When in Rome Read online

  Nigel is my boss. He gets quite stressed when people are late, or don’t do things in an orderly fashion. I know this because once he nearly cried when I messed up his desk a bit by accident. I was doing some work on one of his projects while he was away, and I’m not the most organized person if I’m completely honest. I mean, neat piles on desks—what’s that all about? I like everything where I can see it, and if that means that every so often bits of paper get lost, well, that’s hardly my fault, is it? When Nigel got back and realized I’d completely decimated his filing system, he started off angry, but then I swear I saw a tear in his eye. I’ve been trying really hard to be tidy ever since.

  Nigel and I work in publishing. Usually, when I tell people what I do, I leave it at that, because then it sounds like I could be working with literary geniuses and brilliant novels. But you may as well know the truth. I work at Leary Publishing, and we produce loose-leaf handbooks and CD-ROMs for accountants. Lawyers, too, sometimes. I research new product launches and spend time talking to accountants about their business needs. So really, David and I are made for each other.

  Recently, though, things have been looking up a bit. To start with, we’ve got a new divisional director, Guy Jackson, who keeps calling Nigel into meetings, which means he isn’t breathing down my neck.

  The other thing I have discovered to my amazement is that if you know a little bit about what you’re working on, it’s actually easier. It’s not like I’ve been swotting up or anything, but we’ve kind of got this Sunday-morning ritual going where David brings me breakfast in bed and then tries to read the business section of theTelegraph . I ask him stupid questions about the headlines just to get his attention, and he explains each story in detail, demonstrating each point by kissing or prodding my stomach as I giggle and snuggle into his chest. This generally lasts for about ten minutes and then the newspaper gets chucked to the floor and we shag each other’s brains out, spraying crumbs all over the bed linen.

  But it works. Last week I actually had a conversation with Guy in the lift about risk management following Enron. I sort of dried up after telling him I thought risk management was important, but that’s okay because he went into overdrive saying how great it would be to launch a CD-ROM on the very subject. Nigel was livid, of course, because he didn’t think of it first, but I just explained to him that being creative is a talent and you either have it or you don’t. He didn’t like that very much either.

  I decide to ignore Nigel’s “you’re late” look and head for my desk. “You just won’t believe the bloody Tube,” I begin, looking for a sympathetic audience in Denise, our administrative assistant. Denise, however, is on the phone with her long-suffering husband explaining that she has looked up “rising damp” on the Internet, and the work he’s done over the weekend is never going to clear up the problem. Nigel clears his throat.

  “I have no doubt that you have a perfectly thought-out excuse for your tardiness this morning,” he begins—Why alwaystardiness ? Why can’t he ever just use the wordlate like normal people?—“but this is the third time in a ten-day period, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to file a report for personnel.”

  Nigel loves filing reports. If you ever want to get round him on something, you just write a report, with lots of figures and a few words like “strategic game plan” or “cross-fertilization.” He salivates over it, files it, and you can pretty much do what you want for the rest of the day.

  “So, good weekend?” I ask brightly. Nigel nods and looks a bit sheepish. I suddenly remember. “Ah! Was it this weekend?” Nigel quickly looks over to Denise to check that she can’t hear. I lower my voice. “So, was it good?”

  Nigel, like me, doesn’t really want to be working at Leary Publishing. Actually, Nigel doesn’t really want to be working in publishing at all. He kind of wants to save the world, but I’m never sure quite how he intends to do it. Nigel is a conspiracy theory nut. He thinks the government is watching us, he thinks things like the landing on the moon didn’t happen, and he thinks the majority of popular culture is a ploy to take our minds off the real issues and what’s actually going on. I haven’t managed to establish exactly what the real issues are, but Nigel spends hours and hours in Internet chat rooms and reading bizarre newsletters that debate the latest methods “they” are using to throw us all off the scent. If you ever want to have a laugh, you just call him up and make a clicking noise down the phone. He starts thinking his phone is being tapped and he totally freaks out—sweating and everything.

  So anyway, this weekend he went to a convention—of “X Files” nuts, paranoid freaks, computer nerds, and anyone else without anything to do, sitting round talking about security and freedom and stuff. I know this because two weeks ago, when creeping up on Nigel, I saw a brochure for the convention, and it was called Between Security and Freedom—Drawing the Battle Lines. Nigel only told me what it was because I threatened to tell everyone about it if he didn’t.

  “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?”

  I turn back to my computer to get on with some work, but my mind is buzzing. Lunch with Mike? I don’t have much time. It’ll take me twenty minutes to get to the restaurant, which means I’ve got about an hour to put on some makeup, and rehearse all the incredibly smart things I’m going to say about my fabulous life.

