By this point, Noah’s mouth has dropped open and everyone in the lobby has turned to look at us.
I try to lower my voice, but the anger still comes through just as loud. “I’m not a piece of kit, Noah. I’m here and I want to experience this with you and I want to have at least one day with you where we can do the one thing you told me we would be doing.” I stand there, breathless, waiting for a response from Noah, but instead he turns and walks out of the hotel’s front door.
My feet are glued to the spot and I feel a heavy tear roll down my cheek as I watch him jump in a waiting taxi and drive off. Curious eyes burn into me from every corner of the lobby and, without making contact with any of them, I hold my head up high and strut to the lift. I walk in confidently when the doors swoosh open, then I stand back and watch the doors close, maintaining my poise . . . and then I burst into uncontrollable tears: snot, red face, heaving chest, and all.
30 June
The Inevitable: Our First Proper Argument
I hate arguing.
(No, I don’t.)
Yes—I really, really do!
I go out of my way to avoid confrontation. Milkshakegate was the first time I’ve stood up for myself in years. And, even though it felt so good at the time, it hasn’t made confrontation any more my friend.
When I get angry, I crumble. I cry.
And arguing with Brooklyn Boy?
That’s practically unthinkable!
How can I argue with someone I love so much? We’ve been nothing but happy and carefree ever since we met.
I guess that means it was inevitable that one day our smooth sailing would hit a rocky patch.
Today just happened to be that day.
Imagine a luxurious and very grand hotel reception lobby in Rome: tall marble pillars and a domed ceiling painted with a beautiful fresco. Imagine the echo that would create. Now throw in an angry five-foot-five, auburn-haired sixteen-year-old and her cool, laid-back rock-god boyfriend looking charming and dressed down as always.
Now imagine my raised voice bouncing off the walls for the entire reception to hear. I don’t have to imagine it—I’m remembering it. At the time, I didn’t care about the commotion I was causing, but it has just dawned on me that I will need to go down through the reception lobby again to leave the hotel at some point. Mega cringe.
My parents hardly ever argue. I occasionally hear my brother fight with his girlfriend, but it’s only ever over really stupid things like, “No, I told you I would call you back AFTER the football game.” I feel like those things are little disagreements, while what’s just happened between Brooklyn Boy and me was a rather large step up from that.
In fact, can you really call it an argument if there is only one of you doing the shouting? I think BB’s sole contribution was a lot of blinking back at me. Was I being ridiculous?
All I know is that arguments sometimes need to happen in order for things to be OK again, and, like the mature, responsible grown-up I am, I am going to make sure things are OK. Find me a couple who haven’t been through a simple argument. Actually don’t. (Wiki, I’m looking at you.)
So, just for future reference, I’m going to make a list of things I’ve learned NOT to do in an argument:
1. Don’t argue in the reception of a hotel—pick your moments and your location. Not everyone needs to know the ins and outs of why you’re mad.
2. Understand that your voice is probably a little louder than it sounds in your own head.
3. Don’t downplay how annoyed you are or say that you’re fine. Not everyone is a mind reader.
4. Try to be cool, calm, and collected. Emphasis on the word try because by this point you may be about to explode.
5. When your boyfriend leaves without saying a word after your outburst, don’t stand there cemented to the spot for too long. You will feel and look like an idiot.
6. When you have a big, snotty cry in the lift afterwards, expect that someone else might join you from another floor on your way up. That’s what lifts are for.
7. Saying you have severe hay fever makes you look like a fool. It’s pretty clear you are crying, so you may as well embrace it and accept the tissue from the middle-aged Italian man.
8. When making a grand exit, make sure you have your room key. After all, you will look ridiculous if you have to go back down to the reception to get another one issued.
9. Don’t overthink the situation once you’re sitting alone in your hotel room.
10. Don’t eat ice cream in a hot, steamy bath—it’s not that easy, especially when it’s melting at lightning speed. I find pretzels to be a great alternative.
