How to Get Over Your Ex

by Nikki Logan

  He asked his driver.

  ‘Shisha,’ he said simply. The apple-flavoured tobacco smoked by the locals.

  The car stopped in front of a stone hotel that reflected the shapes of the entire city. Square edges of the block construction of the fascia of the hotel, the rolling curves of the darkened archways that led deep into the rock face, and the sharp, zigzagging stairways that led up the mountain face to the dwellings higher up. But the closer he looked, the more detail he saw.

  Intricate carved patterns around the doors and windows. Niches everywhere filled with bright intriguing ornaments, and potted colour spilling from every available surface.

  Clearly the Cappadocians loved their plants as much as Georgia did.

  Georgia.

  He looked up the length of the building, at some of the balconies carved into the rock face, as if she’d be standing there waiting for him. A beautiful smile on her face. Bouncing on her toes the way she did when she got excited.

  He forced the image away. That kind of thinking was barred, too.

  It took a few minutes to register in the small, cool interior of the hotel reception. From where he stood he could see five possible exits. A set of stairs going up, another set twisting Escher-style around to the left and down, a small archway and a larger one to its right and the view behind him after his climb to the hotel’s entrance. A balcony wall dotted with pot plants and with an old shingled sign saying Reception. A ginger kitten rubbed its cheek contentedly on the sign while another slept curled around the base of the plant in the pot. And behind them, the extraordinary expanse of the city.

  ‘This is amazing,’ he murmured to himself.

  ‘Welcome to Göreme,’ the young girl said in confident English. Better than his driver’s. And certainly better than his own Turkish. ‘This way.’

  He followed her through the labyrinthine interior of the hotel, instantly feeling the heat of the desert afternoon drop off as the earth’s insulation did its job. The walls, windows and stairs of the hotel were all carved from the surrounding mountain.

  ‘I hope you will be comfortable here,’ the girl said, pausing at a landing with a timber door. She pushed it open. The room inside was enormous and open-plan. Carved entirely out of the ancient limestone, its walls streaked with eons of stratification. On one side, a large window faced the bobbing hot-air balloons outside, streaming golden light in from the west.

  Polished timber floors stretched out underfoot and carved archways led off in two directions. One to an external balcony niche and one to the natural flagstone floor of a luxury bathroom deeper in the rock face. The whole place was filled with plump, bright furniture, and traditional rugs and light fixtures.

  Comfortable? ‘I can’t see how I could be anything but.’

  Truly the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

  He thanked the girl and closed the door after her, then set about exploring, following his nose to a new extraordinary smell. His balcony had its own large niche built into it off to the side of his room. Off the side of the rockface. It had an expansive daybed complete with rich linens and a small, low circular fire on the stone floor, on which hot Turkish coffee bubbled away on a piece of roasting hot slate. A ubiquitous hookah was set up ready to go next to it preloaded with fragrant tobacco.

  He poured himself a cup of dark, strong coffee immediately. Then he turned and stared at the view down to the hustle and bustle a dozen flights of steps below and out across the valley of houses to the ones lining the hill on the other side.

  All so ancient.

  Traditionally built. Yet peppered with solar panels, satellite dishes, and modern conveniences as carefully meshed as the hot water, Wi-Fi, and television in his room.

  A muffled knock drew his eye back across the room. It took him only a moment to cross to it and open it, expecting the girl that had just left.

  ‘I asked them to let me know when you arrived,’ Georgia said, standing on the threshold of this amazing place dressed in a light, cotton-weave dress in the style of the locals, her hair peppered with tiny flowers. She breezed past him into his cave.

  ‘Wow. Yours is much bigger than mine. Oh, you have a window.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I have a skylight. Carved out of the top of the room. My whole room is one big arch, it’s very medieval. But beautiful. And so comfortable.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’ he hedged, knowing full well because he’d taken such care not to travel with her.

  ‘This morning. I flew in overnight and slept in the car on the way out here. You wait until you see Göreme bathed in morning light. Stunning.’

  She spoke as if she’d been living here for years and he had no trouble believing it. There was something very right about the way she fitted into the natural setting. Like a local come to show him around. She set about poking around every corner of his room and checking out the balcony. ‘Oh! A daybed,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m thinking Casey’s looked after you this trip.’

  He didn’t doubt it. He’d been like a bear with a sore head the past ten days so his assistant probably thought a dud room would be more than her life was worth.

  ‘Oh, my God. Definitely the executive suite.’ That came from his bathroom. He followed the sighs. She trailed her hand over every surface of a room about half the size of the open-room area again, gouged into the rock face. An enormous ornate stone bath filled the corner and he had sudden visions of slaves filling it with buckets of scented rosewater for some Turkish overlord. Or princess. Georgia peered into the void. Then turned and glared at him. ‘It’s a spa!’ she accused.

  ‘You’re welcome to borrow it.’ He laughed. Given he was only here for two nights it wasn’t exactly going to see a lot of use, otherwise.

