Read When in Rome for Free Online

Confidential femme fatale and a Quentin Tarantino blood-covered bride. Most of the time I just stare, petrified, in response, offended that he lumps me together with the rest of my gender without thinking of me as an individual. But I can’t help also imagining, at the same time, how a woman totally different from me would act in these situations, which are a cross between Grand Guignol and Fifty Shades of Grey .
    “Will you read me a few pages?” I ask, just before he locks himself in his room.
    “Not yet,” he says as he has a million times before. “When I’m done. Actually, can I ask you a question?”
    Here we go again. I prepare myself for another question about some woman with the sex drive of a rabbit, who relishes slicing her lovers with a Chinese sword.
    “Which is more erogenous—the breasts or the stomach?”
    “Huh?”
    “Which is more pleasurable during foreplay?”
    “Huh?”
    “My experience tells me the breasts, but some women prefer their ears, or the back of their knees, or even their heels.”
    “Huh?”
    “I want my main character to have a completely original thing. What would you suggest?”
    “Huh?” I know, I sound like a broken record. But I can’t formulate a more articulate answer. “Why the hell are you asking me these questions?” I say, when I manage to get my words back. “Can’t you have the girls you sleep with take a survey? Have them fill it out before they leave?”
    Luca laughs and then retreats with his questions unanswered. I hear him typing away as I submerge the dishes in the sink. I take a deep breath, trying to erase the image of Luca licking the back of a rapturous Sandra’s knees.
    My good mood lasts a little bit longer. I take another sip of wine straight from the bottle, toasting my long life as a sun-dried tomato.

THREE
    I spend the whole morning feeling as happy as Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard as she descends those famous steps. And I didn’t even need to kill Luca and leave him in the swimming pool to achieve fame and fortune! Now I can tell people that I actually have a job. Although when my mother finds out, she’ll probably tell me that searching for junk isn’t a real job, that they’re taking pity on me, and that at my age I’d better find myself a husband and pop out a little brat instead. When Erika finds out, she’ll just smile like a cat plucking a sparrow.
    Best to leave them both in the dark for now.
    So I call Giovanna, one of my best friends. She’s a few years younger than I am and is the most beautiful woman I know, even more so than Erika because her appearance isn’t marred by resting bitch face. She’s a makeup artist for some top fashion designers, and she always has antiwrinkle creams or mud, seaweed, and collagen masks for me. Unfortunately, she’s working, so she cuts me off.
    “I’m doing some model’s makeup and I can’t be distracted. This woman is so full of herself. She’s hysterical about a pimple. She won’t drink tap water. She says my perfume is too strong, and she’s demanded absolute silence.”
    When I call Lara, my second and only other friend, I get the busy signal—not surprising, given her commitments as an excellent real estate agent, an anxious mother, and a perpetually pissed-off ex-wife.
    That exhausts my friends list—I can’t exactly say I have a thriving social life. I’ve got important news, damn it, and there’s no one to tell! I flip open an old phone book and close my eyes to pick a random person to call. When my index finger falls on a funeral home, I decide to give it up. You never know, I might end up signing onto a payment plan for a deluxe coffin.
    Then I look at the clock and think of my father. He’s been out of town for a few days at a flower festival, but he should be back by now. He undoubtedly belongs in the group of people that would delight in hearing about my happiness. But the phone rings in vain. It’s not unusual for him to just not pick up the phone if