Rachel Does Rome

Book 4: Girls On Tour

by Nicola Doherty

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Meet the Girls on Tour - Poppy, Lily, Maggie and Rachel. Four ordinary girls who have the most fun in faraway places. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll lose your heart. Perfect for fans of Jill Mansell, Debbie Johnson and Fiona Collins. 'A modern-day Roman Holiday: smart, funny and totally unputdownable' Gemma Burgess on The Out of Office Girl What do you do when your boyfriend of two months cancels Valentine's Day? If you're Rachel, you book a last-minute trip to Rome. Together with her friends Lily and Maggie, she's planning a relaxing weekend of culture and cappuccinos to take her mind off men altogether. But when she bumps into a figure from her past, Rachel finds herself on a Roman Holiday that features Vespa rides, hot tubs and some very unexpected consequences ... Expect the unexpected, the utterly hilarious and unforgettable, on this rollercoaster ride of love, laughs, surprises and sparks. You have a VIP pass to join each girl's adventure, so pack your bags and buckle your seatbelts, because just about anything is possible...

Release date: February 5, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 64

Sample

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. Our fourth date was a weekend away, skiing in the French Alps over New Year. 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. I’m still tall with the classic Irish combination of long black hair (that I secretly dye because it’s been going grey for years), blue eyes and paper-white skin. 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 think so too, 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 acknowledgment.’

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 work. 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 nine 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 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 s. . .