I’ll leave it there for now. It’s too cringey for me to want to write about it any more, and now that I’m seeing it all laid out in black and white I know I need to apologize for my way-too-public outburst.
Because, with any relationship, there will always be challenges that you might have to face together. It’s just about being strong enough to know that an argument (even a mega-big one) doesn’t have to mean the end.
Girl Offline . . . never going online xxx
Chapter Thirty
After publishing my blog post, I close my laptop and feel as though a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. There is a reason I love writing and filling my little (private) corner of the Internet with life musings and advice: it’s so therapeutic. When I next see Noah, I’m going to apologize for how I acted in the hotel lobby, and I’m confident he’s going to apologize to me too. We’re going to get through this.
I look out of the small window next to my bed and notice all the people below wandering the streets in the blazing sun.
I’m in Rome.
Rome.
A city I’ve only ever dreamt of visiting. This is the home of Michelangelo and Raphael and Sophia Loren! I can sit here and go over our argument for the rest of the day, or I can make the most of Rome and clear my head—even if it means going it alone. I can hear Elliot’s voice in the back of my mind, yelling at me to go out and explore the city. This time, I’m going to listen.
I roll off the bed and drag myself to the mirror. I look a sorry state. I wipe a tissue underneath my bleary eyes, then have a confident Ocean Strong moment surge through me. It’s nothing a pair of oversized sunglasses can’t hide, I tell myself. I scrape my hair back into a messy bun, grab my bag (making sure to take my room key this time), and rush out of the door before I can convince myself otherwise. I pass Larry on my way out.
“Penny? Where are you going?” He frowns, concerned.
“Out, Larry. I’m going out. If I have to sit and look at the walls of my hotel room any longer I’ll go insane.”
“Let me come with you. What if you get lost? Do you have a map?”
A map? I hadn’t even thought about it. My inner Ocean Strong wavers, but I tell her to pull herself together. I shake my head. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. I think I just need a bit of time on my own to clear my head. If I get lost, I’ll be sure to call you or grab a taxi and come straight back. I’m a big girl, Larry.” I smile at him and move to continue down the hallway.
“At least take this.” Larry digs a battered guidebook for Rome out of his jacket pocket. When I raise my eyebrow at him, he shrugs and says gruffly, “I just like to do my research. Have fun, won’t you? My suggestion is to eat all the pizza and gelato you can. There’s no problem that carbs and sugar can’t solve.”
• • •
Standing under the enormous dome of the Pantheon, I send a whisper of thanks to Larry for his guidebook—without it, I would have never found any of the sights. Rome is breathtakingly beautiful. It seems like there’s something magical round every corner. When I first left the hotel, my camera might as well have been glued to my face. I kept wandering along the cobbled streets, thinking I was heading in the right direction, but when I ended up at the same fountain for the third time I decided to relinquish my pride and consult Larry’s guidebook. I finally managed to make my way to the Panth
eon. It’s full of tourists, but the same feeling of sacred wonder descends on all of us as we enter the huge building, which is an oasis of quiet from the hustle and bustle of the streets outside.
From the Pantheon, I wander along the tourist trail down to the Colosseum and sit on a bench in the park outside to eat a huge slice of takeaway pizza. It’s so surreal: I feel like I’m trapped in the pages of a history book, or maybe a TV show. I try to imagine what it would have been like to enter the Colosseum as a spectator, watching the gladiators enter the arena or maybe a dramatic reenactment of a sea battle. It would have been a bit different from the concerts I’ve been going to—but, then again, some of the fans at Noah’s gigs are so rabid they might actually be out for his blood at times.
The illusion is suddenly broken when I am surrounded by a gaggle of Italian women dressed in their Sunday best. As they chatter away in feverish Italian, gesticulating wildly, I try to spot the object of their attention. Then I see her: a beautiful bride having her photograph taken with the Colosseum as a backdrop. Now that’s an epic wedding photo.
