When in Rome Page 7

  James wanders back in. “Have you seen my reading glasses, Cammy?”

  “On the mantelpiece, James.”

  “Of course, there they are.”

  The two of them live so happily together, I muse. Will I ever achieve that with someone, the ability to be contented without wondering what else is out there? Will I also have to go through four husbands and who knows how many relationships to get there?

  “Anyway,” continues my mother. “You don’t want to end up like that Bellinger girl, do you?”

  I look up in annoyance. The Bellingers are friends of my mother. Their daughter Sarah is a hugely successful lawyer and has a great big house in Chelsea or somewhere. She is also a lesbian. A well-adjusted lesbian with a long-term partner, two dogs, and lots of paintings by real artists, as opposed to framed prints. She’s far more sorted and successful than I could ever hope to be, but evidently my mother thinks otherwise.

  “Mum, how could my situation possibly lead to me ending up like Sarah?”

  My mother looks at me as if I am mad.

  “She could have had any number of young men, if she’d been more sensible.”

  “Mum, she’s a lesbian. She doesn’t fancy men!”

  “If you say so.” My mother turns back to her crossword.

  So much for sensible advice. Draining my teacup, I decide to make my way home. I need to clear my head and decide what I want. David or Mike. Comfort and reliability or flirtation and uncertainty? I decide to write a list when I get home. A sort of pros and cons on both of them. Perhaps I could do a SWOT analysis. It’s something I learned from Nigel last year: you look at the strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats of a new product and assess whether it’s viable or not. I could do one on both of them and then I’ll have my answer!

  My mobile rings. I look at the caller ID. Shit, it’s Mike, and I haven’t had time to do my analysis yet.

  “Hello?”

  “Georgie Porgie Pudding and Pie, Kissed the Boys and made them—”

  “Mike! I thought I told you to call me next week?”

  “Ah yes, but that was before I found out that I have to go to Rome next weekend, and I thought you could come with me.”

  Ohmygod. Breathe, Georgie, breathe.

  “Rome, you say. Are you serious?” Immediately my mind starts racing. Rome, of all places. Already I’m seeing us kissing at the Coliseum, walking hand in hand down little cobbled streets. But then an image of David and me wandering round Rome hand in hand comes into my head. I couldn’t possibly go to Rome with Mike. I mean, I’ve promised David so many times we’d go together. And actually I want to go with David, I really do. It’s just that David never has the time. Two years of promises and we’ve never come close to actually going. Maybe, just maybe, fate is telling me that a trip to Rome with David isn’t in the cards. That I should go with Mike instead.

  “Totally. Got to check out a new band and meet with some people. Look, we’ll be staying in a great hotel, we’ll have a cool time. Tell me you’ll come with me—it’ll be so much better if you’re there!”

  Rome. I want to go there so much, but how could I go there with Mike when I’ve watchedRoman Holiday so many times with David? Actually I’ve always had a little suspicion that when David proposes to me it’s going to be in Rome. But to be honest I’ve sort of given up on the whole proposing thing, too. He hasn’t mentioned Rome for a while—even when we watchedRoman Holiday on Sunday he didn’t do his usual “One day, my darling, I’m going to take you up those Spanish Steps, and show you how beautiful Rome is.” But obviously that doesn’t mean I should go with Mike. I mean, how dare he think that he can just ring up out of the blue and that I’ll just drop everything?

  I’m going to say no. I’m going to tell him that I have plans.

  “I’d love to.” Did I say that?

  “You won’t regret it. Look, I’ll e-mail you the details, okay? We leave Friday evening. Bye!”

  I’m grinning ear to ear. I know that I’m going to have a hard time explaining a weekend away to David. I know that I haven’t written up any pros and cons, and I know that I am a very bad person. But Rome with Mike! Italy! This is so exciting!

  By the time I turn onto my street I’ve planned every minute of the weekend. I’ve allowed two hours for Mike’s meetings—very generous in my opinion—and decided where we’re going to go and exactly what I’m going to wear. It’s going to be the most amazing weekend ever.