  He followed her back out into the main room and onto the balcony beyond. To the front of the niche with the coffee and daybed in it was a low timber table and two old traditionally upholstered armchairs. Completely exposed to the outside air.

  ‘Clearly Göreme doesn’t get a lot of rain,’ Georgia said, sinking into one of the armchairs

  His lips twisted. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  She peered up at him and sighed. ‘That’s exactly what it feels like. But I’ve only been here a couple of hours.’

  ‘Hospitality is obviously a traditional trade here.’ Their customer service and presentation was faultless. He felt ridiculous standing over her, still dressed in his Londonwear, while she lounged there looking so comfortable and fresh and assimilated and...Turkish. ‘I’m just going to change. Give me ten.’

  ‘I’ll order some drinks,’ she called to his back.

  The shower in that old stone bath worked as if it was brand new and it rinsed the travel grime off him no time. He pulled on a deep red T-shirt and a pair of brown shorts. As he crossed back out to Georgia he noticed he now matched the floor rug.

  His own kind of assimilation.

  Weeks of tension started to dissipate.

  On the balcony, a different girl from the one he’d checked in with finished placing out two tall glasses of something and then she smiled at him as she ducked around the far side of the daybed niche. Yet another exit. He could well imagine spending his two days in Turkey trying to find his way out of his room. Or back to it.

  Georgia leaned on the balustrade in the corner of the balcony, potted colour either side of her legs. The golden late-afternoon light blazed against her white cotton dress, making it partly translucent and thrusting a graphic reminder of the body he’d tried so hard not to ogle in the dance studio back to the forefront of his mind.

  He was used to admiring Georgia’s quick wit and her ready opinions and her passion for all things green. He was used to staving off the speculative zing when he brushed up against her or touched her. Or kissed her. But he was neither prepared nor sufficiently armed to manage the explosion of sexual interest that had hit him when she did that little private dance for herself in the mirror back in London. All that rippling and writhi
ng. Nothing different from what the other women had done much more gratuitously for him but somehow so much better.

  So much worse.

  If she turned around right here and now and started to undulate that body he could see the shape of below her dress it wouldn’t be the slightest bit out of place with the ancient curiosity of Turkey stretched out behind her. And he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about standing, transfixed.

  Or possibly about sweeping her up and falling down with her onto that luxury daybed just metres away.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Are you about to accuse me of having a better view than yours?’

  She turned, smiling. ‘No. The view is the same. I’m just the next level down.’ She pointed down and across to a small balcony with a single chair on it. He liked the idea that he could watch her without her knowing. A small shape on the chair below caught his eye.

  ‘You have a cat,’ he said, expunging such inappropriate thoughts from his mind.

  ‘I do. Sweet thing.’

  ‘I think I saw its kittens at Reception.’

  She smiled and it was like that breath of apple-scented air he’d taken after the long drive. ‘I’m guessing there’s a lot of cats in Göreme.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll have to get onto Casey. I seem to be missing mine.’

  Her eyes glowed half with the rich light of the evening and half with a rich light all their own. ‘I’ll trade you cat-time for spa-time.’

  He breathed her in. ‘Done.’

  For moments neither of them spoke, they just stood lost in each other. ‘Want to go for a walk?’

  No. He wanted to haul her behind him into that big, comfortable, wasted bed and not come out till morning. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not outside his head. And if he was smart he wouldn’t let it happen inside his head, either.

  No complications.

  No risk.

  No Georgia.

  ‘Sure. Show me the town.’

  * * *

  There was a lot to see in Göreme. They roamed all over the maze of paths and stairs and twisted byways, sometimes emerging accidentally in the private areas of people’s homes and then retreating, embarrassed, despite the friendly and unsurprised response of those intruded upon. Clearly, they weren’t the first tourists to end up in someone’s living room. They hiked out on foot a half-hour from the town and spent the last two hours of light poring over the ancient rock-hewn world-heritage monasteries with their immaculate and stunning frescoes. A local kindly showed them back through the warren of now-dark dwellings after the sun plunged unexpectedly quickly below the horizon. Orange light glowed from almost all of them but it didn’t help them a bit with their orientation.

  ‘Thank you,’ Georgia gushed as the pleased-as-punch man deposited them on the doorstep of their hotel and then waved his farewell. She wasn’t totally sure Zander would find his way back to his room without assistance—she’d needed two attempts the first time for her own room—so she followed him up.

  ‘Left,’ she dropped in just at the last moment.

  He turned and looked at her. ‘Not right?’

  ‘Not right.’

  Left it was. One more corridor and they were at his door. ‘What about dinner?’ he asked.

  She groaned. ‘That would have been good to mention back at the entrance. We’ll have to retrace our steps.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll just get a jacket.’

