to David.
?So what?s Geneva like??
?To be honest, I haven?t really seen much of Geneva, just the inside of offices.?
?Okay, well, have a lovely time,? I say, and hang up just in time to hear an announcement telling me my luggage has arrived on carousel number four.
Of course my suitcase is the last to appear on the carousel, and I?m half an hour late by the time I get to the station to meet Mike. I even take a taxi, which wipes out a whole load of cash. But naturally Mike hasn?t arrived yet. Maybe he hasn?t adjusted to Italian time. I sit on my suitcase and start reading a copy of ItalianVogue I bought at a kiosk. Not that I really understand any of it, but I like the pictures, and also I like the idea that people walking past me may think I?m Italian.
?Georgina,? I mutter under my breath, practicing my accent. ?Buon giorno,Georgina.? A man sitting next to me looks at me oddly and I refocus on my magazine.
I can?t stop thinking about the man in the airport. It couldn?t have been David, could it? Before I?ve even asked myself the question, I know the answer. Of course it wasn?t David. David is the most predictable man I?ve ever known. If he says he?s in Geneva, well, that?s exactly where he must be. I get another pang of guilt about being in Rome. But decide to ignore it. You are Audrey Hepburn, I tell myself. This is your weekend of indulgence. It?s fine. David had loads of chances to bring you here, and he didn?t. End of story.
But if I?m Audrey Hepburn and this is my Roman Holiday, who is my Gregory Peck going to be? I know David?s not exactly rough around the edges, but I did always think that he would be my Gregory Peck. And now I?m going to be spending the weekend here with Mike instead. I try to imagine Mike wearing a baggy 1950s suit and driving me around on a Vespa and smile slightly at the thought. I mean, I can imagine Mike on a Vespa, I?m just not sure about the suit. Plus, if he did get a scooter, he?d almost certainly become a boy-racer, trying to beat everyone else on the street.
I put down my magazine and look around. To be honest, Rome station isn?t particularly different from any other major station I?ve been in; there?s a big sign for departures and arrivals, and lots of people waiting around. But the air is warmer, and people look more . . . well, not exactly glamorous but certainly more Italian. There are lots of curvaceous women wandering around wearing skin-tight jeans and high heels, and men in sharp suits talking into mobile phones. In Italian.
I look at my watch. Mike is nearly an hour late. I would get annoyed, but I figure I?m in Italy now; you can?t get too hung up on people being a bit late, can you? And I quite like the people watching. I?m absorbed in a couple standing about twenty feet away who seem to be having a massive argument when Mike appears. Even when he?s late, he doesn?t run, I notice. He ambles slowly over and gives me a kiss on the lips.
?Been here long??
?Oh, you know, a bit.?
?Sorry I?m late, gorgeous, had a nightmare meeting this afternoon,? he says, putting his fingers through his hair and looking around the station. ?Still, made a wad of cash, so what the fuck. Have you got the bag??
?It?s in my suitcase.?
?Cool. Come on then, let?s go!?
I trot after Mike, dragging my suitcase. I can?t believe I didn?t get one with wheels. I look ahead at Mike and am pleased to see he?s looking utterly gorgeous. He?s wearing a gray V-neck jumper and dark blue jeans, with a sixties- style beaten up leather jacket.
He looks like he?s come straight out of a really cool black-and-white film. Only it isn?tRoman Holiday , it?sThe Thomas Crown Affair orBullit , and he?s Steve McQueen. He looks a bit dangerous, like a lion that?s prowling around looking for its next prey. His eyes are incredibly alert and watchful, and you get the feeling that he could pounce at any minute. I get a little flutter in my stomach, as if I?m nervous, but that?s ridiculous. I have no reason to be nervous.
We jump in a cab and make our way to a small hotel near the Castel Sant?Angelo. A short man in uniform takes my luggage and says something to me in Italian. Not wanting to appear really English, I just smile sweetly as Mike presses the button for the lift. But the guy keeps standing there, looking like I should be saying something. I feel myself go red?I can hardly admit now that I didn?t understand a word he said, can I? Hoping he?ll go away, I stare ahead at the lift doors, but instead he starts talking to me again.
?Room Fifty-four,? says Mike, and the man nods and walks away. I go redder and look up to see Mike laughing at me.
?Italian?s a bit rusty,? I mutter.
?Idiot,? laughs Mike, ?he was speaking English! The guy just has a thick accent!?
Mortified, I get into the lift, but Mike doesn?t join me. Instead he winks and grins.
?Why don?t you take your stuff to our room. Brian and I?ll be in the bar,? he suggests.
Our room. Okay, that?s fine. We?re sharing a room. I mean, I expected that. But hang on, what was the other thing he said?
?Brian??
?Yeah, you know, you met him at the Atlantic Bar.?
?I know who he is; I just didn?t know he was here.? I try very hard to stop my voice going squeaky and indignant, and tell myself not to get upset. I want this weekend to be perfect, and getting upset because Brian is here is not going to get things off on the right note.
?Yeah, well, we had some business stuff to sort out, you know. He?s only here till tomorrow. Come on, he?s a laugh, Brian.?
I smile. Of course it?s fine. Why wouldn?t it be fine? Actually, this is more than fine. Two men taking me out in Rome. What could be better than that?
As soon as I get to the room, I dump my things on the floor and run myself a bath. Then I have a quick look around the room (nice view, huge big wardrobe). By the time I get into the bath, the whole room is steamy and
