When in Rome... (8 page)

“Look after yourself!” I manage to yell after her.

I look around the shop convinced that people are staring at me. This is awful. I haven’t seen Candy for about two years, and within an hour or so I’ve managed to upset her so much that she’s actually walked out on me.

Of course, if I’d really thought about it I’d have seen this coming. Candy always thought Mike was bad news where I was concerned. I mean, the two of them do get on very well—they’ve known each other for years—but she warned me from the start not to take things seriously with him, told me that I shouldn’t get too involved because he was a heartbreaker. Not that I had listened to her then, or later, when she told me again and again to leave him while I still had my dignity intact. She probably thought that now, finally, I’d have stopped going on and on about what a shithead he was, only to find that the first thing I talk about is Mike again. I suppose she has a point. To be honest, I’m not exactly proud of myself for thinking about Mike still. But the important point that she has completely missed is that it ishim chasingme . I am the one in control here, and I don’t even like him anymore. Well, not as much as I did.

I take a final gulp of coffee, but it’s gone cold. I can’t decide what to do. Now that I’ve come all the way into Oxford Street I don’t want to go back home, but I’m not really in the mood to go shopping either. I could try calling Candy, attempt to persuade her that I can talk about the weather or anything else she wants to discuss, but I’m not sure it would work. And anyway, the only reason I really wanted to see Candy was so I could brag about Mike. If I can’t do that, then what’s the point?

I consider buying a chocolate brownie and another latte, but my stomach is full of butterflies. The sad truth is that I need to talk to someone properly about Mike. I need someone who will delve into every bit of conversation with me, say that based on the evidence it is highly likely that Mike does indeed fancy me like mad, and congratulate me on finally getting my own back. I know it’s wrong, and I know it’s probably very boring to anyone other than me, but surely that’s what friends are for? The whole time I was going out with Mike everyone kept giving me little looks and having “chats” with me that basically consisted of them saying “It’s never going to last, why don’t you cut your losses and go.” And then when he dumped me I got sympathetic looks and lots of “I told you so” little chats. Now, Mike is chasing after me. Now, girls in bars are talking about us getting married. I can’t contain this for another minute.

There’s only one thing for it: I’m going to have to see my mother.

==================================

ABC Amber LIT Converter v2.02

==================================  6

James is reading theFT ’s “How to Spend It” supplement and is staring at an advert for a large four-by-four car.

“This is what you should be driving,” he says to my mother, who is making tea in the kitchen. “Not that ridiculous little thing that could break down at any minute.”

“We are not spending thousands of pounds on a new car,” my mother says firmly, bringing a tray into the dining room. On it are two cups of normal tea and one cup of green . . . well, I’m assuming it’s some sort of tea, though it looks utterly vile. She has poured the milk into the real cups of tea already, but has brought a separate bowl for the sugar. She always does this so that she can look at James and me reproachfully when we heap our teaspoonfuls and stir it into our tea. Sugar is enemy number one, according to my mother, worse than cocaine, even. Not that she knows the slightest thing about cocaine.

“Lovely.” James takes a big gulp of tea and puts the car advert in front of my mother.

“Look how much more comfortable you’d be. And it can give you directions, too. It’s got a TV screen in the front that has maps and information, and it’s all voice-activated. Camilla, why don’t we get you one?”

My mother looks at James sternly.

“We have discussed this a thousand times already, James. I do not need a new car, and that’s that.”

James is in property. At least he used to be. I’m not sure what, if anything, he does now apart from playing golf. I approve of James’s outlook thoroughly. His philosophy on life is to lie back and enjoy it. He never lets the little things worry him, which is why, I suppose, he manages to live with my mother so contentedly.

“Okay, what if I buy another car for myself and I just let you drive it all the time?”

“I knew it!”

“What?”

“I knew you didn’t want a new car because of the Mini being unsafe. It’s because you just want the excitement of buying a new car!”

“I give up,” says James and mooches off into the sitting room with his newspaper and cup of tea.

My mother sits down at the table.

“So, what happened to your exciting afternoon out with Candy? I thought you were too busy to see your boring mother?”

“Mum, don’t be silly. I met Candy, we just didn’t spend as long shopping as I thought we would.”

“Darling, you look drained.”

“Drained? No, I’m fine, really. Maybe a bit tired, but nothing serious.”

My mother is peering at me for clues.

“Are you suffering from executive stress?”

“What?”

“Well, I was reading an article the other day on young women like you with stressful jobs, who can’t keep their friendships going because they don’t have anything of themselves to give. It all gets zapped at work. I think it might have something to do with sick building syndrome.”

