I’ve seen Madonna in the same pair.

I grin at him and he picks out a few tops, which he takes over to a changing room. At first I’m almost too nervous to try anything on, but once I’ve got the trousers on I get into my stride. The tops are amazing—there’s one with a kind of drawstring waist that makes me look like I’m really thin, and there’s another that is really sheer but incredibly flattering. I suddenly understand why people happily spend so much money on clothes. These pieces work miracles. You don’t need to go on a diet if you can afford to wear Gucci.