  As I approach my building I see someone standing outside the door. For a moment I think it’s Mike and my heart lurches with alarm. I know I’ve agreed to go to Rome with him, but somehow I don’t want to see him in the flesh just yet—it would make everything a bit too real. I have managed to justify the Rome trip to myself on the grounds that it is something completely unrelated to my normal life; I keep telling myself I can just go, have a lovely time, and then come back home as if it never happened. Just like Audrey Hepburn did. But I don’t want to see Mike, especially not here at my flat. I don’t want to really face the fact that I’m doing something very bad. I squint to see if it’s definitely Mike—if it is, I can always turn round. But my eyes pick out a more familiar figure . . . it’s not Mike. It’s David. He’s carrying groceries and reading theFT . Gorgeous, dependable David. My stomach is lurching again, but for very different reasons.

  You’ve got to hand it to David. If we’re talking pros and cons, David’s got to be doing pretty well. He has brought food, and he is going to cook it himself, too.

  I open the door and we go inside. David nearly knocks the curtain rail over.

  “Must put that up,” he mutters as he walks into the kitchen. As he turns round to give me a kiss I notice a cut and a bruise on his cheek. He smiles sheepishly. “Got hit by a squash ball this morning,” he explains.

  He opens a bottle of wine and pours me a large glass.

  “Ooh, that’s lovely.”

  “It isn’t Bulgarian, I’m afraid,” David grins, “but I believe that the French, too, produce a number of good wines.”

  He turns round and starts unloading the shopping bags. Spaghetti, minced beef, tinned tomatoes, garlic, onions, basil, and oregano. I love the fact that David knows that I never have any food in my flat. He used to ask me things like “Where do you keep the sun-dried tomatoes” or “You don’t happen to have any capers, do you?” but now he always brings everything he needs when he’s cooking and I just watch in admiration as he turns ingredients into proper food without even using a ready-made sauce.

  “The trick to a really good spag Bol is to leave it bubbling for a while,” David tells me as he starts to chop the onions. I sit down and slug wine as the kitchen warms up and David, wearing my floral Liberty apron, browns the beef. We are the picture of domestic bliss. I try to picture Mike doing the same thing, and can’t. Mike would never spend an evening in like this. He used to prowl around like a caged animal waiting for the phone to ring whenever we didn’t have plans. If it didn’t ring by eight, he’d make a couple of calls and get us onto some guest list or other. Life indoors didn’t count to Mike. Am I really contemplating going to the city of romance with him?

  David hums as he cooks and every so often he turns round and winks at me. I get a huge pang of guilt about Rome. How could I do that to David? He’s so much nicer than Mike. I’m going to cancel. Definitely. Although if he was really serious about me, wouldn’t he have taken me to Rome himself? Suddenly my eyes, which have been staring into the middle distance, focus on David’s shirt. There’s a small rip on the shoulder, and it looks like he’s been cut.

  “David, is that blood on your shoulder?”

  I get up to inspect it more closely.

  “Oh, that. Hmmm. Yes, yes it is.”

  As I approach him he turns round to kiss me, deflecting my attempts to look more closely at the rip.

  “David, let me see!”

  “It’s nothing, darling. Look, I’ve just had a run-in with a couple of idiots. Should have been more careful.”

  “What sort of idiots?” I persist. “Were you mugged?”

  “Not exactly. Look, it’s nothing—ju
st a risk that comes with the job,” David says, turning away.

  “With the job? David, you’re an accountant, not a bouncer.”

  “Of course I am. As I said, it’s really nothing.”

  I’m cross now. I hate it when David avoids my questions.

  “Tell me,” I say firmly and pull him away from the stove. David leans down and kisses my forehead.

  “Darling, when you’re investigating fraud, you very occasionally encounter this sort of thing. People who get involved in fraud can often be involved in a whole host of unsavory activities alongside it. And they generally don’t like the idea of being found out. So every once in a while I get some lunatic thinking that sending in the heavies, or sending me a bribe, is going to get me off their case. Which it doesn’t.”

