Rachel Does Rome Page 5

  ‘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 underdressed. 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.

  We’re walking to the back of the queue when I hear my name being called. I turn around; it’s Jay, with his two friends.

  ‘Rachel,’ he says, as we walk towards him. ‘You look fantastic.’ He looks me up and down with a smile, before kissing me on both cheeks.

  Jay looks good too. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a white shirt, and dark blue jeans and polished brown loafers. Very simple, but he’s in great shape so his clothes always look good on him. He’s an amateur boxer; he took it up when white-collar boxing became popular among City guys a few years ago. His dark blond hair is slicked back, showing off his profile, which always reminds me of Ryan Gosling’s . . . but I’m not thinking about that right now.

  We join the queue, and he re-introduces his friends: Henry, the posh, vacant-looking one, and Rob, the dark-haired one who Maggie liked.

  ‘So this should be quite fun,’ Jay says, as we reach the head of the queue. ‘At least I hope so . . . should be better than Inferno’s in Clapham anyway.’ He winks at me, and I laugh as I remember a hellish night out we had there for a colleague’s birthday. He gently puts his hand on the small of my back to move me forward. I move away, but I have to admit, part of me likes it.

  Being seen with him, in fact, is another guilty pleasure. It makes me more confident, especially in such an über-glam setting. I picture what all the people who thought I was a nerd in school would think if they saw me beside Jay right now, in my Herve Leger-esque dress, queueing for a secret cool club. They probably wouldn’t even recognise me. But I’m still relieved when the man on the door, instead of turning me away, lets me in with the others.

  Now we’re walking along a gravelled path in the darkness, on the edge of a lawn in a park. There are a few little lanterns strung up here and there, but aside from that it’s pitch dark; everyone’s giggling and bumping into each other as they walk along. I’m suddenly nervous; I hope it’s not going to be some kind of Eyes-Wide-Shut-style orgy and that we’re not going to be given a rubber mask and a whip when we get to wherever we’re going.

  I’m certainly not taking part in an orgy, whatever Jay thinks. And I also want him to know that I haven’t forgotten what happened between us. I want to play it cool, but I’m not above a pointed hint.

  ‘How’s Tamara or whatever her name is?’ I ask him levelly.

  He looks blank for a minute before saying, ‘Tamsin? God. Rachel. That is so over.’ He shakes his head. ‘She was . . . that was not a good idea.’

  I’m about to ask him more, but we’re nearly at the dance floor. I can hear music getting louder; it’s a souped-up dance version of ‘Mambo Italiano’. I suppose that’s his version of an apology; I’m happy to leave it there for now. We can talk later. I can also hear Maggie chatting to Rob – good – and Henry trying to chat up Lily; her Man Repeller dress obviously isn’t repellent enough.

  Finally the path turns a corner and we’ve arrived. The first thing I notice is that on the other side of a lawn there’s an amphitheatre, floodlit, packed with people dancing; not just on the base of it but on the steps, the better to show off their tiny black dresses, gold jewellery, bandeau tops and hot pants, or in the case of the guys, tight white T-shirts or shirts with half the buttons undone. We’re standing in the garden which is obviously the chill-out zone. It’s lit with lanterns, with sofas set out under topiary hedges, and a pop-up bar, and a platform where more people are dancing. There are floodlit fountains and hot tubs. Hot tubs! A guy goes past us wearing a pale blue suit with a pocket square, and sunglasses. At night!

  ‘Let’s grab these seats and get a drink,’ says Jay. ‘Ladies, what can I get you?’

  Within moments we’re all lounging around on a low white sofa under a tree, drinking Campari and soda, while cool trance music plays in the background. God, he’s smooth. A disloyal thought pops into my head: Oliver would never have brought me somewhere like this, or be able to find us a table or drinks so quickly. He probably wouldn’t get into a place like this. Whereas Jay . . . But I shelve that thought. Though I wish Oliver would help me shelve it, by texting me.

  The others are all chatting, about Rome and what a relief it is to finally see some sun.

  ‘This time next year, I’ve promised myself I’m going away somewhere in February,’ Jay says. ‘To get some winter sun before I develop rickets.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say, unguardedly. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. Long-haul break to Bali or somewhere.’

