He’s still holding my right hand. A hum starts in the air between us. I realise that I want to kiss him. Not only that, but I think he wants to kiss me. I almost close my eyes and sway towards him. Instead, I snatch my hand from his and clasp it to my body, protecting myself.
‘I need to go,’ I mumble. I look towards the door. ‘My friends…’
‘Sophie?’
I turn my head away. I can’t stand that look in his eyes. ‘Don’t.’
He speaks anyway. ‘I would like to see you again.’
I nod. I know he does. I want it too.
I also know that it would be the stupidest thing in the world. No way am I ready to even notice another man yet, let alone date one. Inside me something starts to weep.
I weaken and look at him. All my pain and confusion must be written on my face, because his eyes grow bleak and then he tilts his head, as if he understands.
‘Dinner,’ he says, ‘is all I am asking for.’
I nod. And then I shake my head. I’m so confused.
He takes my hand, our one remaining point of contact, and raises it to his lips. They feel soft and firm as he kisses the back of my hand. He closes his eyes momentarily as he does so and it makes me want to run my fingers through his hair.
And then we are severed. He steps back.
‘I will wait for you in the lobby at eight o’clock tomorrow evening,’ he says and I feel my breath hitch. ‘It is up to you whether you choose to meet me or not.’ And then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the empty dance floor as a hotel employee flicks the overhead lights on one by one.
‘Good luck!’ Vikki says with a giggle.
‘Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!’ Mel adds.
They both wave me goodbye as the lift doors slice closed, cutting us off from each other. I breathe out and lean against the back of the lift as it begins to descend, but then I panic. I launch myself at the old-fashioned panel of round push-buttons and press a number, any number, as long as it’s lower than the floor I’ve just come from and higher than the one for the hotel lobby.
When the doors ding open a few seconds later I spill out of the confined space, almost knocking into an elderly couple. ‘Sorry!’ I yell, as they walk into the lift, tutting.
I stumble along the corridor, feeling safer when the lift doors are out of sight. And then I stop. I look down at my smart but not too sexy shift dress, at my black suede kitten heels.
What am I doing? Am I insane?
Maybe, I think, nodding to myself.
I’m considering going on date a mere eight days after being jilted very publicly and painfully at the altar. Clearly something is not as it should be with my mental health.
Of course, Mel and Vikki think it’s wonderful. I discovered when I got back up to the suite last night that they’d deliberately left me alone down there with Cristian, and were quite disappointed when I turned up at the door a little after one, alone.
‘You should do it!’ Mel had said, grinning.
‘Do him you mean,’ Vikki chimed in.
I’d ignored them and gone to my room and got ready for bed, ignoring their schoolgirl whisperings beyond the bedroom door. That hadn’t been the end of it, though. They’d continued in the morning, and all the way through a shopping trip to Selfridges. Hence the dress and shoes. They’d wanted me to go with something more…obvious. I’d refused. But I had bought something. Everything in my suitcase reminds me of Gareth.
‘A rebound fling will be good for you,’ Mel had said in one of her calmer moments. ‘And what better revenge on Grimy Gareth than sleeping with another man on what should have been your honeymoon!’
I turn and trudge wearily back to the lifts, press the up button and lean my head against the cool brushed metal of the door surround while I wait for it to arrive. Although my two wayward bridesmaids have said they’ll make themselves scarce for the evening, they won’t have left the suite yet. I’ll just tell them I can’t do it, that we’ll do something else this evening. I’ll need to give Gareth’s credit a card a thorough workout to make them drop the subject, though.
The lift arrives. It’s empty, thankfully. I stand in the middle, not touching anything as it starts to travel upwards and I close my eyes.
I picture him in the lobby. Waiting.
I know what that’s like, to be suspended between hope and disappointment. I know how it feels to wade through seconds thick as treacle. I know the moment when the tiny flicker of brightness inside reaches its expiry date and coughs out.
I reach out and punch another button. The one marked ‘G’.
I shake my head and call myself a fool.
As stupid as this is, I can’t leave him there. Another indicator that maybe Gareth and I weren’t as compatible as I’d thought.
And while I’m not going to pin Cristian down to the dinner table and have hot steamy sex with him in front of a restaurant full of shocked customers, thinking of Gareth makes me realise that having dinner with a nice man who actually wants to spend time in my company isn’t such a horrible idea after all. Maybe it’ll be good for me.
The decision comes to rest inside me. For the first time in more than a week—apart from those timeless moments on the dance floor last night—I felt a sense of peace.
The lift doors whoosh open mere moments later. He’s there, standing near the bottom of the stairs, slightly turned away from me. As the doors slide closed again behind me, cutting off my escape route, he turns and smiles.
I feel something warm and jittery inside. The memory of the music from last night washes over me, so clear I can almost believe it’s playing from secret speakers in a pot plant nearby. I remember how warm and solid he felt against me, how I let go of everything and just trusted him. How I hadn’t been either sad or afraid. Would it be wrong to dance with him now…just dance our way out of the lobby and down the road, through the parks of London and out of the city, in a tango that would never end?
Clearly, the insanity thing is getting worse.
I smile back at him. A tiny nerve in the corner of my cheek spoils the effect.
He doesn’t seem to notice, though, and his smile grows wider, brighter. I realise he is much more handsome than I first gave him credit for.
‘You came,’ he says.
‘I did,’ I reply, and leave it at that. I can’t even explain my presence here to myself.
He holds out his hand and I look at it, a silky feeling of déjà vu creeping over me. I don’t hesitate this time, though. I don’t argue and try to escape. Instead I slide my fingers past his until we are joined, and then we walk out of the revolving door into the soft golden light of a London summer’s evening.
We eat dinner in a little Italian restaurant tucked down a side street in Kensington. The decor is dated, the space a little cramped, but the staff are welcoming and knowledgeable and my linguine gambari is amazing.
I look across the table at my companion and realise he is a rare sort of man. Cristian is not like Gareth. He is not interested in impressing me with the price tag of a luxurious meal; he merely wants me to enjoy the good food and even better wine. We talk easily. I find myself smiling, laughing