When in Rome... (12 page)

“Yes, you know, strategic stuff,” I say airily.

He chuckles. “Right, well, you have fun with that. Is my girl becoming a fearsome business executive?”

“Sort of.” Fearsome. I like that.

“Look, darling, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you after the weekend, okay?”

“Okay, have fun.”

“Bye.”

For some reason I feel very flat as I put the receiver back.

It isn’t too far to walk to Mike’s offices, even though it isn’t exactly on my way home. Although I use the wordoffices in its loosest sense. For one thing, they’re in Soho, right in the middle of Frith Street, near all the cool pubs and bars. And for another thing, inside they don’t have nasty flecked wallpaper like the Leary building; they have exposed brickwork with groovy circular desks and posters from gigs and clubs covering the walls. The radio is on and there are beanbags on the floor, a TV in the corner, and a bar. A bar, for God’s sake!

Tracey, the girl I had met at the Atlantic Bar, is sitting at a desk at the front of the office with two phones on it. She’s looking pretty bored. I smile at her.

“Hiya! Do you always have to work this late?”

“I wouldn’t feel sorry for her if I were you. She doesn’t get in till twelve,” says Mike, who’s just appeared. Tracey raises her eyebrows at me and then goes back to looking bored. Mike gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Drink?”

I look around and take in my surroundings. “Mike, I can’t believe you have a bar in your office. Do you ever actually work?”

“Bar’s essential. Need it to keep DJs and bands happy,” shrugs Mike. I sit down on one of the beanbags and immediately regret it. I’ve always liked the idea of beanbags—I mean they look really cool—but somehow the reality never lives up to expectations. They aren’t very comfortable, and it’s impossible to look good when you’re on one.

Mike brings me over a beer and then tosses a holdall onto my lap. It’s heavier than I expected and larger, too. Still, I’m going to Rome, I keep reminding myself.

“Won’t be a problem, will it?” I wonder what Mike would say if I said “yes.”

“It’s quite heavy,” I say instead, but Mike doesn’t answer.

“So what’s in it?” I ask. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?

Mike looks up sharply. “Georgie,” he says with a sigh, “if you don’t want to help me out here, just say so, okay? If you want me to have to pay another ?500 in excess baggage costs to take it with me, just say the word and I’ll do it.”

I stare at him. I forgot he could be such a drama queen.

“Fine, I’ll take it,” I say crossly. “I was only asking a question.”

“Thanks, Georgie. Look, sorry for snapping. I’ve just got so much shit to deal with right now, y’know?”

I wonder what sort of shit, but don’t think it’s really the time to ask. Instead, I lean back on the beanbag and take a gulp of my beer. These are seriously cool offices. Maybe if I get made redundant from Leary’s I could get a job at a record label or something. I could sit around and listen to records and sign up cool young things. I could end up going out with a pop star.

“Do you have to do much research—into bands and stuff, I mean?” I ask Mike.

He looks at me uncertainly. “Research? Nah. It’s all in here.” He points to his head.

I lean back again, imagining myself in an interview at Polygram or somewhere, pointing to my head and saying confidently “All my music knowledge doesn’t come from research—it’s all in here.”

There’s a loud buzzing noise and Tracey calls over to Mike, “The boys are here. They say they’ve come for the gear.”

Mike stands up quickly. “Yeah, right. Um, let them in, will you?”

He turns to me. “So don’t you have to make a move?”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve got to clear out in a minute. Got a record launch to go to. I’d love you to come but it’s a stupid guest-list thing. You can get back all right, can’t you?”

I struggle to my feet. I was rather enjoying my beer actually.

“Oh, no problem—I’m going out tonight anyway.” I’m not really, but I can’t help lying—something about Mike always makes me want to make out like I’ve got a more exciting life than I actually do. As I pick up the holdall two men appear at the door. They don’t look like record label types. For one thing, they’re wearing really bad jeans, the sort of thing people wore in the eighties. Although I suppose the eighties is meant to be back in again. It could be me who’s out of touch.

“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. For one thing, there is the teeny-weeny problem that I’m not actually meant to be in Rome myself. If it is David, and if there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, bounding up to him when he’s with some gorgeous-looking woman and explaining that I’m actually here to meet my ex-boyfriend who David has explicitly asked me not to see or even speak to, is not the best idea in the world.

But it really does look like him, and he’s even wearing a coat like David’s. I whip out my mobile and dial David’s number. You know, just to see how he is. In Geneva. The phone rings, and the man keeps walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. He’s walking. It’s ringing. Ooh, he’s stopped. Still ringing. Now, he’s walking again, but he’s reaching, he’s . . . damn, he’s out of sight.

“Georgie!”

I always forget about other people’s caller ID.

“Hi darling!” I’m trying to sound all breezy. “Just wanted to see how things are going in Geneva!”

“Oh, you know, it’s not exactly a laugh a minute, but I’d say we’re making progress. I’d much rather be at home with you, though.”

Now that I can’t see whether the man I saw in the airport is on the phone or not I can’t think of anything to say to David.

“So what’s Geneva like?”

“To be honest, I haven’t really seen much of Geneva, just the inside of offices.”

“Okay, well, have a lovely time,” I say, and hang up just in time to hear an announcement telling me my luggage has arrived on carousel number four.

Of course my suitcase is the last to appear on the carousel, and I’m half an hour late by the time I get to the station to meet Mike. I even take a taxi, which wipes out a whole load of cash. But naturally Mike hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe he hasn’t adjusted to Italian time. I sit on my suitcase and start reading a copy of ItalianVogue I bought at a kiosk. Not that I really understand any of it, but I like the pictures, and also I like the idea that people walking past me may think I’m Italian.

“Georgina,” I mutter under my breath, practicing my accent. “Buon giorno,Georgina.” A man sitting next to me looks at me oddly and I refocus on my magazine.