When in Rome... (15 page)

I weave in and out of the cobbled streets looking in shop windows and enjoying the warmth on my skin. If only England were warmer, I’m sure we’d all be a lot happier. I mean, it’s really hard to be depressed when the sun’s shining, isn’t it?

I’m just trying to decide whether to wander round the shops or do something more cultural like go to the Coliseum when I see something and freeze. Down an alleyway to my right I see David. This time I know I’m not mistaken. It’s definitely him. I can’t believe he’s here! When he said he was going to Geneva!

I step back so he can’t see me. I need to think this through. So he was at the airport yesterday! But what on earth is he doing here? My mind flits between feeling angry at David lying to me and worrying about how to explain my being here, too. At least Mike isn’t with me. Maybe I could tell him I needed to get away and Rome seemed the perfect place. Oh God, this is too much of a coincidence . . . I mean, who expects to bump into their boyfriend nine hundred miles away in a foreign city when he’s meant to be eight hundred miles away somewhere completely different?

Unless . . . he couldn’t have found out I was coming here and decided to spy on me, could he? My mind is racing. Of course, it’s impossible that David would know I was here—no one knows I’m here except Mike, and he’s hardly going to tell David, is he?

I peek round the corner to see if David’s still there. He is, and looking pretty good too, if you ask me. He’s wearing a crumpled creamy linen suit and he’s putting his hand through his hair a lot. There are two men with him, both very smartly dressed (it’s definitely an Italian thing), and I can see that David is being incredibly serious and attentive. When I take a proper look at his companions I can see why—they don’t look like the sort of men you’d want to get on the wrong side of. I wonder if he’s being attacked or something—his face is strained, and he’s nodding and giving them money. Quite a lot of money by the looks of it. Except they don’t look like muggers. I mean, they aren’t holding a knife or anything, and David seems to be listening really carefully to them. Maybe they are fraudsters and they’re trying to buy him off? Except then he would be getting money, not giving it.

I consider running away, but I’m surprised at how incredibly relieved I am to see David’s lovely face. I can’t possibly waste the opportunity of spending some time with him. And my curiosity over why he’s here is a lot stronger than my fear of being found out.

I decide that my best course of action is to walk casually down the street—okay, alleyway—and bump into David. That way I might overhear what those two men are talking about. And I will just look utterly surprised to see David there.

But as I start walking nonchalantly toward David, I trip over a cobblestone. David looks up, startled. I wave and carry on walking toward him, but before I can get to him the two men disappear down a side alley.

“David! Are you all right? I saw those guys taking money from you. What the hell are you doing here?”

David looks slightly stunned.

“Who were those men, and what are you doing here?” I repeat. I’ve never seen David look so flummoxed.

“What? Oh, um, they were clients, of sorts . . .” David looks around him as if to get his bearings.

“Georgie,” he continues slowly, “I . . . I didn’t really expect to see you here.” He looks utterly confused.

“But why would you be here?” I persist. “You’re meant to be in Geneva. For a minute I thought you might be following me, but that’s impossible . . .”

“Following you,” says David slowly. “Yes, I suppose you may as well know. I . . . I was going to go to Geneva, but . . . then I found out you were going to Rome, and I just had to come and find you. Have a proper Roman Holiday.”

I stare at him accusingly. “David, do not bloody lie to me, okay? You really expect me to believe that you were prepared to cancel a business trip just so you could follow me here? And anyway, how did you find out? And who were those men?”

But instead of answering, David leans down and kisses me.

“It’s so good to see you here,” he says softly, then straightens up and narrows his eyes at me. “But tell me something,” David continues. “Why exactly are you in Rome?”

He’s got me there. If he knew I was coming here, he might know that I’m supposedly here with Mike. Of course, then again, he might not.

“Because I wanted some romance in my life,” I say defensively. “Because I thought, obviously mistakenly, that you’d never take me.”

“Oh my darling.” David gives me a hug. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe you came here all by yourself. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“But why? How did you find out I was here? And why didn’t you just suggest we go out together?”

