Rachel Does Rome (2 page)

Back at my studio flat on Finchley Road, it is definitely not hot in herre: it’s freezing.
Bloody February. Every year I promise myself I’ll go somewhere hot for a winter break,
and every year I end up staring down the barrel of another February in London.

As I let myself in and turn on the heating, I reflect that for once, it would have
been nice to do something on Valentine’s Day that didn’t involve my tracksuit bottoms
and Katherine Heigl films. And although I know it’s stupid of me, I don’t want to
admit to people at work that we’re not doing anything. They loved the story of our
trip to France, and now they’re probably expecting me and Oliver to jet off to the
Maldives or something for Valentine’s weekend.

I know! Why don’t I organise a girls’ weekend away? I’m sure there’s someone else
who would love to go somewhere hot and sunny for a fun weekend. But when I think of
who to call, I realise that everyone’s going to have rosemantic plans. My best friend
Zoë is completely loved-up with her new boyfriend. Poppy, who used to be my wing-woman,
is going to Paris with her boyfriend.

Then I think of Maggie. She’s single and bound to be up for some fun. We met on a
skiing holiday over New Year and hit it off, and have since met up frequently, most
recently for the theatre (she had a spare ticket as she’d been planning to go with
her ex-boyfriend, who she broke up with at New Year). She might feel it’s a little
early in our relationship to go away together, but it feels right to me, and when
you know, you know . . . I decide to phone her right away.

Maggie answers after a few rings. When I ask her what she’s doing the weekend after
next, she says, ‘Valentine’s weekend you mean? Nothing in particular. Don’t rub my
nose in it.’ But she sounds happy; she’s at the buoyant post-break-up stage where
she’s delighted to be single.

‘How would you like to go somewhere for a weekend away? Oliver has to go to a conference
so I’m at a loose end. Oh God, sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.’ I know there’s
nothing worse than the friend or acquaintance who suggests meeting for drinks because
Jonny/Jerry/Bill is away.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Maggie, laughing. ‘I know you didn’t. I’d love to go somewhere.’

‘Really? Great! I know it’s short notice . . .’ Maggie is so sweet-natured that I
could easily see her agreeing to a weekend away just to be polite, so I’d better give
her an out.

‘No, this is my year of saying yes to things. What about Rome?’

‘Rome?’ Instantly my head floods with visions; the Coliseum, the Forum, the Vatican,
pizza, pasta, sunshine, red wine . . . ‘Yes! Perfect!’

‘Oh, wait,’ Maggie says. ‘Sorry. I just remembered, I do have a Valentine’s date
– with my friend Lily. She’s home for a visit and we said we’d do something that weekend.’

‘Do you think she’d like to come to Rome?’ I know this is a bit mad – going away
with someone I’ve never met. But since my New Year’s impulse holiday with Oliver,
I’m increasingly open to allowing madness into my life. In small controlled doses
of course!

‘Yes! I do actually. She’d love that.’ There’s a pause while I hear tapping. ‘Rachel.
Do you realise it’s twenty degrees in Rome right now?’

‘Let’s have a look at flights.’ After scanning Kayak for a few minutes, we find a
reasonable one leaving on Friday afternoon and coming back on Sunday afternoon.

‘I can take a half-day on Friday. Where would we stay?’ Maggie asks.

‘I don’t know. Do you want me to pick somewhere?’

‘Sure, if you don’t mind.’

As I search on the Internet, I wonder where Oliver would want to stay if we went
to Rome together. I think he’d be more inclined towards the youth-hostel end of things.
Our luxurious New Year’s break was an anomaly; Oliver generally has frugal habits
even though he grew up with money. Whereas I grew up with money being very tight,
and I’m careful with it – but I also believe in treating myself, and my friends, otherwise
why the hell am I working all these hours?

Soon I find what looks like the perfect hotel: Il Palazzetto. It’s in an old building
with high ceilings and luxurious decor
and
a private terrace that overlooks the Spanish Steps. And best of all, they’ve got
a last-minute promotion which means it’s within our agreed budget, provided the other
two are happy to share a room. Maggie emails me back to say that Lily is up for it,
and they’re going to book flights this evening. We are go!

