Rachel Does Rome (6 page)

In other respects, though, Oliver’s family isn’t what you’d expect. He was the first
in his family to go to university – both his brothers went to agricultural college
instead. Whereas my parents were always obsessed with school, homework, study and
exam results. When I got into Trinity to study law, you would have thought I’d been
made president. If I picture our families meeting each other – even being in the same
room – my brain feels as if it’s going to explode.

‘I’m having spaghetti carbonara,’ says Lily. ‘And to drink, hm. Shall I have a glass
of wine? I can’t decide.’

‘Let’s get a bottle of Prosecco,’ I say suddenly. To hell with Oliver. I am going
to stop thinking and worrying about him, enjoy every minute of this weekend and really
let my hair down. Though I generally wear it down anyway; ponytails get on my nerves.

We order our bottle – from the waiter, who happens to be very, very handsome – and
each get spaghetti carbonara as well, to counteract the booze. It still ends up being
a very leisurely, boozy lunch.

‘This is the best,’ says Lily happily, twirling spaghetti on to her fork. ‘So delicious.
If I lived in Italy, I really would be too fat to go on Valentino’s yacht.’

‘Oh God, not Valentino’s yacht again,’ says Maggie.

‘Have you been invited?’ I ask, bewildered. The other two start laughing.

‘It’s just this crazy thing Lily says. Tell her, Lil,’ says Maggie.

Lily explains that she came across this saying in the autobiography of some celebrity’s
daughter; a glamorous friend of her mother’s told the girl that she was too fat to
go on Valentino’s yacht, and Lily was struck by the concept.

‘I used to use it as motivation, back in my stupid days. I probably
am
too fat for Valentino’s yacht now,’ Lily says. ‘I’ve put on weight since I moved
to the States.’

‘A little, but I think it suits you,’ says Maggie. ‘It’s all gone in the right places.
Sorry, that sounds sleazy. You know what I mean.’

‘I must say,’ says Lily, wiping her plate with bread, ‘it is nice not to worry about
being thin for auditions.’

‘Do you miss acting at all?’ I ask her.

‘I do. Sometimes when I see people in cafés reading scripts I feel envious. But then
I remind myself of all the other shit they have to go through, and I don’t mind so
much. Soon I’ll be too old to play babes anyway. Maybe I’ll come back to it when I’m
old enough to play moms.’

‘Moms and babes,’ I say. ‘How depressing.’

‘There are three parts for women in Hollywood. Babe, district attorney, and Driving
Miss Daisy,’ says Lily, arching an eyebrow. It occurs to me that even if she’s not
doing it at the moment, she’s an actress to her fingertips. Everything she does –
her gestures, the way she says things – is a little bit more amped up than other people’s.

Maggie has her new shoebox on her lap, and is gazing inside at her new purchases
and stroking them lovingly.

‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ she asks us. ‘Look at the stitching here. And the leather
is so soft. They’d be twice the price in London.’

‘Did you ever want to work in fashion?’ I ask her.

‘Instead of doing microbiology? God, no. I mean, I love exercise but I wouldn’t want
to be a professional athlete.’

‘I love kissing boys but I wouldn’t want to do it professionally,’ says Lily.

We all laugh – I laugh much longer than the others and I realise that I’ve drunk
most of the bottle of Prosecco by myself. To round off lunch in a healthy way, we
order three tiramisus, coffee for the others – and a glass of red wine for me. ‘I
should have worn my eating pants,’ I say.

‘What are your eating pants?’ asks Maggie.

‘They’re brilliant. They look quite smart but they’re elasticated – I always wear
them for Christmas dinner,’ I confess.

Our tiramisus arrive and before long we’re all moaning in ecstasy; they’re so sweet
and damp and spongey . . . and boozy.

‘Good?’ asks the handsome waiter, pausing by our table.

‘Very good,’ says Lily. ‘Thanks. Hey, can I ask you a question?’ she says, as he’s
about to leave.

Maggie and I look at each other, wondering what Lily’s up to now. But she’s asking
him about places to go out dancing this evening. He says that Rome is more geared
to bars than nightclubs (or ‘dance bars’ as he calls them, which makes us all smile).

‘You could try La Maison – or Art Café in Villa Borghese,’ he suggests.

‘Oh,’ says Maggie. ‘Is that the temporary one, where you need a password?’

His eyes widen. ‘No! You have been invited to that? You should go, for sure.’ Hmm.
Maybe we should have taken Jay up on his offer after all – but never mind.

‘Isn’t he dreamy?’ Maggie sighs, when he’s left. ‘I’m so into foreign men these days,
it’s like an illness.’

