When in Rome... by Gemma Townley Read Free Book Online

the sofa, food resting on cushions.
    “Nice day at the office?” I’m not really expecting an answer, but I always ask the question.
    David looks distracted for a moment. “Mmmm. No, not really.”
    It’s not like David to say anything other than “Oh, not bad,” so I look at him quizzically.
    For a moment he looks like he’s about to tell me all about it, but then the music for “Frasier” starts and my eyes flicker away for a second or two. By the time I’ve refocused on David, the moment has gone.
    I tell him about my star turn today over the Pensions Bulletin research, and he laughs, but I don’t mention my lunch with Mike. If things are tough at work, he’s hardly going to be in the mood to hear about his girlfriend going out to lunch with her ex. And anyway, I’m not going to see Mike again, I think to myself as I nestle into David’s shoulder.
    I don’t think about it again until later that night as we’re falling asleep. “You haven’t heard from Mike, have you?” David murmurs. Suddenly I’m wide awake.
    “No,” I lie, trying to work out why David would think that I had. “Why would I?”
    “Oh, nothing,” David says, rolling over. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. You will tell me if he tries to get in touch with you, won’t you?”
    Does he know about the lunch? Why would he ask that?
    “You’re not jealous are you?” I ask hesitantly.
    “Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous?” David says incredulously. I start to sulk slightly, but then figure that he’s hardly going to admit that he’s jealous. I know I should be feeling bad but instead I feel like a femme fatale.
    But before I can sink into dreams of men fighting over me, David turns on the light and looks at me intently. “Look, I just don’t trust Mike,” he says seriously. “So tell me if he calls you, okay?”
    I don’t ask him if e-mails count.
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    I don’t hear from Mike until Friday. All week I have been telling myself that I am relieved that he hasn’t tried to get back in touch. But my stomach has been lurching every time I get an external e-mail, just in case it’s him.
    I’m on the phone to Candy, arranging a shopping and gossip session for the following afternoon when I hear the familiar“ping .”
    Candy and I are discussing the relative merits of Kensington High Street and Oxford Street. (I favor Ken High Street. Oxford Street is too busy, and anyway, my favorite shop on Oxford Street is Top Shop, and I’d never be able to go in there with Candy. She buys things featured inVogue instead of searching the high street for rip-offs like the rest of us.) I absentmindedly go to my e-mail inbox, and there it is.
    MIKE MARSHALL: So, I went away. Now it’s Friday afternoon and you can’t tell me you’re still busy. I feel like getting drunk tonight, fancy joining me?
    My heart starts beating. I’m meant to be going round to David’s tonight. Iam going round to David’s tonight. At least I think I am. I mean, of course that’s what I want to do, but it could be a good idea to meet Mike, just to, you know, reinforce the fact that he wants me and can’t have me. If you think about it, that would actually be really good for David, too, because it would show Mike that David is way better than him. And if I don’t go, he might think I’m too scared to go, that I don’t trust myself around him, which is obviously ridiculous because I don’t find him attractive anymore. Really. And David won’t mind, I’m sure.
    “George? Are you still there?” Candy has always called me George rather than Georgie. I think it started at school—though we lived near each other during my Kensington Church Street phase, we went to different schools, and Candy liked being able to tell her friends at school about her friend George, without mentioning that I was actually a girl. I’ve had a couple of odd meetings with people who went to school with Candy who looked really astonished to