The waitress was beside them, and Scott gave her their order. She went back to the bar and Sarah saw the barman selecting the bottle, uncorking it and pouring the delicate, yellow port into a pair of crystal glasses.
Scott ran his hand through his thick, unruly hair as he answered. “OK, condensed version, Scott Calvin’s life story. As you know, I went back to Vancouver…not long after….” He stopped abruptly, as if unsure how to continue, then seemed to collect himself.
“The twins were born in Canada; Celina wanted that.”
The pianist in the corner, who Sarah had almost forgotten was there, was playing more loudly now, crashing at the keys as the volume surged upwards, forcing Scott to raise his voice in competition. He glanced fleetingly in the piano’s direction and then resumed.
“Fast forward a year or two, we came back to Portugal, but not to Lisbon. Celina had had enough of city life so we found a place about thirty minutes’ drive away.” He paused, looking at Sarah to gauge her reaction. “Had enough yet?” he asked.
“Not at all,” replied Sarah. “I want a complete update, nothing left out!” It was true, almost.
The waitress returned with the drinks, nuts and olives. She placed the glasses carefully on the table, and the room was there before them, perfectly reflected in the clear, pale liquid. Sarah could see herself, and Scott, amongst the opulent velvet cushions and damask chair coverings.
“Well, I’ve more or less got to the end now. These days, I’m doing a lot of travelling, but from now on I’ll be based in Canada. Celina and the kids have moved back already to prepare for their freshman year. Katie – that’s my daughter – will be crossing the border soon, heading for Harvard. My son Louis has a place at the university in Montreal. That’s it. That’s what’s happened since you’ve been gone.”
The adagio reached its crescendo, and ended, the last chords humming gradually into silence.
“Wow,” Sarah said, instantly aware of how banal she must sound. There was too much information in what Scott had said, about his wife and family, about their return, on what seemed to be a permanent basis, to Vancouver. Let alone his final comment: since you’ve been gone.
“Saúde.” Scott chinked his glass on hers, seemingly unconcerned by her linguistic vapidity.
The pianist began to play again, a different piece. Sarah recognised the theme tune from Dr Zhivago. She picked up her glass and swirled it around, letting the port coat the inside of the glass and then slide slowly downwards. She raised it to her lips and drank, a healthy slug. It helped to dispel the lump that was forming in her throat.
“So,” she said, injecting her voice with a forced lightness. “You are the original cosmopolitan family, não é? Canada, Portugal, the States…”
“That’s one word for it. Rootless could be another!”
“I think it sounds great,” she responded, thoughtfully. “I never anticipated settling in my home country. After living here, I thought I’d be far more adventurous than that, imagined I’d find some far-flung corner of the globe to call my own. I can’t believe I’ve been so ordinary, so predictable.” She sighed. “Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Sarah wondered if Scott was thinking what she was thinking.
He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. “Sarah, I’m so sorry, I want to hear all about you, too.” His voice seemed very loud as it broke their silence. “But it might have to wait for a bit.”
She nodded, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture that indicated it was really of no consequence.
“I’ve got to meet some colleagues in the restaurant for dinner; it was too short notice to cancel,” he went on. There was the tiniest hesitation and then he said, “You’ll come, won’t you?”
The invitation took Sarah by surprise. But Scott was already standing, his expectant expression exhorting her to join him. Surely no harm could come of a dinner with plenty of chaperones?
As they left the bar, Sarah recollected why the piece the pianist was now playing was so familiar. It was the sound of the ice-cream van that used to wait outside her primary school, selling bubble gum lollies that made your tongue turn blue and synthetic white ice cream with or without a flake. The theme tune of Dr Zhivago rattling out endlessly from the van’s ancient speakers, day after day, too slowly and out of key, symbolised summer. Inês, who often picked her up from school to help her mother out, had always let Sarah choose a treat. Over thirty years later, Sarah could suddenly taste the intense sugar-sweetness that, as a child, had brought her such pleasure.
The music faded gradually away as Scott took her towards a side door in the main atrium that she had not noticed before. It led into a corridor with plain white walls and well-worn stone slabs underfoot, brightly lit by bare bulbs. He grinned at her as they entered.
“Shortcut to the dining room. Bit cheeky…I think it’s probably supposed to be a service passage just for the staff. But nobody’s ever told me not to use it, and,” he shrugged in a way that seemed suddenly so familiar to Sarah that she shivered, involuntarily, “when it’s the quickest way to food – what’s a man to do?”
She sniggered and looked guiltily around her, enjoying this minute disobedience. Scott had always liked to break the rules. The eyes of the diners already enjoying their meals turned towards them as they entered. Towards Scott, and Sarah, who felt herself walk taller and more confidently at his side. Together, they had always seemed more than the sum of their parts.
It was amazing how little difference twenty years could make.
Scott introduced Sarah to his colleagues, who were all Portuguese, with the exception of one large, loquacious Frenchman, Pierre. He took it upon himself to monopolise Sarah, telling her all about his holiday in Bloody Salty. At least, that’s what she thought he was saying, and it was halfway through the meal and thanks only to an intervention from Scott before she realised he was trying to get his tongue around the name Budleigh Salterton.
Once she got used to his mangled English, Pierre turned out to be a lively and intelligent conversationalist, but even so, Sarah surreptitiously kept her eyes and half her attention on Scott. A party person unlike her, he had always loved to entertain and was in his element, plus of course his Portuguese was way more fluent than hers. As the evening drew on, the company grew ever livelier, and soon the whole group was talking and joking together, anecdotes and witticisms flying back and forth across the table. Sarah’s head began to ache with trying to keep up; it was a long time since she’d completed her degree in Hispanic Studies. On the other hand, she couldn’t deny that the large glass of red wine that kept being refilled might have something to do with it.
She was trying to concentrate on the waiter’s enthusiastic explanation of the various local cheeses he was proffering when she realised that Pierre had disappeared and Scott replaced him. She stopped bothering about the cheese. Scott topped up her glass yet again, picked up his own and chinked them together.
“Sorry to leave you so long in P’s tender care,” he whispered in her ear. “But – if it’s any consolation – he’s taken a shine to you and he’s a rather important person at the moment.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows questioningly.
Scott winked knowingly at her. “We’ve just signed a big contract with him. So – thanks for joining me in the charm offensive.”
“What, you mean I’m charming and you’re offensive?”