“You’re right.” Scott shrugged dismissively. “But I haven’t practised those particular skills for a long time.”
“Oh well. Concentrating on other talents, I suppose…” Sarah’s attempts to deal with this bizarre situation seemed, horrifyingly, to have led her now to flirt, despite being aware that she must look ridiculous; dripping wet, shivering, shabby old swimsuit doing its best to follow gravity downwards, towel drooping around her.
She attempted to pull herself together. “I need to… I mean, I ought to…get dressed. You know. Have a shower and sort myself out.”
The wind died down and everything lay still. Their eyes met again. Instantaneously, Sarah flicked hers away.
“So um, er, bye then…” she stuttered. To bring the encounter to an end suddenly seemed imperative, urgent.
“I’ll probably…”
“I wondered if you wanted to…”
They were talking over each other again, their words flying out in all directions…. Sarah stopped. And Scott began again, and was asking her to meet in the bar for a drink a bit later, if she had the time, which of course she might not…but just on the off-chance.
“That would be lovely,” she replied, cutting across him, speaking too quickly and too loudly. “I…”
“Great,” he said, interrupting her in turn. “A quick one in about half an hour or so?”
Sarah laughed, slightly hysterically. “Oh yes, and the drink.” Then immediately stopped, once again cursing herself for her propensity to speak before thinking. She tweaked the ends of the towel closer around her body as a distraction.
Then looked up and saw that he was grinning, a broad, delighted, encouraging grin which turned into an enveloping bellow of laughter.
“The old ones are always the best.” Sarah gurned at him wickedly, before turning away, trying to look nonchalant. The whole situation was too absurd to be taken seriously.
“Eight o’clock, then,” Scott called after her. “Don’t be late!”
“I won’t,” she called back over her shoulder, sensing his eyes still upon her. And then rounded a corner and ran, as fast as the too-large hotel slippers would let her, tearing through the immaculate gardens on winding paths, racing along the corridors to her room, flinging the door open and finally falling onto her bed and burying her face in the pillow, not sure whether to laugh or cry or both.
Scott Calvin was here. They had not met for twenty years and now they were meeting for a casual drink in less than an hour. What on earth was going on?
She ran the hottest bath she could get into, took more wine from the mini bar and lay back to soak. He had been thinking of her. What did that mean?
Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just what people say. He’s just being polite. It doesn’t mean anything.
She let herself slowly sink under the water until she was fully immersed, only her knees breaking the surface. But she couldn’t wash away the thoughts of him, the vision of him standing by the poolside, offering her the towel with his large, capable hands. Couldn’t stop herself remembering how strong those hands were, how deft and dextrous. How good it felt to be held by them, touched by them.
She stayed in the bath until long after the steam had ceased to rise and the bubbles had settled to a thin film on the water’s surface. When she got out, she realised that she had left her bath sheet outside and come back with the much smaller pool towel. The one that he had got for her, had wrapped her in, so gently. She held it up to her nostrils and inhaled, wondering if on it she would find the distinctive smell of him that had lived for so long in her memory.
But the towel released only the faintly clinical aroma of the industrial laundry, mingled with a hint of chlorine.
The hotel’s really nice! she typed in a text to Hugo. I’m fine but tired. Amazing coincidence – I’ve met someone here I know! Scott Calvin! I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. I’m going to have a quick drink with him, for old time’s sake. I’ll give you an update later! xxx
She sent the message. Then she read it again and cringed at the amount of exclamation marks. Just one brief encounter and she had lost the ability to write coherently. But surely, errant punctuation or no, it was better to be open and upfront about this chance reunion from the off, otherwise it might look as if she had something to hide.
Which she didn’t. Obviously.
Approaching the lounge where the elegant and understated bar was located, Sarah found her terror had somewhat abated, and been replaced by a mild dose of butterflies.
You’re just having a drink with an acquaintance. Someone you used to know. Relax. Enjoy it.
She spotted him straightaway. He wasn’t reading a magazine or playing with his phone, trying to look cool, as if their meeting were nothing out of the ordinary. He was staring at the door, watching, waiting, whilst a pianist tinkled away at a grand piano in the corner and waitresses passed silkily by bearing trays of drinks and welcoming smiles. She stopped, momentarily concealed from view by a marble statuette of a flute-playing cherub. A wave of emotion assaulted her. She pretended to be looking in her bag, checking she had not forgotten her purse, just in case he saw her and wondered what on earth she was doing. It took a few moments for her to compose herself, to fight back the urge to cut and run.
But then the time for second thoughts had passed, as he had seen her and leapt to his feet with a cry of “Sarah!” He wove a tricky path between the occasional tables, armchairs and eighteenth-century love seats that littered the room and, finally arriving by her side, swept her up into a huge hug.
Letting her go, they stood for a brief second, both seeming at a loss for words. He led her back to where he had been sitting and gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
She sat.
“You look great,” he said, as he placed himself beside her. He had shaved and he smelt discreetly of expensive aftershave, spicy and fresh. Laughter lines showed more clearly around his mouth, and now that she looked more closely, she could spot a hint of grey at his temples. These faint signs of maturity seemed more to increase his attractiveness than to lessen it.
“Thank you,” Sarah replied, still feeling childishly tongue-tied.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I can recommend a really great white port they have here. Or perhaps you’d prefer wine, or a G&T?”
Sarah concentrated hard on making her voice sound nonchalant and calm. “I’ll have the white port, please. You were the one who introduced me to it and I still love it.”
She faltered, wondering if she had said too much, reached back too far into a past that was probably of such insignificance to him that he must surely have long forgotten the details. But somehow she was unable to stop. “Do you remember when you took me to the Port Wine Institute for the first time?”
The Institute had seemed to Sarah like a gentlemen’s club might have been in the 1920s; all wood-panelling, discreet hush and austere waiters. The names of the different ports sounded like types of cat – tawny, ruby, vintage, white – and the alcohol burnt down her throat, making her feel fuzzy and odd. When they left, exiting the huge wooden doors into the golden lamp-lit city, she had stumbled slightly on the uneven steps and clutched onto him to stop herself from falling. She had wanted to hold onto him forever.
“Sure I do.” Scott gestured to the waitress as he spoke. “I loved taking you to all those places. You appreciated everything so much.” He rearranged the coasters on the walnut table in front of them. “Easily impressed, weren’t you?”
Sarah frowned. Then the frown turned to a smile as she realised that he was teasing