“I thought it would be more romantic this way. And I wanted to find out what you were up to . . .” David grins at me and raises one eyebrow.

So you don’t know about Mike, I think with relief. And now I’ve got someone to have lunch with!

“That’s all very well,” I say, pretending to still be cross, “but I still want to know who those men were.”

“I just thought, while I was here, I would look up a couple of old business acquaintances,” says David. He seems a lot calmer now. I suppose he wasn’t expecting me to stumble across him like that.

“You said they were clients.”

“One day a business acquaintance, the next a client,” grins David.

“And you were giving them money.”

“Their money. Money my firm had been looking after for them.”

I stare at him. I’m not convinced, but I can’t think of a good enough reason why David would be making it up. The thing is, David just doesn’t lie. I mean, whenever he tries, he always fails miserably, like the time he tried to convince me that he’d forgotten all about Valentine’s Day when actually he had organized a surprise late-night picnic in Hyde Park. Unlike Mike who actually did forget Valentine’s Day.

At the thought of Mike, I feel the blood rushing from my face. What if we bump into him? I mean, Mike could be around the next corner, couldn’t he, and then David would know why I came here and it would just be too awful.

And Mike, well, he would be furious, too. He brings me to Rome for a romantic weekend and I go off with David instead. I mean, it’s not exactly good form, is it? I can just imagine what my mother would have to say about this. She would think it incredibly unethical, unreasonable, and downright rude. And she’d have a very good point.

“Are you okay, darling?”

“Yes, yes of course,” I manage to say. “Just . . . well, I’m a bit hungry actually.” I smile wanly at him.

David looks at his watch and scratches the back of his neck like he does when he’s worried about something. But then he grins again and puts his arm round me protectively.

“In that case, I think we should get you some food, don’t you?”

Right answer. Very good response. Putting Mike firmly out of my mind, I follow David back up the alleyway and into a cafe.

Once I’m sitting down, I begin to relax. To be honest, it’s probably the most relaxed I’ve been since I got to Rome. I mean, I was looking forward to walking around with Mike and going to cool record label parties and stuff, but with David here I feel much less on edge. Like I don’t have to prove anything to anyone and don’t have to worry about saying the right thing. And he’s even buying me breakfast. How nice is that?

Every so often a few little questions start to creep into my mind about how David knew I’d be here, and what would have happened if I hadn’t bumped into him like that. Would he have come to the hotel? Would he have seen me and Mike together? But I do my best to suppress them and after a while they seem to disappear altogether.

When the waiter comes over I order a cappuccino.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

I look up at David curiously.

“I just thought a bottle of wine might be nice. Maybe an early lunch . . .”

I meet David’s eyes and see that they are glinting slightly.

“Could we have a few minutes?” I ask the waiter and as soon as he’s turned his back I reach over and give David a kiss. Somehow I think today is going to turn out much better than I thought.

This is the life. This is what fantasies of Rome are made of. David and me, sitting at a small, wobbly table, basking in the sun, drinking rose and eating slices of pizza, and it’s perfect. Well, nearly perfect. If David would just stop looking at his watch all the time I’d be a lot happier.

I look at him sternly. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” I ask pointedly, and David reddens slightly.

“Um, well,” he starts, then sees my eyes narrow and closes his mouth again. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, “let me make one phone call. Okay?”

I agree reluctantly—I’ve had enough of men and their phones for one day. He gets up from the table and I hear him talk in a low voice but I can’t make out the words. After about five minutes, he sits back down and turns his phone off.

“Okay,” he says with a smile, “I’m all yours.”

And I really think he means it. I gaze at him, studying every little crease on his face. It’s funny, today, when I was looking at Mike, I sort of got the feeling that I’d always been too bowled over by his amazing good looks to notice the hard lines on his face, whereas now, looking at David, it’s as if I’ve never really appreciated his strong bone structure and beautiful eyes. Like Mike is a beautiful bracelet that you find out is only gold-plated, and David is solid gold but in a more simple design.

“Okay, so what do you have planned for this afternoon?” David asks as he takes a large mouthful of baked dough and mozzarella cheese.

