Rachel Does Rome by Nicola Doherty Page A

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