  He kisses me again and turns back to the spaghetti.

  “So, what did you buy?”

  I stare at David vacantly. Buy? What’s he talking about? And who dared to send the heavies round to David? Why hasn’t he mentioned it before?

  “Today with Candy. Shopping,” continues David. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get anything?”

  “Oh, right. Um, no I didn’t actually. We talked mostly. Didn’t get round to going in any shops.”

  “Oh, that’s right.”

  “What?”

  “What?” David turns round.

  “What you just said—’oh that’s right’—as if you knew or something. Have you seen Candy?”

  David slugs back some wine and turns back again. “What? No, course not. I just remembered that you were going to have a catch-up. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “A couple of years actually.” If I didn’t know David better, I’d think he was hiding something from me. Something other than the fact that he’s regularly threatened by horrible criminals, that is. Shuddering at the thought of anyone trying to attack David I lean my forehead against his back.

  “How about you?” I murmur. “What have you been up to today apart from getting into fights with gangsters?”

  “Oh, just a bit of work,” says David absentmindedly.

  “Again? David, this is ridiculous. You’re working all the time. Can’t you put your foot down?” I put my arms around him protectively. I can’t believe his firm. They expect him to work constantly and don’t even give him a bodyguard.

  David smiles. “Darling, it’s me that’s making all the work. There are people in my team whose wives and husbands will be cursing my name right now. But when you’ve got an assignment, there’s nothing else for it.”

  David always talks about people’s wives and husbands rather than girlfriends and boyfriends. And about a year ago he said something about wanting a family. So naturally I thought it was only a matter of time before he proposed. Every time we went out for a meal, I prepared myself for him getting down on one knee and saying he wanted to be with me forever. Each time I bought a new dress or pair of shoes I’d wonder if I’d be wearing them when we got engaged. But he never asked. For a while I was a bit upset. I started thinking that David didn’t see me as wife material. Plus he never asked me to even move in with him. But I’m fine about it now. I mean, when you think about it, what’s so great about being married? Why should I want some stupid piece of paper that legally binds us? Why should I care if David doesn’t really want to commit to me? It’s fine the way things are. We’re very happy.

  Although that should register on the SWOT analysis, shouldn’t it? If Mike is in love with me enough to want to marry me, that should count toward him, shouldn’t it? And if David isn’t serious enough about me to want to spend the rest of his life with me, then I should maybecontemplate going to Rome with Mike, shouldn’t I? I mean, a girl’s got to keep her options open, hasn’t she?

  Feeling bad about thinking about going to Rome with Mike while David is cooking for me, I quickly try to focus on something else.

  “So is it interesting, what you’re doing?”

  “Interesting?” David puts a lid on the saucepan and sits down at the kitchen table, looking serious. “Yes. Enjoyable? No. Actually, right now it’s pretty bloody awful.”

  I stare at him. It’s not like David to talk about his work like this.

  “David, is everything all right?”

  “Of course it is.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be away next weekend. I’ve got to go to Geneva on Thursday and I’m probably not going to be back till Monday.”

  “Next weekend?”

  It’s as if fate wants me to go to Rome. As if I’mmeant to go.

  “Yes. It’s a bugger, but I need to go. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Of course I am,” I say brightly. “David, I am a grown-up, you know.”

  “I know. I just enjoy our weekends together, that’s all. I like waking up with you on Sundays . . .” He’s kissing my hand.

  “Uh huh, and what else do you like?”

  David stands up and starts kissing my neck.

  “I like going to bed with you on Saturdays.”

  “I see. And what’s the day today? I can’t seem to remember . . .”

  “Saturday.”

  “Of course it is.”

  David puts his arms around me and picks me up. Eliminating all thoughts of Rome from my head, I wrap my legs around him and he carries me to the bedroom.

  “I also like taking your clothes off on Saturdays . . .”

  “I see . . .”

  “And I like . . .”

