Rachel Does Rome (8 page)

‘But, Rachel,’ Maggie says, ‘what did he do? I mean, seriously – what happened?’

So I explain: about our sadistic six-month relationship that wasn’t, because we were
‘friends’, and how he cheated on me.

‘Can I point out as well that his real name is Jason?’ I add. Not that there’s anything
wrong with being called Jason, but it’s typical of Jay that not even his name is real.

‘That’s awful,’ says Maggie, looking stricken. ‘If we’d known about all that, we
never
would have come out to meet them.’

‘It was my fault, I should have told you earlier. I’m just sorry we had to leave
early if you were having a good time.’

‘God, no,’ says Lily. ‘The place was fun, but I was taking a hit for the team. The
team being you and Rob.’ She points at Maggie.

‘Did Rob ask for your number?’ I ask Maggie.

‘Yes, but I won’t answer if he calls. I don’t like the company he keeps. It’s my
year of saying yes to everything, but not to
anything
.’

‘Woohoo! You are on fire this weekend, girlfriend,’ says Lily. ‘You too, Rachel.’
She starts to laugh to herself, and I can tell she’s thinking again about me pushing
Jay into the hot tub. It is a beautiful memory. I wish I could have taped it.

‘Hmm,’ says Maggie. ‘How are we going to get back to the hotel?’

This is an excellent point. We’ve left the park now, and we’re on a dark street with
no shops or bars and nobody going by. I didn’t bring my guidebook, which was stupid
of me, and Lily’s phone’s not working.

‘We could always go back to the club and see if someone will call us a taxi,’ suggests
Lily.

‘No!’ I say, panicked. ‘I don’t want to run into Jay again. Oh, God! He’s bound to
be on his way out himself – he’ll have to go home and change.’ I look back desperately
over my shoulder. ‘We have to get out of here now!’ Not that I think Jay will turn
violent, though he is a boxer; but he might threaten to sue me, or make me pay for
his dry cleaning. Either way, it won’t be fun.

‘But how?’ says Maggie.

We’re all looking around in an aimless panic when there’s a roar of mopeds, startlingly
loud in the quiet street. We all turn around, and we’re relieved – at least I certainly
am – to see that it’s three girls on Vespas. As they’re going past us, one of them
slows down and calls out something in Italian. We all shake our heads, and she stops.

‘Are you all right?’ she says, in English. I can see blond curls under her helmet.
‘Do you need directions?’

‘Yes, thanks – we’re trying to get back to the centre. The Spanish Steps—’

‘We’re going to the
centro storico
,’ another one says. ‘Do you want a lift?’

Lily, Maggie and I exchange glances before saying, ‘Sure!’ And we hop on the back
of the Vespas with the girls.

‘Hold on,’ says one of them, and then we’re off, hair streaming in the wind, skimming
dangerously close to the ground, or so it feels. Sights are flying by us. I see an
ancient Roman theatre; a tall column with intricate sculptures all over it; a gigantic
baroque-looking edifice covered with statues of soldiers, horses and flags. My new
friend calls out over her shoulder, giving me the names of the landmarks as we go.
I’ve realised that there is way too much to see in Rome to even try and remember all
the names so I don’t bother. I just soak it in: my first ever Vespa ride!

Eventually things start looking more familiar; we’re back in the same streets that
I recognise from our first evening exploring. The girls stop their Vespas and we all
climb off, breathless and exhilarated, stumbling a bit now that we’re back on solid
ground.

‘Thank you!’ we all chorus. ‘That was great!’

They wave and kick-start their Vespas again, buzzing off into the night.

‘Wasn’t that great? Like Charlie’s Angels,’ says Maggie. ‘They rescued us.’

‘I can’t believe I just rode on a moped without a helmet,’ I say. ‘
And
I haven’t looked at my guidebook all day.’

‘Rachel, you also just pushed someone into a hot tub,’ Lily points out. ‘I think
that’s worth mentioning too.’ Our giggles ring out into the empty streets.

We set off in what we think is the direction of our hotel, but soon we’re completely
lost again. I’m about to ask Lily whether her phone is working, when we hear music.

‘Ooh,’ says Maggie. ‘Are you hearing what I’m hearing?’

‘Ladies, leave your man at home!’ says Lily. ‘The joint is jumpin’, jumpin’!’ She’s
right; it’s Destiny’s Child. We follow the music and find ourselves at the door of
a scuzzy little bar. It’s small and dark; the floor looks sticky. It’s a world away
from the Playboy Mansion we just left. But we don’t even need to discuss it; we thrust
some notes at the guy on the door, and charge in, desperate to get to the dance floor
before the song ends.

