rough when she wanted him to be, sure, although he preferred it tender and slow himself, and hadn't let her down, even though Madge'd been more than willing to make allowances, the guy with a lot going for him even before he crawled into bed beside her, smelling fresh, this after taking a shower, whispering, 'Hey, if you're tired, y'know, I'm kinda tired too. Like, what's the hurry, am I right …?'
No, Madge just wanted to savour the moment. The early stillness, the sense that the whole of Rome, the Eternal City, was out there poised, holding its breath. Waiting for Madge to come out to play and make it perfect.
She decided she'd shower later, she wouldn't be gone that long anyway. Dressed casual, light sweater and slacks, a low heel on the strappy sandals in case she had to walk any distance. The guy on Reception was as helpful as he could be speaking Italian, Madge's knowledge of the language extending as far as Gucci, Armani, Fendi and Prada – still, she got the gist from the way he waved his arms around like a helicopter going down in flames: out the front door, angle left across the piazza, cut a hard right down the second street she came to.
She was brisk going across the piazza, loving the echo of her heels on the air that still had a crisp chill to it, and was surprised to discover that the coffee shop, finding it first try, was already half-full. Professionals mainly, with their power suits and gleaming leather satchels, glowing tans, hair perfect, kohl and blusher subtle but perfectly applied. And that was just the chaps. Madge, wishing now she'd at least glanced in the mirror on the way out, slunk down the back and found a high-stool at the counter running along the rear wall. The vibe smug, a gang of cats plotting to hijack a milk-float …
Christ, even the middle-aged women looked to Madge like Sophia Loren's nieces. As for the satchels, the staccato chatter into headsets … Madge, with a pang, wondered how'd she fare in their world, cutting deals, making and shaking at, what – she glanced at her watch – Jesus, six-thirty in the morning. Or was it seven-thirty? Five-thirty?
Didn't matter. This time of the morning, generally speaking, and for about ten years or so, Madge would be turning over for her second sleep, giving the hangover some me-time, vaguely aware of Frank through the fuzzy dullness as he banged drawers and cursed a missing sock.
Madge sipped her latte, grinned to herself. Frank, the useless waste of space, wouldn't be needing any more than one sock for some time to come …
The joy didn't last. Hating herself for feeling guilty, she'd been hoping she'd left all that baggage behind, travelling light, she took her latte up to the guy behind the counter and mimed making a phone-call, then asked for some change. He pointed out a booth to the right of the door and then mimed sliding a credit card into a slot. Madge tugged the folding door closed behind her, balanced her latte on the narrow ledge. Then, taking a deep breath, she dialed Jeanie's cell.
The plan being to leave a message, no way Jeanie'd be up and about at this ungodly --
' Hello? '
'Jeanie?'
The girl sounding so doleful, probably still coming down from last night, Madge couldn't tell who it was.
' Moms? '
'Jeanie, how many times do I have to tell you, don't call me --'
The wail that came shrieking down the line shivered Madge to her very marrow. ' Oh Mommmmmmmmmmms. What are we going to do? '
'Jeanie? Calm down, you'll still get to Aspen. It's only your father's leg that's out of commission. He can still sign a cheque, right?'
And then Jeanie blurted out a joke, a sucker punchline that caught Madge just below the ribcage, pounding through her gut to fetch up hard against her spine. The coffee shop lights flickered, came and went, or maybe
No, Madge just wanted to savour the moment. The early stillness, the sense that the whole of Rome, the Eternal City, was out there poised, holding its breath. Waiting for Madge to come out to play and make it perfect.
She decided she'd shower later, she wouldn't be gone that long anyway. Dressed casual, light sweater and slacks, a low heel on the strappy sandals in case she had to walk any distance. The guy on Reception was as helpful as he could be speaking Italian, Madge's knowledge of the language extending as far as Gucci, Armani, Fendi and Prada – still, she got the gist from the way he waved his arms around like a helicopter going down in flames: out the front door, angle left across the piazza, cut a hard right down the second street she came to.
She was brisk going across the piazza, loving the echo of her heels on the air that still had a crisp chill to it, and was surprised to discover that the coffee shop, finding it first try, was already half-full. Professionals mainly, with their power suits and gleaming leather satchels, glowing tans, hair perfect, kohl and blusher subtle but perfectly applied. And that was just the chaps. Madge, wishing now she'd at least glanced in the mirror on the way out, slunk down the back and found a high-stool at the counter running along the rear wall. The vibe smug, a gang of cats plotting to hijack a milk-float …
Christ, even the middle-aged women looked to Madge like Sophia Loren's nieces. As for the satchels, the staccato chatter into headsets … Madge, with a pang, wondered how'd she fare in their world, cutting deals, making and shaking at, what – she glanced at her watch – Jesus, six-thirty in the morning. Or was it seven-thirty? Five-thirty?
Didn't matter. This time of the morning, generally speaking, and for about ten years or so, Madge would be turning over for her second sleep, giving the hangover some me-time, vaguely aware of Frank through the fuzzy dullness as he banged drawers and cursed a missing sock.
Madge sipped her latte, grinned to herself. Frank, the useless waste of space, wouldn't be needing any more than one sock for some time to come …
The joy didn't last. Hating herself for feeling guilty, she'd been hoping she'd left all that baggage behind, travelling light, she took her latte up to the guy behind the counter and mimed making a phone-call, then asked for some change. He pointed out a booth to the right of the door and then mimed sliding a credit card into a slot. Madge tugged the folding door closed behind her, balanced her latte on the narrow ledge. Then, taking a deep breath, she dialed Jeanie's cell.
The plan being to leave a message, no way Jeanie'd be up and about at this ungodly --
' Hello? '
'Jeanie?'
The girl sounding so doleful, probably still coming down from last night, Madge couldn't tell who it was.
' Moms? '
'Jeanie, how many times do I have to tell you, don't call me --'
The wail that came shrieking down the line shivered Madge to her very marrow. ' Oh Mommmmmmmmmmms. What are we going to do? '
'Jeanie? Calm down, you'll still get to Aspen. It's only your father's leg that's out of commission. He can still sign a cheque, right?'
And then Jeanie blurted out a joke, a sucker punchline that caught Madge just below the ribcage, pounding through her gut to fetch up hard against her spine. The coffee shop lights flickered, came and went, or maybe
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