Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Yeah, well, you missed a fucking great night. But I suppose these days you prefer nights in with a cup of cocoa with David.”

Mike lies down on the bed and doubles a pillow up to act as a neck rest. He isn’t looking at me so I choose to ignore his comments. I just want to go home, but my flight doesn’t leave until 6P.M . I want to defend David, to tell Mike that we had a fantastic night dancing and that David is far more exciting than Mike could possibly imagine, but I can’t think about David without seeing an image of him with that woman in my head. David does have a more interesting side to him. I’m just not sure I like it all that much.

Mike is studying the back of a CD intently. Incredibly he doesn’t seem particularly bothered that I left him in the lurch; he’s mildly pissed off but that’s all. I decide I am really bad at reading people. I mean, I thought Mike would be furious. And I never thought I’d see David with a glamorous cow on his arm.

“Someone called you, by the way.”

Mike looks round, startled. “Here? At the hotel?”

“Yes. Some Italian bloke. Said he was family. Do you have Italian family?”

He gets up quickly and walks to the window, looking out furtively. “Family? Oh Christ.”

“What? Mike, what’s the matter?”

Mike looks dreadful for a minute, then he seems to pull himself together.

“Oh, nothing really. I’ve . . . I’ve got some family out here. Uncle . . . Uncle Pedro. It’s family feud stuff. I . . . I borrowed some money off him a while back and I haven’t paid it back, that’s all.”

“I thought Pedro was a Spanish name?”

“Yeah, well, maybe he’s half Spanish. How do I fucking know?”

Mike glares at me and I smile sweetly at him. I can see that he’s really unsettled and I’m quite enjoying it.

“You don’t look particularly Italian. Or Spanish,” I say thoughtfully. “So why don’t you pay back the money now that you’re rolling in it?”

Mike looks at me strangely, then turns away. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. But look, if he calls again can you say I’m not here?”

I agree, dubiously. To be honest, I don’t want to be here long enough to answer another call. I don’t want to know what kind of trouble Mike is in, what kind of stupid things he’s been doing.

I’m tired of hanging around with people who have secrets. I want to go home. My Roman Holiday is well and truly over.

“So, does David know you’re here with me?” Mike shoots me a wicked grin. Evidently his uncle Pedro isn’t causing him too much concern.

I shake my head. “No. And he doesn’t need to, does he?”

“Oh no, of course not,” says Mike, winking. “I see no need to tell good old David that his lovely Georgie came out here for a dirty weekend with yours truly but couldn’t take the pace.” He lies back down on the bed and looks very pleased with himself.

“As it happens, I need a little favor from you. And, you know, one good deed deserves another . . .”

“Favor? Mike, I have done you a million favors. I think you probably owe me this one.”

“Oh, sure, yes. But I’d just hate to accidentally tell David. I bet he thinks butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, doesn’t he, Georgie girl?”

Angry as I am with David, I don’t want him knowing about Mike. I can’t let him find out—

there’s no way he’d ever forgive me.

“Fine. One favor. But you tell David anything and I’m telling someone about the drugs.”

“Ooh, feisty,” grins Mike as he lights a cigarette.

We order coffee from room service and spend the next couple of hours reading music magazines that Mike’s brought with him and smoking cigarettes. Just like the old days, I think. No resentment, no big arguments. But no real emotion either. It’s like Mike has very low standards in terms of how he treats other people, and he doesn’t expect much from them either. I look at him laughing at an interview with some club diva and can’t understand what I saw in him for so long. He’s got nothing on David. He isn’t as good-looking, as intelligent, as brave, kind, or exciting. He’s actually very boring.

“So this favor,” I say eventually, wanting to get whatever it is out of the way as soon as possible. “What is it?”

“All in good time, my pretty,” says Mike, flicking ash onto the surface of the bedside table. “All in good time.”

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David hasn’t called. It’s Monday lunchtime, and he hasn’t called once. Which is obviously fine.

I mean, he’s got lots of work to do, and he knows that I’m upset with him, so maybe he’s just giving me some time to calm down and then he’s going to call and explain everything. He’s going to beg me to take him back, tell me that the bitch from Rome means nothing to him, and everything will be fine. Of course it will.

I check my mobile again to make sure I haven’t missed any calls. I haven’t.

“Do you think work is more important to some people than their family and friends?” God knows why I’m asking Nigel this. Well, actually I do know; it’s because we’re having lunch together and I can’t think of anything else to say.

He looks at me sympathetically. “Georgie, don’t let this HG thing get to you too much, will you?”

“No! No, of course not.” God, if Nigel only knew—with Rome and David not calling, I haven’t actually thought about the merger at all.

I dig into my sausage, bacon, and egg combo with extra baked beans. We are sitting in a greasy spoon round the corner from our office. Nigel doesn’t like cafes; he thinks they’re full of yuppies, even though yuppies don’t exist anymore. But I think another reason why our “business lunch” is taking place in such a nonbusiness place is that he wants to go somewhere they don’t serve alcohol. The research team went out for lunch together once, about a year ago—me, Nigel, and Denise. And Denise and I drank a bottle of wine between us, and Nigel was really twitchy all afternoon. It’s not like a bottle is that much really, but there’s a paragraph in our staff handbook that says we can’t drink at lunchtime unless we’re entertaining clients, and I think he was worried he’d get the sack for allowing it.

Nigel has ordered pasta, which is really stupid when you’re in a greasy spoon. I mean, you wouldn’t order a vegetarian meal in a restaurant that’s famous for its steak, would you? Unless you were vegetarian, of course. In which case, I’m sure the vegetarian meal would be really nice, maybe even better than the steak. But the point is, Nigel’s pasta is all glupey and the “tomato and basil” sauce looks like ketchup to me.

“Nice weekend?”

Nigel gives up trying to wind the spaghetti round his fork and starts shoveling it into his mouth instead. He shrugs. It takes me a while to realize that this is his answer to my question.

I’m not doing well engaging Nigel in conversation. I’ve tried talking about the weather, the food, even his dodgy-looking parka, all to no avail. And he hasn’t asked me a single question, I notice, except to check that I’ve got cash on me (the greasy spoon doesn’t take credit cards).

Reluctantly, I give up trying to talk about anything other than work. In offices all around the country, colleagues are bonding, I think; learning more about each other and cementing firm friendships. Offices all around the country, but not ours. At least not in the research department, at any rate.

“So did you go through those papers from HG?”

Nigel’s eyes light up.

“It’s funny you should ask,” he begins, as if I have just asked a completely “out there” question.