“Georgie Porgie, look, you know me. I’m not a drug dealer,” Mike pleads, looking me right in the eye. “Don’t let this mess things up for us, please?”

He looks so sweet, I think, when his eyes do that gooey thing. I mean, it’s so hard to stay angry.

Resignedly, I take the holdall from him. “Okay, but don’t do it again, okay? It’s so stupid. You could end up in prison.”

He nods sheepishly. “Thanks Georgie. And thanks for being fucked off. It means a lot to me that you care enough to be pissed.”

“So I’ll see you in Rome?”

“Rome,” says Mike softly as he kisses me on the lips. Dropping the holdall again, I reach my arms around his neck. I can feel his light stubble grazing my cheeks and can taste beer on his tongue as my lips part.

“Better go,” says Mike reluctantly as he gives me a final kiss.

I nod, wave good-bye, and, clutching the holdall as I walk down the street, assure myself everything is great. I’m going to Rome and I’m going to have a fantastic time. Aren’t I?

==================================

ABC Amber LIT Converter v2.02

================================== 9

I don’t like flying. It’s not that I get scared or anything, I just hate the tedium. I mean, you don’t just jump on and jump off, do you? There’s getting to the airport, all the waiting around, passport control, and getting your baggage at the other end. If I was rich enough I wouldn’t have luggage.

I’d just buy everything at the other end. I hate airports.

So far today I have been traveling for exactly five and a half hours, and I’m still in Rome airport waiting for my luggage. I wish I’d just taken my stuff in a small bag that I didn’t have to check, but I wanted a fancy suitcase to bring with me, and the salesman convinced me that I should get a larger size because it would be so much more practical. On the plus side, it was big enough to fit Mike’s bag in it along with all my clothes. Still, I wouldn’t call having to wait forty minutes for my luggage practical.

I manage to get a trolley and wheel it over to the conveyor belt. Two little boys are seeing how far they can jump off the belt, and their harassed mother is trying to stop them. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone else, I think to myself. Traveling on your own is quite hard enough; traveling with someone else brings a whole load more stress. Except traveling with David, that is. He’s the sort of person who looks after everything so all you have to do is sit around and drink tea. I get a slight pang and wonder what he’s doing now in Geneva.

According to the screen in front of me, my flight’s luggage is next in line for this conveyor belt.

Mind you, that doesn’t mean much; it’s been next in line for twenty minutes at least. The airport is heaving with people, and I let the Italian conversations wash over me. It’s such a romantic language. I resolve to start learning it as soon as possible. I can already ask for a bottle of mineral water without gas in Italian, so I’ve probably got a flair for languages. Plus Italians are so well dressed—if I could learn to speak Italian I’m sure I would start dressing in tan, black, and beige like the women around me. And I wonder if I’d suit highlights? I gaze at a couple of women standing a few yards away from me, both wearing floppy linen trousers with really nice sandals and smart tops. One of them looks like Sophia Loren and the other one could easily be Penelope Cruz, just a few years older. They are talking animatedly about something and I wish I could understand what they are saying.

There’s no doubt about it, when I get back to London, I’m going to start Italian classes. How great would it be to have another language under my belt! I’ll be able to really impress people in restaurants—well, Italian restaurants anyway. And then I could even come and work in Italy. I could work for an Italian record label!

I imagine Nigel and Guy’s shocked faces as I tell them that I’m leaving Leary to pursue a career at . . . well, I can’t think of the name of any Italian record labels, but they must have them. I’ll move to Rome and get a gorgeous little apartment, and I’ll walk around in full skirts and chic little shoes. Actually, if I’m working for a record label, I’ll probably be wearing low slung jeans and trainers most of the time. I wonder what David would say if I told him I was moving to Rome. Would he want to come with me?

As my thoughts turn to David, my eyes start to play tricks on me because I could swear I can see him on the other side of the airport walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. I mean, it’s obviously impossible because David’s in Geneva, but it does look very like him. And he’s with a woman.

Of course it can’t actually be him. I mean, what on earth would David be doing with some other woman in Rome? But I could almost swear it’s him. I’m about to call out when it occurs to me that if it is David, it wouldn’t be very sensible to go charging across the airport to confront him.

For one thing, there is the teeny-weeny problem that I’m not actually meant to be in Rome myself. If it is David, and if there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this, bounding up to him when he’s with some gorgeous-looking woman and explaining that I’m actually here to meet my ex-boyfriend who David has explicitly asked me not to see or even speak to, is not the best idea in the world.

But it really does look like him, and he’s even wearing a coat like David’s. I whip out my mobile and dial David’s number. You know, just to see how he is. In Geneva. The phone rings, and the man keeps walking toward the “nothing to declare” sign. He’s walking. It’s ringing. Ooh, he’s stopped. Still ringing. Now, he’s walking again, but he’s reaching, he’s . . . damn, he’s out of sight.

“Georgie!”

I always forget about other people’s caller ID.

“Hi darling!” I’m trying to sound all breezy. “Just wanted to see how things are going in Geneva!”

“Oh, you know, it’s not exactly a laugh a minute, but I’d say we’re making progress. I’d much rather be at home with you, though.”

Now that I can’t see whether the man I saw in the airport is on the phone or not I can’t think of anything to say 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 smells of the orange flower and lavender bath oils that I found by the basin. Quite frankly, I could stay here all evening. There is something very nurturing and comforting about hot water, and if the bath oil smells this nice, I want to check out the face wash and shower gel, too. David and I once stayed at a lovely hotel in Bath and they had Molton Brown stuff all over the bathroom. How cool is that? Hot water and fluffy white towels—

frankly, that’s a recipe for happiness in my book. I decide that when I get back I’m going to take a good look at my bathroom and fill it with nice things. I can’t believe I haven’t done it before.