On my way to meet the other two at the airport, I’m wondering how we’ll all get on.
Maggie and I met on holiday, so I know her holiday style; she’s pretty laid-back and
I’m confident we’ll get along. But Lily is an unknown quantity. All I know is that
she’s one of Maggie’s oldest friends, that they grew up in the same street and that
she’s visiting from LA, where she recently moved. I’m hoping that I like her and that
I won’t feel . . . well, ‘left out’ makes me sound like a teenager, but I suppose
I do hope I won’t feel left out. I think this is a hangover from age fifteen to eighteen,
when I was moved to a new school where I had no friends at all and spent all my time
studying. That was over a decade ago, but old habits die hard – with me at least.

But as soon as I see them at the airport, any niggling concerns disappear. Maggie
gives me a big hug and Lily is very friendly, and excited about our trip. ‘This was
SUCH a good idea,’ she says as we make our way to the departure gate. ‘I’m so glad
you saved me from a romantic weekend with my dad and his girlfriend, I was dreading
it.’

Lily is startlingly pretty. Maggie is pretty too – she’s got a great figure, and
the kind of bone structure that can carry off a short pixie haircut. But Lily, even
though she hasn’t brushed her long blond hair and her green eyes have mascara smudged
under them, is stunning; tall and slim with flawless, tanned skin and a heart-shaped
face. It’s almost a relief that she’s dressed in such a nondescript way, in a navy
hoodie, ripped jeans and trainers. Otherwise she’d be too much. I understand from
Maggie that she wanted to be an actress for years, but that she’s shelved that ambition
and now works as an event manager in Los Angeles.

‘So,’ I say, when we’re sitting on the plane. ‘What do we want to see first?’

‘Some sunshine,’ says Maggie, yawning. She spent the day in her lab tending to her
bacteria cultures, before trekking across town to Stansted, but she still looks ten
years younger than she did when we met at New Year on the skiing holiday. Breaking
up with her boyfriend obviously suits her. She’s wearing a beautiful trench coat,
a striped top from Petit Bateau and skinny grey jeans. I always think she dresses
like a French girl: very chic.

‘Pizza!’ says Lily. ‘And I want to ride on a Vespa. It’s one of my life’s ambitions.’
We start laughing, but she shakes her head adamantly. ‘No, it really is. As long as
I ride a Vespa, and eat some good pizza, I don’t care what else we do.’

‘How about you, Rachel, what do you want to see?’ asks Maggie.

‘This might sound ambitious, but . . . I was thinking that we could do the Coliseum
and the Forum this evening when we arrive, and then on Saturday we could do the Trevi
Fountain, the Borghese Gallery and St Peter’s. On Sunday we won’t have that much time
but if we get up early we could fit in the Capitoline Museum.’

Maggie and Lily are both looking at me with identical alarmed expressions.

‘What?’

‘Nothing!’ says Maggie quickly. ‘But . . . that sounds hectic. I’m sure we can see
most of – some of those things, but we want to have fun as well.’

‘People-watch,’ says Lily. ‘Have coffee outside, sitting at a table. Get some sun.’
She shivers and puts on some socks which she’s brought for the plane. ‘London seems
so cold now,’ she adds plaintively.

‘I wouldn’t mind doing some shopping,’ says Maggie.

‘And we have to have a big night out,’ says Lily.

‘OK – we don’t have to go overboard on the sightseeing,’ I say, feeling like a nerd.
They’re too nice to say it, but they’re obviously thinking that I should have just
booked a Saga holiday if I wanted to tick off sights in my sensible shoes.

And I’m sensitive to being made to feel like a nerd. Even though I know it’s ridiculous,
that feeling of being too keen in class, or liking the wrong music or not knowing
the cool places to go to, is still very vivid in my mind. But I’m not fifteen any
more, I remind myself. I’ve survived adolescence and these people are my friends.

‘We will see sights, definitely,’ says Maggie tactfully. ‘But maybe we won’t wear
ourselves out trying to see them
all
. And we can all do our own thing. I’ve brought my trainers and I’m going to go for
a jog every morning.’

‘Are you really?’ I ask, fascinated by how different people are. ‘It would never
in a million years occur to me to bring my runners on holiday.’

‘What are runners? Do you mean trainers?’ asks Maggie.

‘Oh, yeah. It must be an Irish expression.’

‘It sounds as if you’re bringing a load of little running people with you.’ We both
start laughing, with that kind of giddiness you only get on holiday.

I had no idea ‘runners’ was an Irish thing. It’s sad when I think of all the expressions
I’ve dropped, one by one, because I know that people won’t understand them and it
makes me self-conscious: your man, giving out, desperate, herself, cop on . . .

