When in Rome... (16 page)

We go over a bump in the road and I yelp, clinging on tighter to David. How come he’s so good at this, I wonder. It’s like he’s ridden one for years. It’s strange. I thought if I went to Rome I’d find a whole new me waiting to get out, but actually I seem to have found a whole new David instead. The faster we go, the tighter I find myself holding on to him. And not just because it’s safer.

Finally we stop in front of the Spanish Steps and David pulls off his helmet. I suppose he is still the David I know and love; none of the Italians are bothering with helmets.

“Recognize this?”

I look up at the tearoom David is pointing at. Caffe Greco. It couldn’t be, could it? Sure enough, we are at the very cafe where Audrey and Gregory began to fall in love inRoman Holiday . David offers me his hand and we go inside. It’s exactly the same as it was in the film—like something out of the 1920s. The seats are all in plush red velvet, and beautiful paintings adorn the walls.

“You want to sit outside, right?”

I nod gratefully. We order Earl Grey and our waiter, a man in his fifties, brings us a plate full of scones, pastries, and croissants.

I’m feeling a bit windswept after our Vespa outing—even the safety helmet hasn’t stopped my hair getting all tangled at the back. I comb it with my fingers. This is Rome, after all, home of style. Matted hair is really not on at all.

“You know,” murmurs David, leaning in and kissing me on the ear, “I know you really want to do the wholeRoman Holiday thing, but you don’t really have to have your hair cut, do you? I mean, Audrey’s hair was all long and straggly before she cut it all off, wasn’t it. Whereas your hair is quite beautiful the way it is.”

He pulls a few loose strands of my hair and tucks them behind my ear.

“I never knew you liked my hair,” I say, suddenly feeling shy.

“Darling, there is so much I like about you, I hardly know where to start.”

I look at David intently. Does he really mean it? Is he really serious about me? I mean, I’m pretty sure he loves me, but I never know if he sees me as a proper long-term girlfriend or not. Or, you know, wife material. And the thing is, I know that I’ve been flirting with Mike and everything, but looking at David now I don’t think Mike is really a patch on him. Okay, Mike may be very good-looking, but be doesn’t have a strong face like David. He doesn’t ooze confidence like David does. Plus, he’s incredibly selfish, while David is really generous. And I don’t trust Mike, whereas David is so utterly dependable.

“I’m so glad . . . so glad you are here,” I breathe. I want to say more. I want to ask him where he sees us in five years. I also want to come clean about the Mike thing—you know, to be honest and open. But I don’t; I’m not stupid enough to ruin this perfect moment.

Instead I put my fingers through David’s hair, and we plan out what we’re doing next. I pretend that I’ve already been to the Vatican. (My guidebook is extremely good. David is very impressed by my in-depth knowledge of all the frescos.) And when we finally finish all the delicious cakes and sweet things at the Caffe Greco, David takes me for a wander through the streets of Rome. I press my nose up against the window of shoe shops, marvel at statues and frescos, and tie a scarf that David buys for me round my neck. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.

By seven, we’re exhausted, and find a restaurant. Over swordfish and roasted vegetables I tell David about the fiascos at work, and he laughs when he hears about Nigel’s conference. I don’t understand it, I think, looking at David’s generous features and strong jaw. I’ve been going out with this man for ages, and yet today I’ve seen a side to him I’ve never seen before. Following me here, hiring a Vespa, sweeping me off my feet. I always thought David was so predictable. And yet I feel like I’m almost getting to know him all over again.

“It’s nice, being out, isn’t it?” I say.

“Lovely,” David agrees.

“I mean . . . I think we should go out more,” I say with conviction. “You know, properly going out.”

David looks at me for a moment before speaking. “I really have been a pain, haven’t I?” he says softly. “Always working, too tired to take you out.”

I smile. To be honest, I think it could actually be my fault that we stay in most of the time. Don’t get me wrong; I love going out. It’s just that since I’ve been going out with David I’ve got lazy. I’ve got into the habit of scanning the television pages every week and refusing to go out when any of my favorite programs are on, which means pretty much every evening except Monday. I thought that David just wasn’t as exciting as Mike, but maybe it’s me who’s holding him back.

