Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

Nigel looks up and gives me an odd look. I realize that I’m talking to myself out loud. I go red and turn back to my computer. Mike’s e-mail is waiting for me.

MIKE MARSHALL: Georgie Porgie. Can you come over this evening? I’m in St. John’s Wood.

22 Arcacia Road—flat 14. I need to talk to you about this favor.

Oh God. I’d managed to push Mike out of my head, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to go away. If I don’t go round, he might tell David I was in Rome with him, and I don’t think David would forgive me for that. But I can’t bear to see Mike again and find out what sordid little favor he wants me to do for him. Haven’t I done enough? I keep wondering what was in the bag I took to Rome for him. What if there were drugs in there? I could have gone to prison. I shudder at the thought. Still, one more favor and then that’s it. I will never see Mike again and everything will be fine again. I mean, how hard can one little favor be?

==================================

ABC Amber LIT Converter v2.02

================================== 13

It’s five o’clock, the time that I would usually be packing up my things in order to make a swift exit. But today I don’t have my usual enthusiasm for leaving the building. I feel a mixture of frustration, nausea, and excitement. Excitement about seeing David tomorrow, frustration because I’m not seeing him tonight, and nausea because I don’t want to go round to Mike’s, don’t want to spend any more time with him. If we’re absolutely honest here, what Mike is doing is no better than blackmail: me doing him a favor in return for his silence. And I didn’t even do anything! Well, nothing really bad anyway. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting David.

I feel like going for a run or something, which is odd because I never exercise. I mean, I go to a Pilates class about once a month (usually the week after I buy a copy ofVogue orCosmopolitan and read an article on some glamorous supermodel who swears by it) and got really into tennis for a week last year, but I never go to the gym and I absolutely hate jogging.

I decide to go for a walk before making my way up to Mike’s flat. But as I walk past Nigel, he calls me over.

“Georgie, before you go, there’s something I want to . . .”

Much as I don’t want to get to Mike’s any time soon, the last thing I need is more boring work.

“Nigel,” I interrupt. “Is it really important? There’s something urgent that I need to do, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

“Oh. Okay. I just thought you might be interested in seeing something.”

Seeing something? Unlikely. But before I can say no Nigel is opening up his briefcase. Inside is a large, bright pink envelope with orange flowers all over it. It’s so hideous it’s quite wonderful.

“Nigel, I’m, well, I’m lost for words actually. Is it a present or something?”

Nigel looks at me as if I am completely stupid.

“The printouts,” he hisses. “I thought this envelope would throw Guy off the track. He wouldn’t expect me to send the information in an envelope like this, would he?”

He’s got a point. Suddenly I get a huge urge to give Nigel a hug. He’s probably been sitting here all afternoon waiting to show me the envelope. He must have gone out especially after lunch to get it.

“When he gets it, he’ll assume that it’s come from a drag queen or seven-year-old girl! Nigel, you’re a genius.”

He grins sheepishly. “Always pays to be thorough.”

On my way out I wonder what Guy is going to think when all that HG information arrives on his doorstep in a bright pink envelope. I bet Nigel will be logging on to his chat rooms tonight, showing off and telling everyone about his cleverness. I wonder what his chat room pseudonym is.

As I approach Mike’s road, I wish that I had a cozy group of chat room friends I could talk to.

People who could sympathize with me and make me feel better about going round to Mike’s flat.

I want to forget I ever thought I might fancy him more than David.

Mike lives in a really smart apartment block with off-street parking. All the cars are BMWs and Mercedes, and there are bits of grass here and there with immaculate borders. He must be doing really well to afford a flat here. There is a For Sale sign outside, along with three Sold signs. I make a mental note to ring the estate agent to find out how much the flats are going for. Just out of interest.

“I’ve called out for take-out,” Mike tells me as he kisses me hello. “You like Indian, don’t you?”

I don’t like Indian, actually, but I’m not going to remind Mike of that. I wonder if he remembers and has ordered it to spite me.

While we’re waiting for the food, he shows me round the flat. There are spare bedrooms—in the plural. I mean who has spare bedrooms? And an office. The bathroom is even nicer than the one in the Rome hotel, complete with fluffy towels. And the kitchen, well, David would adore it. It’s all chrome and full of gadgets. Mike doesn’t cook, so I’m not sure why he’s got so many cooking instruments, but it’s incredibly pristine.

I’m impressed, in spite of myself. “Mike, this place is amazing! Is it all yours?”

“Course it is. Cool, isn’t it.”

It is cool. I mean, it’s amazing. Although I can’t help but think that he needs some more things in it. You know, pictures, books, old magazines. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe other people don’t need to clutter their flats with piles of junk that they keep because it has sentimental value (or because they never get round to throwing things out).

The flat does have amazing furniture, though. Sumptuous leather sofas and a glass coffee table that looks bigger than my sitting room. And he’s got a huge television that swivels round when you turn it on. It’s like a five-star hotel or something.

The doorbell goes and it’s the curry. Mike cracks open a couple of beers and we perch at his huge dining room table.

“So,” I say expectantly.

“So?”

“So what is it that you want from me?”

“My, you’re impatient!”

“Yes, of course I am,” I say crossly. Honestly, does he think I’ve got nothing better to do than to trek up to St. John’s Wood for food I don’t even like?

Mike pauses and then brings his hands together on the table. He looks a bit like Tony Blair when he’s doing one of his “I’m a caring sort of bloke” speeches.

“Look,” he starts, uncertainly. “There’s some stuff you need to know about David. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but I need your help, and this is the only way.”

Something I should know about David? What’s David got to do with anything?

“I see. Go on.” I try to sound as businesslike as possible. I suddenly get a sickening feeling in my stomach. What if there is something going on between David and the brunette? What if Mike knows all about it and it’s been going on for ages?

“Okay. Not sure where to start, really. David and me . . . you know we’ve never really got on, right?”

“Right.” Please don’t let it be about her, I pray. Please let it be something completely different.

“Well, I never really thought anything of it. I mean, I rarely see the guy, you know? But I think he’s more obsessed than I thought.”

“What?” I smile with relief. It has nothing to do with that woman. Thank God. “Mike, you’re not talking about the time he hung up on you, are you? Look, I wouldn’t take that too seriously.”

Mike gives me a slightly patronizing smile.

“Georgie, I don’t give a fuck if David hangs up on me. Quite honestly I’d rather that than have to actually talk to him. It’s actually a bit more serious than that. The reason David hung up on me is that he was scared I was going to tell you what I’m telling you now.”