Rachel Does Rome Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Nicola Doherty

  The right of Nicola Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published as an Ebook in 2015 by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover illustration © Adrian Valencia

  eISBN 978 1 4722 1878 0

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Nicola Doherty

  About the Book

  Rachel Does Rome

  Nicola Doherty Character Map

  Don’t miss The Girls Take Manhattan

  Catch all of the Girls on Tour

  About the Author

  Nicola Doherty grew up in Monkstown, Co. Dublin, and worked in book publishing before leaving to pursue a freelance and writing career. Her first novel The Out of Office Girl was shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Awards in the Romantic Comedy category. Nicola lives in Highbury, North London with her husband and no cats (yet).

  To find out more about Nicola go to www.nicoladoherty.co.uk. Follow her on Twitter @nicoladoherty_ and visit her on Facebook at NicolaDohertyBooks.

  Praise for Nicola Doherty:

  ‘A hugely enjoyable story’ Daily Mail

  ‘A modern-day Roman Holiday: smart, funny and totally unputdownable’ Gemma Burgess

  ‘A great beach read’ Star

  ‘A fun, quick read that will have you laughing out loud’ Bella

  ‘Fabulously enjoyable’ Bookseller

  ‘A gorgeous debut, reminiscent of early Jilly Cooper’ Irish Examiner

  ‘The classic beach read for die-hard romantics everywhere’ Irish World

  ‘Escapism at its very best’ Books Ireland

  ‘Immediately joins the ranks of Bagshawe and Kinsella . . . a fantastic debut novel’ Keep Calm and Read a Book

  ‘A hugely enjoyable read from start to finish’ Chick Lit Chloe

  ‘One of those rare amazing-all-round books . . . I was totally won over by this stunning weekend read’ Pretty Little Memoirs

  ‘It’ll definitely melt your heart . . . the perfect light-hearted read with a little added twist, a happy ending and some great laughs thrown in’ Rosie Reads Romance

  ‘Funny, sharp and an absolute delight’ I Heart Chicklit

  ‘I was thinking about it for days . . . an addictive story’ Into the Bookcase

  ‘A smart, funny and romantic debut novel’ Novelicious

  ‘Just the right amount of humour alongside loveable and believable characters . . . fun, fabulous and hilarious’ Book Addict Shaun

  By Nicola Doherty and available from Headline Review:

  The Out of Office Girl

  If I Could Turn Back Time

  Girls On Tour eBook series:

  Poppy Does Paris

  Lily Does LA

  Maggie Does Meribel

  Rachel Does Rome

  About the Book

  The fourth instalment in this hilarious, romantic and unputdownable five-part series.

  What do you do when your boyfriend of two months cancels Valentine’s Day?

  If you’re Rachel, you book a last-minute trip to Rome. Together with her friends Lily and Maggie, she’s planning a relaxing weekend of culture and cappuccinos to take her mind off men altogether. But when she bumps into a figure from her past, Rachel finds herself on a Roman Holiday that features Vespa rides, hot tubs and some very unexpected consequences . . .

  Girls on Tour is an irresistible series of interlinked stories about four friends, ordinary girls who have extraordinary fun in faraway places. Expect the unexpected, the utterly hilarious and unforgettable, on this rollercoaster ride of love, laughs, surprises and sparks. You have a VIP pass to join each girl's adventure, so pack your bags and buckle your seatbelts, because just about anything is possible . . .

  I never would have thought it was possible to be this happy in February.

  Normally I dread this time of year. Everyone’s broke and grumpy from detoxing, Christmas is a distant memory, and the weather is bleakety bleak. Plus, it contains Valentine’s Day, which hasn’t always been my favourite occasion. But this year, I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s a Friday night in early February, and Oliver and I are having dinner in a little Italian restaurant near his flat in Queen’s Park. Outside it’s dark, sleety and miserable; inside, it’s candlelit, warm and rosy – which is just how I feel.