  An hour later we manage to salvage some of the Bolognese sauce, but the spaghetti is completely burned and the pan is ruined. Evidently leaving the sauce to cook for an hour while you ravage your girlfriend is not the same as leaving it to simmer, stirring regularly. We opt for Bolognese on toast and eat it watching “Casualty.”

  I hate watching “Casualty.” Whenever you see someone do anything, you know it’s going to end in tears. Like, crossing a road? They’re going to get hit by a car. Cooking something? There’s going to be boiling oil everywhere and probably a lifelong handicap. It’s too gruesome. I’m watching with my hands over my eyes as a small boy climbs onto a tall wall, and I know he’s going to have a horrible fall, when the phone rings. Without thinking, I tell David to pick it up.

  I assume it must be a crank caller, because I hear David say “Who is this?” in a really shitty tone. I often get calls from people thinking my number is a Chinese take-away.

  “Yes, I thought it was you,” he continues in a voice I hardly recognize. “Look, you know the situation. Don’t press your luck or you won’t enjoy the consequences.” And he hangs up.

  His cheeks are red. I look up, bewildered. “Who the hell was that?”

  “Your friend Mike,” says David in a very clipped voice.

  “Mike?”

  I need a second or two to gather my thoughts. My heart is racing. What if Mike said something about Rome? And how dare David tell Mike not to call me again, even if Mike is trying to seduce me. Unless he knows, that is? This is terrible. Guilt surges through my veins and I go on the offensive to make myself feel better.

  “I’m sorry, did you just tell someone, a friend of mine, a friend of ours, actually, not to call me again? How dare you?”

  My voice is quivering, but as expected my feelings of guilt are ebbing away as anger and indignation take their place. If we were on “Oprah,” I’m sure I’d have a lot of the audience on my side. It just isn’t on for David to talk to my friends like that.

  “Georgie,” David says firmly, “Mike is bad news. I don’t want you to have anything to do with him.” This is so unlike him; he never tells me what to do. Except when he’s worried, like the time I walked into a busy road without looking. He was very cross with me then.

  David isn’t looking at me either, which is odd. I suddenly remember the strange comment he made earlier when I told him about catching up with Candy. He must have seen her. She’s probably told him everything I said about Mike. Oh shit, shit, shit.

  I reach for his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “David, me and Mike, you know, we go back a long way, but you know that there’s nothing between us now. Come on, don’t overreact. W
e’re just friends.”

  “I’m perfectly aware how far you go back—I was there, remember,” David says bitterly. “And I would hardly call someone you’ve barely seen for two years a friend. Georgie, there are things about Mike that you don’t know and don’t want to know. Just do as I say and have nothing further to do with him.”

  “Do as you say? Did you just say ‘do as I say’? Who the bloody hell do you think I am?” I am livid now. Even if David does suspect something, he can’t start ordering me around like a schoolgirl.

  “I think you are a sensible, rational person. I think you should trust me.” David is talking very slowly.

  “Yeah, well, I think you should start treating me with a bit of respect.”

  “Respect? Is that what Mike showed you? Screwing around and spending your money? Would you prefer me to do that?”

  “Oh just fuck off, will you.” How dare he throw that at me? And anyway, he didn’t screw around. I mean, I don’t think he did, did he? Yes, he borrowed money and stuff, but if I want to lend people money, well, that’s up to me, isn’t it? I feel my eyes well up with tears and blink them back furiously. I don’t want to cry. I want to be strong and in control.

  “If that’s what you want.” David’s eyes are thunderous. He turns and walks out of the room.

  It’s not what I want at all. But somehow as I watch him pick up his things and leave, I find myself unable to call after him. Not when he’s being so horrible. I can’t believe I was all set to cancel my trip to Rome, too. Well, I will go, and it’ll just serve David right.

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  DAVID BRADLEY

  STRENGTHS: cooks, kind, generous, good-looking, likes TV, nice car

  WEAKNESSES: jealous, bossy, accountant, hasn’t asked me to marry him