When in Rome... by Gemma Townley

wasn’t a queue, I go into one of them, lock the door, and sit down to gather my thoughts.
    I have come for a drink, I tell myself. Mike cannot just waltz in like this and start treating me like his girlfriend. Even though I’m rather enjoying having the best-looking guy in the room all over me. When I go back to the bar I’m not going to let him put his arm round me. I’m going to be friendly but aloof. Absolutely no flirting.
    Some girls come in, laughing loudly. I love listening to conversations in the loos at bars and clubs; you learn more than you could from any magazine or therapy session. Frankly, it beats “Oprah” hands down.
    The girls are talking about a guy one of them fancies and is trying to establish whether he fancies her, too. From what they are saying, I’m tempted to conclude that he probably isn’t interested.
    I am about to flush the chain when I hear someone talking about a “Mike.” It could be anyone, I know, but I hesitate anyway.
    “So, d’you think she’s the one?”
    “What, the girl he’s with tonight? Could be. Thought she’d be thinner, but he’s certainly all over her. Don’t know what he sees in her though. And did you see how much makeup she was wearing?”
    “You don’t think they’re going to get married, do you?” asks one of the girls.
    “Mike get married? Give me a break! Still, I bet he’d throw a great party if he did.” At this the girls laugh raucously.
    I’m fixed to the spot. They are definitely talking about Mike. But how do they know about me? What has Mike been saying? And more to the point, am I really wearing too much makeup? I’m desperate to get out of the cubicle to check my reflection in the mirror, but there’s no way I can move until the girls leave the room.
    They spend what seems like hours talking about other people in the bar—listening to some of the stinging comments, I feel like I’ve got away quite lightly with the makeup criticism. Finally they leave, and I unlock the cubicle door. My face is pale and with plenty of black eyeliner round my eye I resemble a Panda. Dabbing at my eyes with a tissue, I try to work out why those girls would think for a minute that Mike and I could be getting married. A week ago Mike and I hadn’t seen each other for two years; now complete strangers are talking about us spending the rest of our lives together. He must have been talking about me to people. Washing my hands, I wonder if at long last my fantasies must have come true and Mike has realized he needs me in his life. And if he does, why don’t I feel more excited? Why do I have this little thought buzzing around my head, asking whether I still need him?
    I walk back to the bar, feeling slightly unsteady on my feet. Mike and Brian are talking about dance acts and clubs they have been to/played at around the world, and Tracey is giggling a lot. I am finding it hard to listen to a word they say.
    “You’ve been a while, haven’t you?” asks Mike, ruffling my hair. “Been sniffing drugs in there, have you?”
    He laughs and Brian winks at me. I manage a smile.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re far too good for that, aren’t you,” Mike continues. “Georgie is a good woman,” he says to Brian and Tracey, as if to explain. “I need her to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
    “Fat chance!” Tracey replies and giggles again. She is really beginning to irritate me.
    The conversation moves back to music. I try to join in, but my knowledge of dance music is very limited, so mostly I just smile and nod at appropriate moments. It’s such a cool life they lead, I think—all bars and clubs and interviews in style magazines. So why is it that I’m feeling tired and bored? What’s wrong with me?
    After a couple of hours I decide I’ve got to go home. The music’s getting louder, Mike is getting more drunk, and I need some time to think.
    “Mike, I’ve got to go now—I’m meeting some friends,” I lie. Well, I’m hardly going to say I want to get back home in time for “Will and Grace,” am I?
    He