What do I have planned? Is this a trick question? Does he know I’m meant to be meeting Mike back at the hotel?

“I don’t know really,” I say hesitantly. “Do you have plans?”

“Well, I was hoping that maybe you might agree to explore Rome with me, if you’re not doing anything else, that is.” David grins slightly and I relax.

“Definitely!” I exclaim and pull out my guidebook. In it is a list I wrote on the plane of all the things I want to do. Frankly, you don’t watchRoman Holiday fifty million times and not know how you want to spend a free afternoon in the great city itself.

“Right, well, I definitely want to see some culture. Art galleries, that sort of thing. And to see the ancient ruins—I mean, you can’t come here and not see them, can you?”

I look at David for reassurance and he nods his approval.

“And I want to have my hair cut,” I continue, now in my stride. “I want to sit in sidewalk cafes and look in shop windows. I want go get arrested and have a fight and . . .”

The best bit inRoman Holiday is when Audrey Hepburn runs around Rome flirting with people and dancing with dodgy hairdressers. And I know it’s slightly silly to want to re-create a scene from a film but it would just be so much fun—and I’m sure other people have done it. I mean, how many people have walked down Rodeo Drive pretending to be Julia Roberts inPretty Woman ? Quite a few, I’m sure. So what if I want to have a gamine haircut and go a bit wild? There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?

I look up to see David laughing.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “We can do all of those things. But let’s maybe forget the being arrested part, shall we?”

Relieved that he’s laughing with me and not at me, I nod reluctantly as David pays the bill.

“Now wait here,” he says, and walks off.

“Where are you going?” I call after him. But he doesn’t reply.

There’s a bit of wine left in the bottle so I pour it into my glass and take a sip. Drinking at lunchtime always feels so utterly decadent. Particularly when the sun is shining like this. I sit back and sigh contentedly. I am so glad David came here. So glad I didn’t sleep with Mike. I shudder at the thought. And then I shudder at the realization that I’m going to have to let Mike know I’m not going to be meeting him for lunch. I can’t just leave him wondering, can I? Noticing that David has left his mobile on the table, I turn it on and take out the hotel postcard I took this morning to send to my mother. Luckily the telephone number is on it, and I manage to get through to a receptionist who speaks a bit of English. “Room Fifty-four,” I say loudly. “Mike Marshall. Leave message. From Georgie, yes?” The man repeats what I said, which is hopefully a good sign. “I meet friend. Don’t wait for me. Okay?”

“Si, si,no wait. Meet a friend.Si, ” says the receptionist, and I hang up just as David appears, coming toward me on a Vespa.

I can hardly believe my eyes. It is just the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s duck-egg blue with a leather seat and even though David looks a little bit unsteady on it, he’s grinning ear to ear.

“Fancy a ride?”

“David . . . where did you get this?”

I can’t believe it. This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of, and it’s actually happening to me.

“Just round the corner—I saw they were renting out scooters on the way to the restaurant. So what do you think, are you game?”

“Are you joking? Of course I am!”

David hands me a helmet, and I jump on the back. We drive off, speeding down the little cobbled streets and weaving through the tourists. To start off with we drive pretty slowly, but within a few minutes David seems to get the hang of it. Actually, he gets more than the hang of it; he’s really enjoying it. I can tell by the way he keeps speeding up and throwing back his head.

“Lean to your left!” David shouts at me as we approach a corner, and instead of slowing down, we whiz round the bend. It’s scary, but so exciting. I never thought I’d be doing this with David. I always thought he’d say that scooters are actually a bit dangerous really and maybe we should get a nice car instead. I hold on tightly and he takes his left hand off its handle to give my hand a squeeze.

Riding a Vespa is the coolest. Now I know how Audrey Hepburn felt. We weave through the streets, looking, I think, like a pretty cool couple. The wind is kind of blowing my skirt up round my legs, and I start to enjoy the appreciative looks I’m getting from people on the streets. I wish Nigel could see me now! I am the girl on the Vespa. Actually, I think I’m going to get a scooter when I get back to London. I mean, how cool would that be? I could drive it to work, to parties . . .