What follows is the best night out dancing I’ve had in years. We dance to ‘Jumpin’
Jumpin’, ‘Get Lucky’ and then back to Destiny’s Child with ‘Independent Women’. Then
we dance to ‘No Diggity’, and then for a change, ‘Sexyback’. It’s as if someone’s
put his iPod on shuffle and plugged it in. In fact I think that’s what the DJ’s done;
I see him lounging against the wall chatting up a gorgeous girl in a white dress.

‘I want to buy a drink but the music’s too good, I don’t want to miss a song!’ screams
Maggie.

‘I’ll get you one!’ I hurry to the bar and order three Peroni beers, which we drink
quickly until ‘We Are Never, Ever Getting Back Together’ by Taylor Swift comes on.
Which means we have to run back to the dance floor, beers in hand.

‘This is the best night ever!’ Lily sings, or rather screams, along to the music.
‘Ever, ever, ever!’ Maggie is doing air guitar.

Then to make things even better, ‘Hey Ya’ comes on.

‘I haven’t heard this in YEARS!’ yells Maggie, spinning around in uneven circles
and shaking her rear energetically.

When we stumble out of the club, hours later, we’re sweaty and dishevelled, our feet
are sore and our throats are raw from singing. It’s great.

‘That was fantastic,’ says Lily. ‘So much fun. God, I’m so hot and sticky.’

‘Me too, boiling,’ says Maggie. ‘Now where’s the hotel gone?’

‘I think it’s that way,’ I say, pointing vaguely.

But once we’ve stumbled down the narrow alley, we’re not at the hotel. We’re in a
little square, which is almost entirely filled by a most massive, ornate fountain.
Lit by floodlights, it’s an incredible marble concoction of columns, alcoves, arches,
and statues with billowing robes, all set above a foaming turquoise pool full of coins.
Although it’s one a.m., a few people are still here, having their photos taken or
flipping yet more coins into the fountain.

‘It’s the Trevi Fountain!’ says Lily. She rummages in her bag and hands us each a
euro coin. ‘If you throw a coin in it, it means you’ll come back to Rome.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ I object. ‘Surely it’s up to us whether we come
back to Rome? Wouldn’t we be better off saving our euro and putting it towards air
fare?’

They both look at me and then we all start laughing.

‘OK, fine. That was a bit pedantic,’ I admit.

‘You can just make a wish,’ suggests Maggie.

So I close my eyes and flip. I don’t even have to think twice: I wish for Oliver.
I hope things work out between us . . . and that his phone really has died.

As we turn away from the fountain and start walking home – in the right direction
this time – I say, ‘You know what the difference between Oliver and Jay is?’

‘Jay is a dickhead and Oliver is lovely?’ suggests Maggie.

‘That goes without saying. But also, they’re like Batman and Superman. Batman looks
really flashy from the outside – but if you take away his car and his weapons and
his castle and his business empire, he’s just some guy. Whereas Superman looks like
an ordinary guy but inside, he’s a superhero.’

‘I like it,’ says Maggie, nodding. ‘Let’s always date Superman from now on.’

I’ve realised something else. One of the reasons I was so fixated on Jay was because
I was scarred by the memory of being geeky and friendless in school. And I thought
that Jay made me cool. Whereas I resisted Oliver at first, not because I didn’t like
him – I always did – but because I was worried about what the choice of him would
say about me. I didn’t want us to be the geeky couple.

But now I don’t care. I’m going to embrace my inner nerd. I love my job, and I like
talking about politics and watching Sky News while doing my ironing and I wear flat
shoes nintey per cent of the time. And that’s OK! Oliver still likes me. At least,
I’m pretty sure he does. I still haven’t heard from him but I’m going to blame that
on his ancient phone which I’m positive has died. I hope so anyway. ‘Are we nearly
there yet?’ asks Maggie, plaintively. ‘My feet hurt.’

‘Yes! It’s around this corner.’ Soon we’ve reached the piazza, and we’re crossing
it again to get to our hotel. I’m sad to think it’s for the last time.

‘I can’t believe our weekend’s nearly over,’ I say suddenly. ‘It’s been so great
. . . thank you both for coming.’

‘Thank you for suggesting it,’ says Maggie.

‘Group hug!’ says Lily, and we obey, laughing. We let ourselves into the front door
of our hotel, and tiptoe up the stairs so as not to disturb the other guests, who
all seem much older and earlier-rising than us.