  ‘Now,’ Oliver says, pouring me a glass of red wine. ‘Aren’t you glad we’re not queuing in the cold with a load of bearded wankers?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I reply, laughing. I had suggested trying a new gin bar in Dalston this evening, but Oliver was too knackered. As an orthopaedic surgeon, he works as hard as I do in my law firm. Anyway, it’s not as if we never do anything exciting. Our fourth date was a weekend away, skiing in the French Alps over New Year. My older sisters both thought I was crazy; from their reactions you would have thought I was hopping off to Vegas to marry him. But five weeks later, we’re still going strong.

  As I catch sight of myself in the mirror opposite, I realise I even look different. I’m still tall with the classic Irish combination of long black hair (that I secretly dye because it’s been going grey for years), blue eyes and paper-white skin. But right now I’m actually glowing, and it’s not only from the red wine. We’ve just finished a lively argument about the age of consent – the kind of nerdy debate we both enjoy – when Oliver picks up a folded card from the table.

  ‘Book now for Valentine’s Day. Fifty-five pounds for three courses including a complimentary glass of Prosecco’. He shakes his head. ‘Can you imagine? Paying three times the normal price to sit in a restaurant full of whispering couples. No thanks.’ He pauses, looking at me doubtfully. ‘You think so too, don’t you?’ he asks.

  ‘Totally,’ I say, truthfully.

  Oliver looks relieved. ‘Oh good. You think the whole Valentine’s thing is naff as well?’

  I’m about to say ‘Sure’. But I’m not completely sure. I’m just as allergic to the whole pink-napkin, single-carnation thing as Oliver seems to be. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want us to do something.

  So I say, ‘I totally agree with you on the naff front. I definitely wouldn’t want a roomful of teddies and heart-shaped chocolate boxes. But I think it’s nice to do something. A little token acknowledgment.’

  Oliver smiles, and nods. ‘That sounds exactly right.’

  I return to my ravioli, happy that we’re on the same page. I don’t have to worry that he’s going to deliver a singing telegram to my work. But we will be doing something. Maybe he’ll make dinner at his place; maybe we’ll go to see a late-night showing of a classic film, or have a drink in a nice bar. The main thing is, we’ll be together.

  So I’m disappointed when, a few days later, the plan changes. It’s around nine p.m. and I’m co
ming home from work in a taxi; one of the ‘perks’ we get when working late. This is often my only chance to make personal phone calls so I’ve got into the habit of calling people, especially Oliver, at this time. The Addison Lee drivers are now totally clued up on all the doings of my social circle. We’ve had a quick chat and I’m about to suggest a double bill of black-and-white films at the Curzon as our Valentine’s Day celebration, when Oliver says, ‘I’m afraid I have to go to Bristol on the weekend of the thirteenth and fourteenth.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been asked to give a paper at a conference.’ He pauses and continues, ‘I know it’s Valentine’s weekend . . . I hope you don’t mind.’

  I do mind, because we said we’d do something. But I also know that writing papers and going to conferences is a really important part of Oliver’s job; he has to get his name out there if he wants to become a consultant. One of the things I love about him is that he never complains about me working late, or on weekends; he gets it. So I’m going to be a good sport too.

  ‘That’s fine. Maybe we could meet on the Friday instead?’

  ‘Well, I’m actually going down on the Friday.’

  ‘OK, fair enough,’ I say quickly, not wanting to be whiny or unreasonable. I was really looking forward to doing something with him. But it can’t be helped. And Oliver immediately asks when he can see me again, so I don’t feel too neglected.

  The irony is that in the beginning, I was barely interested in Oliver at all, and only went out with him in a spirit of experiment. If I’m being honest, I thought he was a bit geeky. He did not fit in with the picture of a perfect boyfriend that I’d had before – sharp, successful, sophisticated and gorgeous. Or, as my friend Zoë used to describe my ideal man, ‘a cruel millionaire’. Like my ex, Jay: urgh.

  But then . . . it was like looking at one of those pictures of a vase that suddenly become two faces in profile. One night I realised that even though he was very tall and awkward, and his ears do stick out, I found him unbearably sexy. And fun, and passionate about the same sorts of things as me – politics, current affairs, things happening in the world today. And with endearing random traits like an encyclopaedic knowledge of early noughties R’n’B. I’ll never forget seeing him dance around his kitchen singing and stripping off (well, his jumper) to the sound of ‘Hot in Herre’ by Nelly.

  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.