The groom steps back into the frame, and the couple look so happy together, clutching each other’s arms as they pose for their photographer. I snap a cheeky picture of my own, if only to show Mum. Weddings always make me think of her, and she would love to see these two in such a grand and dramatic setting. Next up, a line of bridesmaids sweeps across the grass, all in long pink satin dresses. They’re much more flamboyant than the more traditional bridesmaids’ dresses I’m used to seeing in England. Once again, I know it’s something Mum would love.
I feel a smile spread across my face as I remember Mum and Dad’s wedding album. Mum had just given up her acting career for wedding planning—so, of course, they had the most extravagant wedding ever! They opted for a Royal Wedding theme, which in the late eighties meant over-the-top-Princess-Diana style—not chic and understated Kate Middleton. There’s no way Princess Diana would have been upstaged by her sister’s bum! Whenever I see pictures of Mum’s dress, I can’t help but giggle. It was essentially reams and reams of cream satin, inlaid with clusters of tiny seed pearls, and had the biggest shoulder puffs I have ever seen, each one close to the size of her head. Apparently she bounced down the aisle looking like a giant marshmallow.
Mum always tells me that the guests were dressed just as extravagantly. All the women wore shoulder-padded dress suits with matching hats, and all ten (yes, ten!) of her bridesmaids wore puffy sleeves and white gloves and had their perms freshly styled. I am actually pretty gutted to have missed out on their wedding, despite the fact I wasn’t even a twinkle in Mum’s eye then.
Good job I have all three of their vow renewals safely nestled in my memory, and their thirtieth wedding anniversary coming up. Any excuse for a giant celebration in the Porter household.
Once the Roman wedding party moves on, there’s another one ready to take their place. This is like a wedding-photo conveyor belt! As I watch each couple take their position in front of the Colosseum, I can’t help but imagine what my own wedding day might be like. Mum will go to town and make it the most amazing wedding she’s ever done, I know that much.
My favourite flowers, orchids, would be everywhere.
Elliot would be my man of honour.
Mum and Dad would give me away together, one on either side.
But would it be Noah waiting for me at the end of the aisle?
A week ago I would have said yes, but now I’m not so sure.
A wave of sadness washes over me as I go back through our argument in my mind. I feel all mixed up between guilt and anger, and I don’t know what to think. Tears threaten my eyes, and my cheeks flush. I’m so confused.
This is exactly what I came outside to avoid. I stand up with purpose, frightening a flock of pigeons that had settled near my feet. One of the birds flies perilously close to one of the brides and launches a great stream of poop in the direction of her brilliant white dress.
“Watch out!” I yell, not sure if I’ll be understood by the Italian bride. Her groom understands, and gallantly throws himself in the path of the pigeon poo. I scurry away as fast as I can.
The queue to get into the Colosseum stretches round the block, so I decide to forgo getting a close-up of the gladiator arena. I do feel some sympathy for the poor gladiators, though. Last year, I felt like I’d been thrown into the modern version of the Colosseum, with everyone on the Internet able to give me the thumbs-up or -down to decide my fate. Was I good enough for Noah?
Currently, I’d get a thumbs-down. I’d be fed to the lions, for sure.
The thought makes me shiver. I decide to head to another famous Roman landmark before I have to go back to the hotel: the Trevi Fountain. I somehow missed it on my meandering path to the Pantheon. I look up directions in the guidebook, and take a quick selfie in front of the Colosseum to send to Elliot, just to prove I am actually sightseeing.
When I finally arrive at the fountain, my jaw drops. Not because of how breathtakingly beautiful it is, but because of how busy it is. People are pressed round it like sardines in a large semicircle, all trying to get the perfect photo. I decide the best thing to do is to hang back a bit, but I also want to get a photo and leave. I manage to slip in a little closer to the front of the fountain and get my camera out to take a photo. All of a sudden the fact that the sun is blaring down on me and there are people everywhere becomes all too real, and I start sweating. I try to shake it off and slowly move away from the fountain, but I can’t. I feel trapped against the pale stone of the fountain wall and all I can see when I turn round are the faces of other people.