‘So where are we going on our next trip?’ asks Maggie.

‘I won’t be able to come – I’ll be in the States,’ says Lily sadly.

‘But not forever,’ says Maggie. ‘Or maybe we’ll come and visit you there?’

‘Yes! Please come!’ Lily says, practically jumping up and down with excitement. ‘Come
to LA – or we could all meet up in New York?’

Suddenly an angry head is poked out of one of the doors, into the corridor. ‘People
are trying to sleep!’ it hisses.

‘Sorry!’ we all whisper. The door closes and we all start giggling, but quietly,
and say goodnight in stage whispers.

The next morning, we have a very late and leisurely breakfast in the same café as
yesterday – I’m fairly sure Jay won’t reappear, and even if he does I genuinely don’t
care. My head is sore, though: I must have been much drunker than I thought last night.
Lily and I have our usual cappuccinos and croissants. Maggie asks for boiling water,
a tea bag and two cups, and finally assembles a satisfactory cup of tea for herself.

‘Yay,’ she murmurs, as she adds milk. We all applaud.

‘Hey, I just realised something,’ I say. ‘Today is Valentine’s Day.’

‘Oh yeah,’ says Lily, yawning. ‘Happy V-Day.’

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, girls,’ says Maggie, clinking her teacup against my coffee
cup.

‘Hey, Rachel,’ says Lily, looking at me over her sunglasses. ‘I have a question.’

‘What?’ I ask, hoping she’s not going to bring up Oliver.

‘Where’s the other Picasso?’ Lily says, and creases up with laughter.

‘Lily, I hope you study every drug you take . . . verrry carefully,’ says Maggie.

We take a last walk around, do some window-shopping and Maggie buys a scarf. All
too soon, it’s time to go back to the hotel and pack and then queue for the airport
bus. On the bus, we swap reminiscences about the weekend: the cellar bar, meeting
Joe and Carter DeWinter, our epic lunch at the Campo di Fiori, the photo-shoot, the
crazy amphitheatre club, me pushing Jay into the hot tub . . . and our ride home with
the Charlie’s Angels, and dancing to Destiny’s Child in that sweaty little bar. We
packed in much more than I thought.

‘Though I never did see the Coliseum,’ I add.

‘And I never did go for a jog,’ says Maggie.

‘I rode on a Vespa,’ Lily says happily.

We all fall asleep on the plane. Maggie’s copy of
One Hundred Years of Solitude
drops under the seat in front of us and has to be rescued by Lily.

‘You’d better have finished that by the next time I visit,’ Lily says, handing it
to her. ‘Or start a new one. Life’s too short.’

She’s totally right; life is too short. There and then, I make a decision. I’m not
going to stay mute and hide my feelings with Oliver, the way I did with Jay. I’m going
to tell him I’m annoyed that he hasn’t been in touch all weekend. Not in an angry,
needy way; in an open, level and sensible way. We’re grown-ups. It’s time.

Finally we land and deplane, and it’s time to say goodbye – Maggie is going west,
Lily is heading south to her dad’s place, and I’m going north to Finchley Road.

‘Thanks, girls,’ I say, hugging them both. ‘It was a great weekend.’

‘I’ll find you on Facebook,’ says Lily. ‘And I’ll send you my email address, and
my phone number in the States. Are you on Skype?’

‘Let’s get together soon,’ says Maggie. ‘And good luck with, you know, everything.’

She means Oliver. I smile, but as I sit on the bus home from Stansted airport, I’m
feeling more and more worried about everything. Oliver and I have never been out of
touch for this long. By the time I arrive at Finchley Road, I’m thinking: What if
he breaks up with me, the way Jay did? I don’t think I can handle another fracture
of the heart. The weather is adding insult to injury: it’s dark and freezing all over
again, as if we’ve gone back in time to the depths of winter. It’s hard to believe
that this time yesterday, I was prancing around without a jacket on.

I turn into the path to my building and trudge along towards the steps, head down.
Until I hear someone say my name.

‘Rachel.’

I look up and blink in the dark, wondering if I’m imagining things. But it’s him.
He’s sitting on the steps of my building, holding a bunch of purple and orange carnations
and Michaelmas daisies. His suitcase is beside him.

‘Oh,’ I say, unguardedly. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought I’d surprise you. Was that not a good idea?’ He stands up. I’d forgotten
how tall he is. And how sexy. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch this weekend. My
phone died, and I forgot to bring my charger. And the others all have smart phones,
so none of their chargers worked for me . . .’