‘Wow! That sounds … Do they have central heating?’ Rachel asks.
‘I’m not sure. I think they have burner stoves.’
I have a feeling Rachel is dubious about the beach hut plan, but she just says, ‘If you’re interested in property in Brighton, I should introduce you to my friend Poppy. Her mum lives in Brighton and she knows it really well.’
I nod. I consider saying that I am going to meet someone called Poppy, when Lily comes home next month, but it’s obviously not the same person and the name is hardly that exciting a coincidence.
Rachel continues, ‘In fact that reminds me, I have one other resolution that I forgot to mention … Well. I didn’t forget exactly, but it sounds so dorky.’
‘Go on. This is a safe space,’ I say, indicating the pink tablecloth strewn with the remnants of our Thai dinner. I’m quite a neat person, but when it comes to Thai food I always leave the table looking as if a toddler’s thrown a tantrum.
‘Well, I would like to make some new friends so my life’s not just work and Oliver,’ says Rachel. ‘Not to make you feel like you’re some sort of tick on my list, but …’
I put down my tea. ‘Me too! That’s one of my resolutions! Especially now that I’ve broken up with Leo. I mean, I will try internet dating and stuff like that, but it’s always good to meet more people, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is! Do you remember what Jenny said on holiday – something about how after a certain point in life it’s too late to make new friends?’
‘I know! I thought that was so stupid!’
‘Me too! That’s why I’m so glad we met up.’
‘Oh good!’ I add rashly, ‘I felt like I was being really boring earlier …’
‘No you weren’t! I felt like I was being really boring!’ says Rachel. ‘It just shows you, doesn’t it?’
We beam at each other happily. Finally the holiday magic is back! We stay longer than almost anyone else in the restaurant, chatting about anything and everything, and before we’ve even asked for the bill we’ve already made plans to meet up again. Rachel’s going to come with me to the theatre next week.
‘I was meant to be going with Leo,’ I explain. ‘Though he also had a birthday party that night, so we were going to squeeze them both in. Some guy called Brownie who I’d literally never heard of. Honestly, with all the acquaintances Leo has, if he did ever get married, I can’t even imagine the numbers. It would be like a Katy Perry concert.’
This makes us both giggle. Rachel says, ‘They’d have to have it in Hyde Park, with a big screen.’
‘Leo and his wife would be tiny specks on the stage, in the distance …’
‘Or they could just hire the Great Hall of the People in Beijing and be done with it,’ suggests Rachel. We’re now laughing so hard, she’s wiping her eyes.
‘Well, his loss is my gain,’ she says, when we’ve both recovered.
As we signal for the bill, I decide she’s right: Leo’s loss is my gain too. And it looks as though this year, there’s one resolution I’ll definitely be able to keep.
RACHEL DOES ROME
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; we did go skiing together for our fourth date. 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. My tan has faded and I’m back to my usual paper-white. 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 feel the same, 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 acknowledgement.’
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 office. 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 9 p.m. and I’m coming 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 didn’t 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 did stick out, I found him unbearably sexy. And fun, and passionate about the same sort of stuff as me – politics, current affairs, things happening in the world today. And with endearing random traits like an encyclopedic 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 romantic 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 Colosseum, 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 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 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 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 like that. 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 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.
‘So,’ I say, when we’re sitting on the plane. ‘What do we want to see first?’
‘Some sunshine,’ says Maggie, yawning. She’s 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 Colosseum 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 she’s brought for the plane. ‘London seems so cold now,’ she adds plaintively.
‘I wouldn’t mind doing some shopping,’ says Maggie.
‘And we have to have a big night out,�
� says Lily.
‘OK – we don’t have to go overboard on the sightseeing,’ I say, feeling like a nerd. They’re too nice to say it, but they’re obviously thinking that I should have just booked a Saga holiday if I wanted to tick off sights in my sensible shoes.
And I’m sensitive to being made to feel like a nerd. Even though I know it’s ridiculous, that feeling of being too keen in class, or liking the wrong music, or not knowing the cool places to go to, is still very vivid in my mind. But I’m not fifteen any more, I remind myself. I’ve survived adolescence and these people are my friends.
‘We will see sights, definitely,’ says Maggie tactfully. ‘But maybe we won’t wear ourselves out trying to see them all. And we can all do our own thing. I’ve brought my trainers and I’m going to go for a jog every morning.’
‘Are you really?’ I ask, fascinated by how different people are. ‘It would never in a million years occur to me to bring my runners on holiday.’
‘What are runners? Do you mean trainers?’ asks Maggie.
‘Oh, yeah. It must be an Irish expression.’
‘It sounds as if you’re bringing a load of little running people with you.’ We both start laughing, with that kind of giddiness you only get on holiday.
I had no idea ‘runners’ was an Irish thing. It’s sad when I think of all the expressions I’ve dropped, one by one, because I know that people won’t understand them and it makes me self-conscious: your man, giving out, desperate, herself, cop on …
Lily, meanwhile, is deep in thought. ‘You know that Hot Priests calendar?’ she asks. ‘Hot Priests of the Vatican or something? Do you think those guys are actually priests, or are they models?’
‘Models,’ says Maggie. ‘Anyway, don’t you have a boyfriend, miss?’
‘Yes,’ says Lily. But from the way she frowns and stares out of the window, I can tell there’s a reason why she’s thinking about Vatican hot priests. I wonder why she’s not spending Valentine’s Day with her boyfriend.
Girls on Tour Page 24