“You’re not a pain,” I smile. “But you do have to work a lot. It must be great being here and not being worried that some client is going to call you any minute. Couldn’t you do this more often?”

David half smiles and takes a slug of wine.

“Oh, you’d hate having me around all the time,” he says jokingly. “I’m sure I’d cramp your style.”

“I mean it,” I persist. “For once, you’re doing something just for me—I mean, you’re meant to be in Geneva and you came here instead. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

I look at David with what I hope is a devoted expression, but he just looks slightly embarrassed.

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, after a short pause. “How about I make up for everything by taking you dancing?”

It’s not quite the response I was looking for, but it’ll do.

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. Come on, drink up.”

This definitely isn’t the David I know. But if he wants to take me dancing in Rome, who am I to say no? And anyway, even if I haven’t really managed to have a heart-to-heart with David yet, there’s always tomorrow, isn’t there? We finish our wine and leave the restaurant arm in arm.

“The nightclubs won’t be open yet, but there’s a wonderful place near here where we can get some wine and dance the night away,” David says, turning down a small side road. I follow him dubiously—it looks pretty deserted to me—but sure enough, five minutes later we alight upon a small establishment called Carlo’s.

As we walk in, a short man greets David with open arms. David introduces us—his name is Carlo, so I can only assume he’s the owner. The place is fantastic. It’s your perfect cheesy seventies venue, with flocked wallpaper and a guy with dark, slicked back hair is singing Bee Gees songs with a thick Italian accent. And the really weird thing is that it’s completely packed—there’s barely a free table. How did David know about this place, and how does he know Carlo, I wonder.

Carlo kisses me hello and leads us to a table. Several other people grin and wave at David as we walk past.

“Darling, how do you know these people so well?” I whisper, intrigued.

“Oh, it’s work-related,” David shrugs.

Carlo, who has overheard, puts his arm round me.

“Mr. Davido, he ees hero,” he says loudly in my ear. “He stop the mafioso from closing me down, from taking all this away from me and my family.” He looks around the restaurant proudly, reaching over to give David a hug.

“It really wasn’t that dramatic,” David says, grinning as he sits down at a table right next to the dance floor. “We just caught a guy running a prostitution ring in the U.K.—and he was also rather busy in these parts.”

“Ees savior,” says Carlo again, and signals for one of the waiters to bring us a menu.

“Since when do accountants get involved in prostitution rings?” I ask incredulously. I am completely blown away. I’m also very impressed, but am beginning to wonder what other surprises David is going to have for me.

“Well, it all comes down to money in the end. If you can trace where the money is and what’s being done with it, you can track down the people. Now, some wine for the lady?” David attempts an Italian accent, and hands me the plastic rose that is adorning our table. “Ees, nice, yes?” he grins.

We order more wine and giggle as the singer wiggles his hips to “Staying Alive.”

“David, you never really talk about your work.”

“Yes, and for very good reason. It’s dull as ditchwater. Why on earth would you want to hear about my days in an accountancy firm?”

“But all this stuff. Carlo’s nightclub. Prostitution rings. Why didn’t I know about any of this before?”

“Look, it’s mostly pretty boring stuff,” shrugs David. “And the bits that are more interesting are usually either very sensitive or slightly dangerous. A lot of the work I do involves some pretty horrible people. And I don’t want you exposed to that again.”

“Again?” I ask indignantly. What does he mean “again”? I don’t remember being exposed to any horrible people.

David looks annoyed with himself. “At all. I meant at all.”

I look at him accusingly. “David, don’t lie to me. What do you mean, you don’t want me exposed to that again? Tell me!”

“Oh, I suppose it won’t hurt,” he sighs. “About a year ago I was working on a case involving dodgy mini-cab drivers. I got a note saying that they knew who you were and that I should stop my investigations or you were going to be in real trouble. And then you were really late coming round to see me . . . and I panicked.”

“You mean the time you freaked out and went and bought me a mobile phone?”