  Before I can start to bullet-point the exciting things I can talk about (my new curtain rail is all I can think of right now, and I’m not sure that’s really going to make Mike realize he was stupid to leave me), Nigel walks over to me.

  I hate it when Nigel comes over to my desk. He kind of leans over so he can see exactly what I’m doing, which is generally surfing on the Internet or writing e-mails to my friends, and then he makes some sarcastic remark about how he’s assuming I’ll be staying late that evening to catch up on all my work. So whenever I see him moving in my direction, I always jump up and get to his desk before he can get to mine. One time we did actually collide, which wasn’t a very pleasant experience, but I say you take the rough with the smooth.

  But this time I’m too preoccupied with Mike to notice Nigel slithering over, and before I know it he’s about two inches away from me. Luckily, I am at least looking at my research report. Unluckily, I have so far managed only to type the heading.

  “Looks like you’ll be working over lunch, if that’s all you’ve done this morning,” Nigel smirks. I smile lamely.

  “Actually, Nigel, I was wondering if I could take a slightly longer lunch today.” I’m trying to sound assertive, but I’m not sure it’s working. We published a CD-ROM once on business communications skills and it said that to be assertive you need to look people straight in the eye and never deviate from your message. But I hate looking Nigel in the eye. He’s got such thick glasses it’s difficult to properly see his eyes through the glare, and he’s generally got a huge spot somewhere on his face and I always end up looking at that instead.

  “That will be quite impossible,” says Nigel flatly. “We’ve got far too much work on.”

  Okay, this isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

  “But I’ve got a hospital appointment at one, and I’ve really got to go,” I wail. I’ve simply got to make lunch with Mike. And while it said on the CD-ROM that you should never make an excuse (that weakens your position, apparently), I’m not deviating too much from my overriding message of needing to go early.

  “A hospital appointment? For what?”

  I pretend to look embarrassed. “Women’s stuff,” I whisper.

  Nigel moves back quickly.

  “Very well. You may leave at twelve-thirty, but I expect you to be back at your desk by two o’clock on the dot.”

  Thank the Lord. I check that I’ve got my lipstick and mascara in my purse and go to the Ladies to get ready.

  The Place is a very smart restaurant in Kensington. I have only been there once before, for a meal with my mother, who took me there to inform me that she was getting married. I didn’t know about her break up from husband number three, and apparently nor did he (yet), but this didn’t worry her unduly. My mother is the most unlikely man-eater. I mean, she looks her age (fifty-six), reads theDaily Mail , and thinks bikinis are vulgar. But she certainly knows how to make men fall at her feet. She left Dad when I was just five, and the two of us moved in with Brett, an American businessman who had a huge apartment in Grosvenor Square in London. That lasted about three years; she then decided she wanted a house and Brett preferred apartments, so that was the end of that. She met, and married, Stan, who was sweet but a bit old for my liking. (Brett and I used to go roller-skating in Hyde Park, but Stan’s idea of an active day was walking over to a bench and sitting down on it. When you are eight and full of energy, sitting on a benc
h is not exactly a good day out.) Stan had a big house in Dulwich Village and we lived there for a good five years, until my mother met William, who owned an antiques shop in Kensington and kept giving her antiques until she agreed to move in with him. We lived above the shop in Kensington Church Street, which was great because it was the perfect place to meet boys and that’s all I really cared about then. Candy lived round the corner and we soon started hanging out together (whenever she was home from her smart boarding school, which seemed to be a lot; I’ve never understood why the more expensive the school, the shorter the amount of time you have to stay there) with the sole intention of attracting attention from the opposite sex. My mother never married William, and the day I went off to university she told me about a new love, Stephen. Stephen became husband number three—he was in mergers and acquisitions and my mother got heavily into throwing dinner parties and being a corporate wife. Not for long, though. She came to stay with me my final year and complained that she never saw Stephen—mergers and acquisitions were too time consuming for her liking and she missed having someone around in the evenings. I think in the end she sent Stephen a fax when he was on some business trip or other telling him it was over. And then she met me for lunch, at The Place.

  Mike is waiting for me at the bar, champagne bottle in hand.

  “So, Mr. Business Executive,” I say, accepting a glass from him and brushing his hand with mine. Accidentally? On purpose? I’m not sure. “You seem to be doing very well for yourself. Are you going to tell me where all this money is coming from, or are you going to do your usual trick of ordering everything on the menu and then asking at the end if I can put it on my credit card until your money comes through?”

  “Ah, now there’s a gamble for you!” Mike winks.

  I let him lead me to our table, and study the menu.

  “The sole is very good,” Mike murmurs, picking up the wine list.

  “Does this business meeting have an agenda?”