‘I’m sure you can meet foreign hotties online,’ says Lily.

‘I need to refresh my online photo portfolio,’ Maggie says. ‘I have no nice pictures
of myself, I’m either all sweaty after a race or else I’m all red-eyed in a bar. And
Leo is in every single one.’

‘Let’s make sure to take some nice photos today,’ says Lily.

‘What are you wearing tonight?’ Maggie asks.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘I did spot a dress earlier . . .’

Half an hour later, we’re back in the clothes shop we passed earlier, and I’m trying
on the dress that I saw in the window. It’s a bright raspberry colour that’s very
fitted, but ruched at the same time. It’s got a high neck and cross-over straps at
the front and a cut-out detail at the back but it’s so tight, I can get away without
wearing a bra. I don’t normally wear such bright colours, or such revealing dresses.
But shopping while tipsy – which I definitely am – is a very good way to break out
of a style rut.

I come outside to show the girls. ‘What do you think?’

Lily, who’s in the middle of sending a text, drops her phone. ‘Aaaaahhh!’ she says,
waving her hands around. ‘Love it! You have to get it!’

‘It’s amazing,’ says Maggie, walking around me. ‘It’s like a Herve Leger bandage
dress. And the colour really pops against your hair and skin. How much?’

I strike a slightly unsteady model pose. ‘A hundred and twenty. I’m not sure where
I’d wear it though . . .’

‘Anywhere,’ says Lily immediately. ‘To a wedding. To a restaurant. Get it!’

What happens next is a bit like the shopping scene in
Pretty Woman
, if Julia Roberts was drunk. Maggie gives me a ton of things to try on, most of which
I would never have picked myself. But I love most of them, and I end up buying a slinky
dark blue shirt in a see-through snakeskin print, a matching dark blue silk camisole
top, a pair of gladiator sandals in the softest brown leather, a pair of silver pumps
with a low heel
and
a pair of coral skinny jeans. And a couple of perfect white T-shirts which I tell
myself piously will be useful for work.

‘You know how I said I have to be in the mood to go shopping?’ I say to Lily, as
we weave our way back to the hotel, bags in hand. ‘I obviously just need to have most
of a bottle of Prosecco first.’

‘Do you still want to go and see the Coliseum?’ Maggie asks innocently.

‘Um . . .’ I feel a twinge of conscience before saying, ‘No, it’s OK.’ I’m not going
to feel too bad about the Coliseum. I’m on holiday.

Back at the hotel, Lily reminds Maggie about her fashion shoot idea. ‘Come on, do
your make-up and we’ll take some pictures on the terrace.’

‘Only if Rachel does it too,’ says Maggie.

I don’t argue: I’m only too happy to help Maggie
and
capture all my new clothes for posterity. Maggie throws on a clingy peach jersey
top with a pair of navy shorts and heels, and I put on the snakeskin shirt and my
new skinny jeans and silver shoes. Plus sunglasses. Lily takes a dozen pictures of
us, together and separately, standing on the terrace with the piazza in the background.

‘Nice, girls, nice,’ says Lily. ‘Let’s have a change of location!’

So we go down and continue our shoot
on
the Spanish Steps. And then running down them, scattering pigeons and dodging guitar-playing
students. Then, giggling, we run over to the fountain: we drape ourselves on the edge
of it, do mock-model poses, and even stand on the rim. People are staring at us, but
it’s so much fun, I don’t care. I’ve never done anything like this in my life.

‘Are you guys famous?’ a very young American girl with braces asks, approaching us.

‘Yes,’ says Lily. ‘They’re very big in Japan. I’ll take a picture of you with them
if you like.’

So we end up being in a random tween’s photo. Then we decide to sit down for some
coffee in the sun – and for some gelato, because the tiramisu and the wine are wearing
off.

We’re all silently appreciating the gelato – I’m having pistachio and coffee flavour,
which is divine – when my phone buzzes with a text. Wondering if it will be Oliver,
I check it and see, with a start, that it’s from an unfamiliar number. It’s unfamiliar
because I deleted it, but I know exactly who it’s from.

Rachel. So good to see you earlier. Have you thought any more about tonight? Some
things I’d love to say to you. Jx.

Hmm. Some things he’d love to say to me? It would be long overdue. I will admit, it’s
fairly soothing to my ego that he’s so eager to talk to me. Unlike Oliver.

