Free Rachel Does Rome by Nicola Doherty

back to the dance floor, beers in hand.
    ‘This is the best night ever!’ Lily sings, or rather screams, along to the music.
     ‘Ever, ever, ever!’ Maggie is doing air guitar.
    Then to make things even better, ‘Hey Ya’ comes on.
    ‘I haven’t heard this in YEARS!’ yells Maggie, spinning around in uneven circles
     and shaking her rear energetically.
    When we stumble out of the club, hours later, we’re sweaty and dishevelled, our feet
     are sore and our throats are raw from singing. It’s great.
    ‘That was fantastic,’ says Lily. ‘So much fun. God, I’m so hot and sticky.’
    ‘Me too, boiling,’ says Maggie. ‘Now where’s the hotel gone?’
    ‘I think it’s that way,’ I say, pointing vaguely.
    But once we’ve stumbled down the narrow alley, we’re not at the hotel. We’re in a
     little square, which is almost entirely filled by a most massive, ornate fountain.
     Lit by floodlights, it’s an incredible marble concoction of columns, alcoves, arches,
     and statues with billowing robes, all set above a foaming turquoise pool full of coins.
     Although it’s one a.m., a few people are still here, having their photos taken or
     flipping yet more coins into the fountain.
    ‘It’s the Trevi Fountain!’ says Lily. She rummages in her bag and hands us each a
     euro coin. ‘If you throw a coin in it, it means you’ll come back to Rome.’
    ‘But that doesn’t make any sense,’ I object. ‘Surely it’s up to us whether we come
     back to Rome? Wouldn’t we be better off saving our euro and putting it towards air
     fare?’
    They both look at me and then we all start laughing.
    ‘OK, fine. That was a bit pedantic,’ I admit.
    ‘You can just make a wish,’ suggests Maggie.
    So I close my eyes and flip. I don’t even have to think twice: I wish for Oliver.
     I hope things work out between us . . . and that his phone really has died.
    As we turn away from the fountain and start walking home – in the right direction
     this time – I say, ‘You know what the difference between Oliver and Jay is?’
    ‘Jay is a dickhead and Oliver is lovely?’ suggests Maggie.
    ‘That goes without saying. But also, they’re like Batman and Superman. Batman looks
     really flashy from the outside – but if you take away his car and his weapons and
     his castle and his business empire, he’s just some guy. Whereas Superman looks like
     an ordinary guy but inside, he’s a superhero.’
    ‘I like it,’ says Maggie, nodding. ‘Let’s always date Superman from now on.’
    I’ve realised something else. One of the reasons I was so fixated on Jay was because
     I was scarred by the memory of being geeky and friendless in school. And I thought
     that Jay made me cool. Whereas I resisted Oliver at first, not because I didn’t like
     him – I always did – but because I was worried about what the choice of him would
     say about me. I didn’t want us to be the geeky couple.
    But now I don’t care. I’m going to embrace my inner nerd. I love my job, and I like
     talking about politics and watching Sky News while doing my ironing and I wear flat
     shoes nintey per cent of the time. And that’s OK! Oliver still likes me. At least,
     I’m pretty sure he does. I still haven’t heard from him but I’m going to blame that
     on his ancient phone which I’m positive has died. I hope so anyway. ‘Are we nearly
     there yet?’ asks Maggie, plaintively. ‘My feet hurt.’
    ‘Yes! It’s around this corner.’ Soon we’ve reached the piazza, and we’re crossing
     it again to get to our hotel. I’m sad to think it’s for the last time.
    ‘I can’t believe our weekend’s nearly over,’ I say suddenly. ‘It’s been so great
     . . . thank you both for coming.’
    ‘Thank you for suggesting it,’ says Maggie.
    ‘Group hug!’ says Lily, and we obey, laughing. We let ourselves into the front door
     of our hotel, and tiptoe up the stairs so as not to disturb the other guests, who
     all seem much older