“Mum, what are you talking about?” My mother, when faced with a new syndrome or complaint that she cannot possibly say she has, will generally try and convince me or James that we have it. That way, next time she’s discussing it with her friends at the Club, she has a real life example to bring up.

“I do not have executive stress. And I can keep my friendships going. I just . . .”

“Yes?”

Having waited so long to tell someone about Mike, I now can’t quite find the words. Somehow telling Mum that my ex-boyfriend fancies me doesn’t sound like a particularly compelling story.

“Do you remember Mike?” I ask tentatively. You never know, she might say something like “Oh, the one who left you so foolishly?” and I can tell her triumphantly that he’s seen the error of his ways now.

“Of course I remember Mike. Very cheeky, I always thought. Perfect charmer. Why?”

Why? Good question.

“He’s just been in touch, that’s all.”

“I see. And does David know?”

“Not really. I mean, you know, it’s not really important.”

“If this is the level of your conversational skill, darling, I’m not surprised you don’t have any friends. Really, you are barely stringing sentences together.”

Don’t have any friends? I come and see my mother, taking time out of my busy day to spend time with her, and she starts jumping to conclusions about the number of friends I have. No wonder I don’t come here more often.

“I do have a wide social circle, actually,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as anything. I can’t help wondering why I have resorted to spending Saturday afternoon with my mother.

“It’s just that Candy’s pregnant and she’s all emotional so she went home early,” I continue. “Anyway, the point is I bumped into him. Mike, I mean. And he’s finally got himself together, you know, he’s actually successful and running a proper business and stuff. And he’s been e-mailing me, we had lunch, we . . .”

“Yes . . . ?” My mother is doing a crossword. Will no one listen to me?

“Mum, do you think David was a rebound? Do you think that I could still be in love with Mike? I never thought we could really be serious before, but he’s really changed and I think he wants me back. Mum, I don’t know what to do.”

As I listen to myself I am surprised by my words. Am I really saying that I’m still in love with Mike after all this time? And that lovely, sweet David was just a rebound? Do I seriously think Mike is trying to get me back rather than just indulging in some innocent flirting? And more to the point, am I actually considering it as an option? These thoughts may have been vaguely circling around my mind for the past week, but I certainly haven’t admitted as much even to myself. I thought I just wanted to brag a bit about having a gorgeous man chasing me around. But I now realize that the situation is far more serious. And I have no idea what to do.

I fold my arms on the table and rest my head on them.

“Six months ago you were telling me that you wanted to marry David.”

“I know, I know. I do, I mean I would. He hasn’t asked or anything. At least, I think I would. I just don’t know anymore.”

“Darling, has anything actually happened yet?” My mother puts her newspaper down. At last, a proper audience.

“No. Apart from, you know, a bit of flirting. But he’s really been pursuing me. And he’s actually got a proper business that’s doing really well. And these girls were talking in the loo about him being serious about me when I hadn’t seen him for ages. But obviously I’m with David so . . .”

“So, what? Why are you with David?”

Why am I with David? Why does my mother ask such silly questions?

“Because I am. Because I love him. Because he’s, well, just because,” I reply hotly.

“Eloquent as always, darling,” says my mother, folding up her newspaper. “Look, it’s really very simple. If you love David, then that’s all there is to it. You wave good-bye to Michael and wish him well. If, on the other hand, David is just a stopgap, a poor man who happened to be there at the right time—or, rather, the wrong time, as far as he is concerned—then you need to tell him before you take things with Michael any further.” My mother doesn’t like shortening names. If Candy ever asked to speak to “George” on the phone when I was younger, my mother would reply that no one of that name lived in her house. And I’m sure she warmed to David more when he confirmed that he hated being called Dave.

“You can’t have both,” continues my mother. “And don’t always think that the grass is greener.”

“That’s a bit rich,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

Mum stares at me and her eyes narrow.

“We all make mistakes,” she says quietly. “That doesn’t mean we advise others to. And anyway, whatever I may or may not have done, I have never cheated on anyone. I make my choices and I stick by them.”

I know she’s right, but I don’t like looking at the situation in such a black-and-white way. The idea of leaving David is just awful—I couldn’t bear it. But still, I can’t quite push the fantasy of Mike from my mind. He’s so exciting, and I long to flirt with him, to dance the evening away and have him seduce me. He’s so sexy, and the idea of him being in love with me is very intoxicating. You know, if he actually is. And maybe David and I are just a bit too comfortable. I know everything about him, he knows everything about me, and there’s no real potential for flirting anymore. I mean, when Audrey Hepburn met Gregory Peck in Rome, they didn’t stay in and watch television, did they? She took a risk, she chose excitement.

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?