I wish Oliver would text me soon, so that I can stop thinking about stupid Jay. And
comparing him to Oliver. At first I loved the fact that Oliver is so genuine and down
to earth. But now I can’t help thinking: he would never take me to a secret club.
He hates fancy clubs and restaurants, and he prefers old man’s pubs to nice bars.
I want to go away to Bali or somewhere this time next year, and his idea of a holiday
is more like a wet fortnight in Wales, camping or something. I don’t camp. Our skiing
holiday was luxurious, but he didn’t plan it; his friend did. Left to himself, Oliver
probably would have booked us a week’s ski boot camp in Scotland. With home-made skis.

‘Was that Oliver?’ Maggie asks. I told her earlier that I think his battery must
be dead.

‘No, Jay.’ I shrug, licking the remains of my ice-cream cone. ‘He seems keen to meet
up later. I’m not so sure.’

To my disappointment, they don’t argue.

‘OK,’ Maggie asks. ‘We could go to that La Maison place?’

‘It got some mixed reviews on TripAdvisor,’ says Lily. ‘We should’ve asked Carter
DeWinter. I bet he knows the places with the best Aperols.’

‘Well,’ I say casually, ‘I suppose we
could
go to that secret garden place. We don’t have to hang out with Jay once we’re there.
I know this is your year of saying yes to things, Maggie, so I want you to be able
to meet Rob,’ I add, feeling weaselly.

Maggie glances at Lily, then at me.

‘But you don’t want to go, do you?’

‘I don’t mind going there just for an hour or so. To show I’m not sulking. That’s
if you guys are keen.’ And I’m mildly interested myself to hear what Jay has to say.
And to show him what he’s missing, i.e. my new dress and me inside it. Not shallow
at
all
.

‘Well, I did like his friend,’ says Maggie frankly. ‘How about you, Lily?’

‘I’ll go anywhere,’ says Lily. ‘Does he have good taste in clubs, this Jay?’

‘That’s the one thing he does have. It’s bound to be a very cool place.’

So I send Jay a quick text saying we’ll go to the club though we might not stay very
long. He texts back immediately:
You’ve made my day. Just getting the address.
He texts it to me, then adds:
See you outside at 9. Jx

Two texts in the space of two minutes. How different from the time when he used to
take hours or even days, before sending me a text that I would pore over like the
Dead Sea Scrolls. I wait a while – let him sweat for a change – before replying:
OK
. Short and sweet. It feels good to have the upper hand, for once. Not that I’m getting
into any kind of thing with Jay again; I’m just happy to be able to show him I don’t
care about him.

After enjoying the sun for a little longer, we decide to go back to the hotel for
Maggie to have some quiet time, and for me to have a disco nap to recover from all
the lunchtime Prosecco. When we all reconvene, around seven, Maggie decides it’s time
to give me a makeover and produces an enormous case full of brushes and eye shadows.

It’s ironic that she and Lily both have one older brother, and yet they know more
about make-up than me, with two sisters. My sisters and I were enthusiastic about
make-up rather than skilful. A slick of Rimmel Heather Shimmer, all-over fake tan
and maybe some hair mascara, and we were ready for the bright lights of Celbridge.
We never wore blusher: sure, why would we want our faces to look redder than they
were already?

‘What do you think?’ asks Maggie when she’s finished, sitting back.

‘Wow! I look so different.’ Really, really striking and sort of . . . smouldering.
I’ve never seen my eyes look so big, or dramatic. And for the first time I can see
the point of blusher.

‘I love it!’ I tell Maggie, who looks delighted.

We get dressed – in the girls’ room for company – and it’s like being fifteen again
as we all jostle for room at the mirror, with Lady GaGa playing on Lily’s phone. They
both look fantastic: Lily in a striped-and-floral midi dress that she describes as
a Man Repeller, and Maggie in a lemon-yellow chiffon strapless dress. When I compliment
it, she tells me it’s from the Kate Moss Topshop collection, and she got up at six
a.m. to buy it online. That’s dedication. Lily lends me her black-and-white striped
blazer to wear over my raspberry dress.

None of us can face getting to grips with public transport here, so we ask the hotel
to call us a taxi. And ten minutes later, we’re speeding along through the streets
of Rome towards the Villa Borghese.

When I see the queue at the entrance to the darkened park, my worries about being
overdressed disappear, and instead I start to worry that I’m going to be
under
dressed. I’ve never seen such a glamorous crowd gathered anywhere. The men are all
in dark suits and the women are all in tiny designer dresses, Fendi baguettes dangling
from manicured fingers, striding effortlessly in sky-high heels. Everyone is smoking
and talking non-stop while also simultaneously seeming very bored.