Lily, meanwhile, is deep in thought. ‘You know that Hot Priests calendar?’ she asks.
‘Hot Priests of the Vatican, or something? Do you think those guys are actually priests,
or are they models?’

‘Models,’ says Maggie. ‘Anyway, don’t you have a boyfriend, miss?’

‘Yes,’ says Lily. But from the way she frowns and stares out the window, I can tell
there’s a reason why she’s thinking about Vatican hot priests. I wonder why she’s
not spending Valentine’s Day with her boyfriend?

I suppose she might be wondering the same thing about me. But Oliver had to work;
it can’t be helped. Suddenly a flicker of doubt passes across my mind, as I remember
what happened with Jay. He also said he had to work one weekend . . . and it later
turned out he was with his
other
girlfriend. Or rather his girlfriend, because he and I were always a ‘let’s not put
labels on this’ mess. I’ve never felt so stupid in all my life.

But that was completely different. I can trust Oliver. Just because he had to duck
out of Valentine’s Day does
not
mean that he’s seeing someone else. Or that he’s losing interest.

To distract myself from these paranoid musings, I get out my guidebook and continue
reading about Rome. Maggie gets out
One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

‘Isn’t that—?’ I ask, before I stop myself.

‘Yes. It’s the same book I was reading at New Year. I
am
going to finish it even if it takes me all year.’

‘It’ll take you a hundred years at this rate,’ says Lily. ‘Why don’t you start something
else?’

Maggie shakes her head. ‘Once I start a book I have to finish it.’

The airport, of course, is about an hour from Rome itself – that’s why our flight
was so cheap. But the journey goes quickly, and soon we’re heading towards the centre.
My first impression of Rome is that it’s like a giant open-air museum where past and
present are randomly piled up together. We pass the Coliseum and the Forum, and hills
topped with palaces – side by side with Zara shops, ads for mobile phones and people
on Vespas.

We get off the bus and start to walk, following the directions I’ve printed out.
We’re on a street called Via della Propaganda, which seems funny and also extremely
Roman. Everything we pass, almost without exception, is beautiful. The buildings are
pink and orange and ochre, with tall wooden doors framed with stone arches; every
few minutes there’s a beautiful ivy-covered building housing a quaint little bar or
antique shop. A girl goes by riding a moped in high heels, her black hair streaming
in the breeze. I think of the Italian guys who work in Starbucks on Finchley Road
near my flat. How can they stand it?

‘It’s so
sunny
,’ breathes Maggie. She stops to take off her trench coat and puts on a big pair of
sunglasses. Three Romans in leather jackets give her an appreciative look as they
pass by, before checking out me and Lily.

‘
Ciao, biondina
,’ says one of them, smiling at Lily, before they wander on.

‘Somehow it seems more acceptable coming from handsome Italians rather than out of
a white van,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘But maybe I’m just being a snob.’

The others laugh. We pass by an elegant cobbled square with a tall, ancient column.
The square is doubling up as a car park – more evidence of how casually Romans seem
to treat their classical past. After walking down a street full of very fancy shops,
we find ourselves in a big piazza, with palm trees dotted here and there and a marble
fountain in the middle. A vast flight of flower-filled steps sweeps up to a church
with two towers. There are people sitting all over the steps – teenagers, tourists
and locals, chatting, smoking and sunbathing. Sunbathing!

‘This is the Piazza di Spagna,’ I say, consulting my map. ‘Our hotel is on this square.’

‘O to the M to the G,’ says Lily.

Il Palazzetto is fairly well hidden away, but eventually we locate the brass plate
and climb the steps to the private terrace overlooking the entire Piazza di Spagna.
We can barely contain ourselves with excitement as we’re shown inside and taken to
our two rooms. The hotel is tiny, but both of the rooms are bigger than my entire
apartment (which wouldn’t be hard) and have balconies overlooking the piazza. Everything
is decorated in creamy white and gold – it’s like an expensive dessert.

‘Aaah,’ says Lily, flopping onto their bed. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. Can you
book all my holidays, Rachel?’

Maggie is already unpacking quickly, like a neat whirlwind. Lily and I watch as she
hangs all her clothes in order of colour, type and probably star sign, then lines
up her shoes underneath in order of height, and then starts sorting underwear and
accessories in different drawers. I happen to know that when she’s at home, she changes
into ‘lounging’ clothes, to keep her day clothes nice.