Sarah glanced down at herself, her flat pumps covered in Alentejan dust, her faded ditsy floral skirt which, if it ever had been fashionable, certainly wasn’t any more. The temperature was blissful inside this old part of the building that had been so cleverly designed to combat the heat of summer, cool chequered tiles underfoot and a circulating breeze from open doors on all sides. But still a hot flush swept over her, combined with a jolt of realisation that she wasn’t sure who she was any more, or who she wanted to be. Marriage and kids had crept up on her, with their relentless, never-ending demands, and seemed to have stolen her identity, to have stripped her of any sense of self.
She looked at the pencil-skirted businesswoman again, mesmerised by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels on the hard floor, and felt the green tinge of envy descend upon her. What did it take to be like that? To be certain?
The reception desk was busy and whilst she waited to check in, Sarah’s gaze wandered around, taking in the ornate wood panelling and the oil paintings that adorned the walls. Beside her was an easel on which stood a large display board. She glanced up at it and saw that its purpose was to give the conference delegates information about session times, subjects and speakers. Her eyes ran idly up the list of names for no other reason than that it was her habit to notice and read things. She got to the top of the list and half turned her head away, to assess her progress in the queue. Then stopped, abruptly. Took a deep breath and slowly looked back at the board, scarcely believing what she had seen. Read it again and again. And then again, as her stomach turned itself upside down and sweat broke out on her forehead.
The name of the day’s principal speaker headed up the list.
The letters whirled and reeled in front of her eyes, unravelling and rejoining, forming and reforming, in the space of seconds.
S-c-o-t-t C-a-l-v-i-n
It couldn’t be him.
Dizziness overcame her and she gasped for air as if she had been punched in the diaphragm. She put out her hand to grasp the easel to steady herself.
It must be him.
Eventually, the noise of everyday business, of footsteps and voices and phones ringing brought Sarah back to her senses. She had no idea how long she had been standing there, in the elaborate foyer with the carved wooden staircase curving away on two sides, light from stained-glass windows streaming in above, her eyes fixed on the board but seeing nothing. She became aware of one of the hotel staff, the concierge, looking at her, frowning, then turning to a colleague and saying something she couldn’t hear. As if to remind herself that she had to be somewhere, she glanced at her watch and then hurried to the desk, now queue free, feeling dazed and light-headed.
How could it possibly be that he was here, so close to her, close enough to just walk up to and say, “Hello, Scott. Fancy meeting you here. How are you?” When she had been vacillating about whether to contact him in advance of her visit or not, she had at least been in control of the situation. Now she had lost that control because here she was, thrust into his immediate vicinity merely because of the hotel she’d booked. Was it fate? A sign? Or was that kind of reaction superstitious rubbish, not to be given serious consideration?
The receptionist’s hair was dyed ash blonde and pinned into an immaculate chignon. It seemed to have an independent life of its own, and Sarah could not stop staring at it as she answered the woman’s questions absentmindedly, hardly hearing what she was saying. She was conscious of her own unkempt mane, roughly pulled back into a ponytail, untouched since she had got up that morning. She signed the form in the wrong place and had to re-do it, with much patient smiling from the receptionist and buoyant bobbing up and down from the chignon.
Key finally in hand, mind in turmoil, she headed straight for her room, keeping her head down as she approached the conference centre entrance, praying not to see him now. She needed time, time to absorb the situation, to work out what to do. It was not quite true that they had had no contact since they parted. Ten years ago, he had found out from their mutual friend Carrie that she was getting married and had called her, he said to wish her well. They had had a polite and friendly conversation. He had given her his email address, which she had written on a piece of paper whilst promising to keep in touch and then, as soon as she had put the phone down, had torn up into a thousand tiny pieces and discarded into the bin.
He had not contacted her again.
In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and let her head fall into her hands. She could ignore the fact that she had seen Scott Calvin’s name on that board, forget she had even considered seeking him out. She could carry on with the trip, do her job, get the article written, and forget it ever happened. Forget he had ever been a part of her life, let alone a part so vital.
She could do all of these things.
Couldn’t she?
Thirty minutes later, and having disposed of the contents of a small bottle of wine from the mini bar, Sarah opened up her laptop. Using the tab she had previously hovered over but not opened, she found Scott’s email address.
Dear Scott
How are you? It’s been so long since we saw each other, but by remarkable coincidence, that might be about to change.
Her fingertips left damp marks on the keys as she typed with trembling hands.
I can hardly believe it’s true, but I think that at this very moment we are in the same hotel in Lisbon. I saw your name on the list of speakers at the conference that’s going on here.
Is it really you?
If so, it would be great to see you. We have so much to catch up on. All is well with me. I still live in London and I’m still a journalist, but freelance now. My husband Hugo and I have two daughters, age 6 and 4.
What about you? I guess your kids must be all grown-up these days.
I’m sure you’re pretty busy, but my mobile number is at the bottom of this email, so give me a call or mail me back if you have time to meet for a drink.
Love Sarah x
She read it through several times, carefully considering it, weighing up the meaning, obvious and subliminal, of every word. Thank goodness for the distance email provided; so much easier than picking up the phone. Her heart hammering against her chest, she pressed send. There was absolutely nothing odd or wrong about emailing an old friend, when you find yourself in the same hotel. Absolutely nothing at all, in fact the reverse; it would be strange not to. And it was the perfect opportunity to close a door that had remained ajar for two decades, to get, as the Americans would say, ‘closure’. Justifications came thick and fast now the deed was done.
Her mobile bleeped to signify that she had received a text. She jumped out of her skin and her breathing quickened. Surely he couldn’t have answered so soon? The phone was right beside her, cradled in the crisp white bed linen. Her hands shook as she picked it up, saw the message alert.
Hi, hope things are going well.
It was from Hugo. A hot wave of disappointment flooded through her.
The girls are fine but missing you. Can you call them in the morning? Xx
Guilt took over, and her head pulsated as she realised that she had been so preoccupied with the unexpected turn of events that she hadn’t called to check up on her own family, make sure that everything was all right.