My heart beats so hard inside my chest I feel like someone will be able to see it. My throat starts to close up and I can’t breathe properly. I put my head down and run from the fountain, pushing everyone out of the way with my camera, accidentally snapping pictures as I go. Miraculously I find a nearby bench with nobody on it and lie down, looking up at the sky. There is barely a cloud to be seen, but I concentrate on counting even the faintest wisp of a cloud. I focus on my breathing and take a deep breath in and let a prolonged breath out. I don’t even care at this stage if anyone can see me; I just need to calm down.
When my breathing returns to normal, I look through the photos I took while running through the crowd, deleting them to free up my memory card, but then a face catches my eye: a girl wearing a bright red scarf. Her dark hair is styled into a neat, chin-length bob, but there’s something really familiar about her expression. I zoom in closer, but the tiny screen on my camera doesn’t give me a good enough view.
I look up, scanning the crowd for the girl, and spot her striding purposefully away from the fountain, her scarf fluttering in the breeze like a flag. It can’t be . . . can it?
I jump up from the bench and race to catch up with her. As I draw close, I reach out and touch her arm.
“Leah?” I say. “Is that you?”
Chapter Thirty-One
There’s a moment of panic on Leah’s face as she spins round, and a man behind me yells, “Hey! Stop right there!”
But the panic disappears as soon as she recognizes me, and is replaced by a warm smile. “Penny! Thank goodness it’s you.” She looks over my shoulder at the man behind me. “It’s OK, Callum, stand down—it’s only Penny Porter, Noah Flynn’s girlfriend.”
She pulls me over to a nearby bench and we sit down. Her security guard stands a short distance away. Leah looks up at him. “It’s fine, Callum. You can go grab a drink or something. I’ll be OK with Penny.”
He hesitates for a moment, looking from me to Leah and then back again, then he nods.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I say, when he’s gone.
“Well, that is kind of the point of wearing a disguise, silly. You must have a good eye!” She leans back against the bench so her face catches the full blast of the sun. The wig she has on changes her look from long blonde Hollywood hair to a short brunette bob, cropped at her chin. She’s wearing bri
ght pink lipstick that exaggerates the shape of her lips, changing her natural pout. Accessorized with a pair of cheap sunglasses like the kind you can buy at a pound store, she is almost completely unrecognizable as the pop star that I know. Almost, but not quite.
“Isn’t Rome amazing?” she gushes. “Have you had any gelato yet? It’s honestly unlike anything on earth. Pinkberry in LA just doesn’t compare. I don’t often indulge in sweet treats, but gelato is my complete weakness.”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I don’t really know where I’m going, to be honest. I’m mostly following the other tourists or trying, and failing, to follow the map in this beat-up guidebook.” We both laugh, and it feels strangely natural and quite nice.
“OK, well, follow me,” says Leah. “I know the absolute best place and you won’t find it in any of those books.”
I can only imagine Tom’s face when I tell him I was rescued by Leah Brown in Rome and she took me for gelato. He might be into dubstep and electronic dance music, but I’ve caught him mooning over pictures of Leah Brown on more than one occasion. “Plus, if we move fast enough, I can ditch Callum.” She winks at me, then grabs my hand and leads me through the narrow Roman streets.
It’s so strange to be walking with Leah; of course she looks nothing like Leah, although there’s still something in the way that she carries herself with confidence and poise that speaks the language of Leah Brown. That’s not a look she can shake so easily.
We finally emerge into a large square, and I squeal with delight. There are artists and easels everywhere, painters selling their wares and drawing portraits of the passersby. There are fountains at either end of the square, and huge columns that stretch up into the sky. It’s classic Rome.