  ‘Went there on my gap yah,’ says Henry. Lily, Maggie and I all exchange discreet glances and I can already predict this comment is going to join the quotable quotes of the weekend.

  ‘Hate to tell you, mate,’ says Jay, ‘but Bali is over now. You know that book, what’s it called . . . Dance Pray Sing? Pasta Pizza Pilgrims? Help me out . . .’ He clicks his fingers, pretending to be at a loss.

  ‘Eat Pray Love!’ we all chorus, laughing at him.

  ‘That’s the one. Ever since she wrote about the hippie town of Ubud, it’s been swamped with Americans finding themselves. There’s even a Starbucks now.’

  ‘How awful,’ I say, genuinely relieved that I’ve heard this before booking my own flight.

  ‘The place to go now is Lombok,’ says Jay.

  ‘Isn’t that a furniture shop on Tottenham Court Road?’ says Lily.

  ‘Yes! But it’s also an Indonesian island,’ says Jay.

  I’m pleased to see that though he smiled at Lily’s wisecrack, he’s not drooling or staring at her; he’s directing all his comments at me. I’ve demonised him so much over the past six months I’ve forgotten how nice he can be. He’s sharp and sophisticated, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously. We don’t talk about anything heavy, the way I do with Oliver. We discuss restaurants, holidays, even clothes – it turns out he went shopping today.

  ‘Did some serious damage at Diesel. Great dress, by the way,’ he adds, eyeing my outfit. When I tell him I got it here in Rome, he says, ‘I can tell.’

  Meanwhile, Maggie is chatting away to Rob, and poor Lily is stuck with Henry, who’s boring on about his boss, of all things.

  ‘He’s got a good brain on his shoulders,’ I hear him say. Lily has an ‘I’m fascinated, tell me more’ expression on her face, but I can tell she’s bored out of her mind. I should rescue her, but I am enjoying talking to Jay. I can’t help it.

  ‘You know where I haven’t been back to in ages, though?’ Jay asks me. ‘Floridita.’

  I smile. Floridita was where we had our first ever date. Although . . . it’s also where I went to have a meltdown, after I found out he was cheating on me. I thought he said he wanted to talk to me about all that? I’m trying to think of a casual way to bring the topic up, when the music changes to ‘Mambo Number 5’ by Lou Bega.

  ‘Come on!’ says Lily, jumping up and away from Henry. ‘Let’s dance!’

  We walk down the ste
ps of the amphitheatre and squeeze ourselves on to the dance floor, which is now even more jumping; people are crowded above us on the steps, grooving and gyrating or just strutting, catwalk-style. The other boys are doing a very typical restrained boy-dance, where only their bottom halves are moving. But Jay can really dance, and he’s totally unselfconscious, whirling and twirling me around expertly. And I’m having the time of my life, jiving back and forth with him. There’s nothing inappropriate about it; we’re dancing together. That’s what people do! It’s social, like tennis.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, when the music changes. ‘Let’s get you another drink.’

  I’m not sure if I should be leaving the other girls, but I suppose he wants the opportunity to apologise properly, so I agree. We fight our way away from the dance floor, Jay quickly gets us drinks – I ask for an Aperol spritz because I prefer it to Campari – and then we wander away from the others, towards a secluded garden seat beside one of the hot tubs.

  Hmm. He doesn’t think we’re going skinny-dipping, does he? I should probably tell him that I have a boyfriend. But he’s not coming on to me. We’re just talking, which we needed to do ages ago, for closure. Except Jay’s not talking about what happened between us: he’s talking about Albania, which seems to be his next holiday.

  ‘Albania?’ I ask, momentarily distracted.

  He nods. ‘Totally unspoilt, dirt cheap.’

  I nod, but there’s something about the way that he says ‘dirt cheap’ that gives me the icks. And something else occurs to me. Here we are in Rome, but Jay’s already talking about Lombok and Albania. And when he goes to those places, he’ll be talking about Ibiza and Miami. And so on, and on. It’s kind of gross, isn’t it? I’ve also noticed that at some point, while he was at the bar, he decided to unbutton his shirt halfway down. So that I can see his man-cleavage. How alluring – not.

  Now he’s back on work gossip, talking about a couple we both know who’ve split up after buying an expensive house together. He’s pretending to look sad but actually looking ghoulishly happy at having that news to share.