David smiles sheepishly. “Yes, I suppose I did freak out a bit. It’s a bit of a special phone actually. It means that if anything happens to you, we can track you. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of this rubbish.”

I can’t decide whether to be flattered, excited, scared, or concerned. “You mean you know where I am all the time?”

“God no,” David laughs. “But if you did go missing, or if anything happened, we would be able to find you.”

No wonder Nigel was so excited by the phone. I better not tell him why David gave it to me; he’d probably think David was one of “them” and was using me to spy on Nigel.

“When you say ’we,’ do you mean your accountancy firm?” I’m confused. None of this really makes much sense.

“Not the firm, no. A lot of the work I’m doing now relates to government agencies. Organized crime, that sort of thing.”

“So you’re kind of like a spy?” I ask hopefully. I sawTrue Lies with Arnie and Jamie Lee Curtis the other day and rather like the idea of going out with my very own action man.

David laughs. “I’m afraid I’m not James Bond,” he says slowly. “In reality, the vast majority of my work involves digging around and going through people’s financial affairs. It isn’t at all glamorous and usually isn’t dangerous at all; it just gets difficult if people know you’re on to them. No one likes getting caught out. But I thought we came here to dance?” He grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor.

David has never been that great at dancing. We went to Starsky and Hutch, the seventies nightclub, once a couple of years ago and he was dreadful—funny, but dreadful. But our Italian singer has finished with the Bee Gees and is now crooning Frank Sinatra numbers.

I don’t know how he does it, but with his hands holding me tightly round the waist David soon has me moving all over the floor, spinning around and everything. It’s intoxicating. I feel like I’m in a Sophia Loren movie, with the man of my dreams smoldering at me as I glide around the dance floor.

I say glide, in reality I’m not actually the best dancer, but I’m definitely getting the hang of it. And to be honest, I think if I practiced I could be really good. Maybe David and I could go to classes when we get back home. And when we get married we can impress everyone with our amazing dancing—all our guests will just stand round the dance floor watching and clapping, and we’ll smile modestly and say “Well, we do like going out dancing. . . .”

I let go of David’s hands to twirl round, and when I spin round again I feel some unfamiliar hands round, my waist. It’s Carlo.

“You come to Carlo’s, you ’ava to dance with Carlo,” he grins. As we dance, I look at David watching us. He’s smiling broadly and winks at me when I catch his eye. What is he thinking, I wonder. What do I really mean to him?

When the singer starts on “That’s Amore,” I break off from Carlo and walk back to David.

“You looked beautiful dancing,” he tells me as I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Why don’t you take me home,” I say simply.

“Home?” David says, surprised.

“Home as in your hotel. I don’t want to dance with my clothes on anymore.”

“Just what I was thinking,” murmurs David and places his hand firmly on my bottom, leading me to the door. Carlo meets us with our coats and puts us in a cab. “You’ll sort out the Vespa for us?” David asks him.

“Of course!” He grins, then winks at me. “Too dangerous for a beautiful young lady like you to be on a scooter, no? I think a car is better.”

I smile politely. To be honest, I’m a teensy bit disappointed. I was looking forward to jumping on the Vespa and putting my arms around David again. Still, I suppose a luxurious cab isn’t too bad either.

“Hotel Inghilterra,” David says to the driver and turns to look at me. He stares into my eyes as if looking for something.

“So, did today meet with your expectations?” he asks me.

I kiss him. “It did much more than that.”

“And you’re happy?” He is still looking at me intently. As if he wants to ask me something important. He couldn’t be about to pop the question, could he?

“David, I’m always happy when you’re around.” I take his hand and look up expectantly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” David says softly.

Lose me? What’s he talking about.

“David, you’re not going to lose me,” I whisper in his ear, then kiss him, nibbling his earlobe. He kisses me back urgently, wrapping his arms around me. Then he pulls back slightly.

“Darling, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Mmmm?”

Before he can answer, the cab draws up in front of an impressive-looking hotel. David pulls away and gets some money out of his pocket for the driver.

As we walk into the hotel, I nestle my head in his shoulder.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing. It can wait,” David says, stroking my head.

As we walk into the hotel, I stifle a yawn.