Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“It was an immensely enjoyable weekend,” Nigel whispers, trying to sound utterly professional but obviously full of the joys of spring. “There were people there from all over the world. The power base is growing, you know. And evidence of conspiracies is mounting up.”

“Great!” I always try to extend my chats with Nigel because then I can postpone doing any work for a bit longer. Plus, if I get him thinking about security, he may forget about filing a report on my lateness. “So, meet anyone nice?”

I have a theory that Nigel is only obsessed with conspiracies because it’s been so long since he last had sex. If he ever has, that is. I’ve never heard him take a personal call at work, and he never mentions a single friend who isn’t “part of the network.” He doesn’t even try to talk to anyone at the Christmas party, and I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend—which means he’s stuck in a bit of a catch-22. I mean, who’s going to want to go out with someone who’s such a freak? And if he doesn’t get laid, he’ll never realize that there is a whole world outside the Internet.

“It’s best not to talk too much to people,” says Nigel. “You never know who’s listening or watching. But the network is certainly growing.” He looks down as if worried he’s said too much, then looks at his watch. “Georgie, I think it is time that you commenced your work. It is now nine-thirty, and as you well know, the working day begins at nine.”

Denise, who has finished her phone call, rolls her eyes at me and I go back to my desk and switch on my computer.

I’m staring out the window onto the street below. It is now eleven-thirty and so far all I have managed to do is respond to a few e-mails and write the heading for a questionnaire I’m supposed to be writing. The questionnaire is meant to judge the popularity and success of Leary’s latest pensions newsletter. Nigel told me on Friday that we are probably going to bin the newsletter because it’s proving very expensive and we don’t have enough subscribers. So what Guy wants is a report demonstrating that it was a stupid idea in the first place (it originated in the marketing department, so none of us really care if it works or not) and should be scrapped.

I type: How would you describe “Pensions Bulletin”: crap, really crap, or abysmal?

I highlight the line and delete. Surely there are better things I could be spending my time on?

But I suspect that whatever I turned my hand to today, I would be pretty useless. Since Saturday I have been going over and over again in my head my chance encounter with Mike. The smart car, the smart clothes, the fact that I was wearing my least flattering pair of jeans . . . and David.

He was really edgy, even after watching “EastEnders” and the “Antiques Roadshow.” And then he suddenly got up, made a quick phone call, and said he had to go to the office. I mean, David does sometimes work on the weekends, but to go to the office on a Sunday night has to be desperate by anyone’s standards.

Really, I should be worried about David and wanting to reassure him that I’m totally over Mike.

But instead I’m daydreaming about Mike. I’m imagining bumping into him again, without David, and driving off in his car.

“He is a total bastard and you are well rid of him,” I type carefully, and then type it again. “You love David,” I type, and highlight it in red. I picture David sitting at his desk. (I’ve never seen his desk, but imagine an accounting office somewhere full of Nigels in dark suits, staring at computer screens full of figures.) He’s looking very serious, with those little lines above his eyes that appear when he’s concentrating. I love it when David brings his laptop round to my flat on weekends and tries to work. He sits there intensely, going through e-mails and figures, and I sit there doing everything I can to divert him. I consider it a challenge when he says he has to work.

Just how easy will it be for me to get his attention? Of course I always succeed pretty quickly.

He pretends to get cross, then he gives me his crinkly smile and puts down the lid of his laptop with a sigh. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why he ends up going to the office on a Sunday.

Suddenly the phone rings and jolts me out of my reverie. “Georgie Beauchamp” I answer on autopilot.

“You kept your name then?” Oh my God! It’s Mike! Okay, stay calm.

“David and I are not married,” I retort, adding a “yet” for good measure.

“You must be so happy together, so much in common,” he continues.

“Is there a point to this nice little chitchat?” I sound stern, and am pleased. This is a lot better than standing in the rain without an umbrella.

“It was nice seeing you the other day.”

“Well.” I realize I don’t have anywhere to go with this particular statement. I am certainly not ready to say it was nice seeing him, too—especially as it was very far from nice.

“I thought it would be nice to see you properly.”

Properly as in without clothes? I wonder, and then get annoyed with myself. Honestly, this guy has been a complete shithead and I’m being utterly pathetic and wondering if he still fancies me.

I wonder if he does still fancy me.

“You’re a shithead.”

“Ah. Yes, you’re right. A total shithead. But a shithead who would love to buy you a slap-up lunch if you’d let him.”

“A slap-up lunch? Mike, since when are you able to cobble together enough money for that?

And the car . . . surely you aren’t actually a success, are you?”

Am I flirting? It feels like I’m flirting. I am a bad person.

“I can’t deny it: I have money. Actually, I’m a huge success. I’m in business. Meet me and we can call it a business lunch.”

Why is it that even when I’m cross with Mike he makes me smile and forget what it is that made me cross in the first place? It’s always been the same: our arguments always blew over really quickly; neither of us could ever be bothered staying pissed off. David on the other hand takes things to heart much more. It took days and days to convince him that I wasn’t serious when I said I would be forced to leave him for Elvis Presley if he came back to life. And once I turned up at his place three hours after I’d said I would and he went absolutely mad. He actually shouted at me for about twenty minutes about how I need to take my safety a lot more seriously!

Having said that, he was very apologetic the next day and said it was all his fault (I never followed the logic on that one, but who was I to disagree). And the following week he got me a mobile phone so that I could call him if I was ever late again. Nigel was beside himself when he saw it—apparently it’s some super phone that transmits at its own special frequency and you can only get one if you’re some hotshot spy or something. David got it from one of his clients—I suppose there are benefits to being an accountant after all.

“So will you meet me for lunch?”

Something tells me that I should say no, but before I can give myself time to think I find myself saying yes.

“And David won’t mind?”

“David has nothing to mind. We are having a business lunch.”

“Of course we are. Okay, be at The Place at one.”

“Maybe,” I tease, and put the phone down. I can feel that my cheeks are hot and I try to casually turn back to my computer.

“So who was that then—got a new admirer have you?” asks Denise.

“Admirer? No! No, it’s just an old friend, very old—not him, I mean we’ve known each other for ages; we’re just, you know, catching up over lunch, it’s nothing!”

She is looking at me oddly. “I was only joking,” she ventures. “You’re with David, aren’t you?”