  He was back in moments with a light jacket over his T-shirt. Whether it was for the evening cool or whether he wasn’t used to going to dinner in a T-shirt, it didn’t matter. He always looked extra good in a collar so the stylish jacket was very welcome from her point of view. He’d morphed back into casual Zander as the afternoon wore on. The same man she’d spent so much time staring at and smiling at back in the King’s Arms.

  That was a slight analgesic against the dull ache of his rejection the past fortnight.

  Discovering the city with him was a joy. His inquisitive mind and her gentle probing drew fascinating information from the locals. Twice he’d bemoaned not bringing his recorder with him on their walk to capture the lyricism and beauty of the language and the particular sound of voices as they soaked into the ancient limestone. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  The hotel had a small outdoor balcony restaurant on its roof and a serve-yourself arrangement inside. Georgia laughed at Zander’s bemused expression.

  ‘When was the last time you ate at a buffet?’ she said. Though this was no ordinary buffet. Colourful fruits she’d never seen before spread out on one table and dishes of aromatic mysteries on another. She loaded a little bit of each onto a large plate and planned to round off her day of Turkish discovery here.

  Some of it was odd, some of it was tasty, and two things were just plain amazing. She went back for seconds of those. They talked about the flight, the drive out, their impending early start for the balloon trip; anything they could think of that wasn’t about London.

  As if by agreement.

  Here, they could be two totally different people. She didn’t have her purposeless life or her humiliating proposal to deal with. He didn’t have his work or his marathons to distract and absorb. And they didn’t have the Year of Georgia between them.

  Or the kiss, and what it meant.

  Or his running from the dance studio. And what that meant.

  She knew that she never would have achieved this amazing experience if not for the shove that Zander’s radio promotion had led to. She would have drifted along in her rut for who knew how long before eventually bumping to shore and clambering out, miles off track.

  ‘It’s hard not to sit up here and feel that anything is possible,’ she murmured out over the night lights of Göreme.

  ‘Anything is possible.’

  She laughed. ‘Spoken like a true executive. For most people a lot of things are impossible. Financially, socially, time-wise.’

  ‘You just have to get your priorities in order.’ He shrugged.

  She stared at him. They could make small talk or she could ask him something meaningful. ‘Do you prioritise activities over personal things?’

  He looked up. Cocked his head.

  She sank back into her over-stuffed chair, stomach full and single drink warming her from the inside out. ‘You keep yourself closed off from people, yet you’re so busy and active all the time. That must be a conscious choice. It would take quite a bit of work, I would have thought, to be around people all the time but not really interact with them on a meaningful level. It must be exhausting.’

  Wary eyes considered her. ‘Are we talking about my staff again?’

  ‘No. But that’s a good place to start. Why do you work so hard to keep them at a distance?’

  He thought about not answering. She could see it in his expression. But something tipped him the other way. ‘Because I’m their manager. I don’t want to be friends with them.’

  ‘Is it that you don’t know how to be friends with them?’ Or maybe anyone.

  ‘Pay them more and give them half-day Friday off and I’m sure they’d feel more friendly.’

  ‘You don’t buy friendship.’

  ‘I bought yours. At fifty grand to be exact.’

  That stung. Not because it wasn’t true that it was his money funding her fabulous year of self-revelation, but because it cheapened what she would gladly have given him for free.

  ‘You don’t think I’d have chosen to be your friend without the Year of Georgia?’

  ‘We never would have met without it.’

  That was true. If she’d run out of his radio station a few moments earlier or later she might have been sitting here alone. Or not at all. So much of who she was finding deep inside was because of Zander’s prompting. His goading.

  She sat up straighter. Tired of the subterfuge. ‘If we’d met in a coffee shop and I’d got to know you I would have wanted to be your friend.’ Though she’d never have worked up the courage to speak to him. She’d have conside
red him way out of her league.

  Her sub-conscious use of the past tense suddenly became remarkably apparent. Exactly when did she decide that Zander Rush was in her league?

  ‘Is that what we are? Friends?’

  ‘That’s what I think we are. Though I know you wouldn’t call it that.’

  ‘What would I call it?’

  ‘Acquaintance? Contact? Obligation?’

  ‘You’re not an obligation, George.’

  But she was just an acquaintance? ‘I’m sure you’re not going to tell me what a great time you have trailing me all over London for my classes. Not when you bailed on the belly dancing at the first decent opportunity.’

  He studied the way the dark liquid swirled in his glass. ‘I owe you an explanation about that...’

  ‘Is there even a Tuesday night network meeting?’

  His eyes lifted. ‘There is. That’s real. But I did use it to get out of the dance class.’

  She just stared.

  ‘I wasn’t...’ He paused and tried again. ‘I wasn’t comfortable there.’

  Her jaw tightened. ‘Was it me or everyone else?’

  He didn’t answer. Her stomach sank.

  So it was her.

  ‘It’s a very confronting form of dance when you’re on the receiving end,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t look too confronted.’ Until he’d looked at her. ‘I was just enjoying exploring the art form.’

  The intense need to justify why she’d let herself get carried away with the sensuousness of the dance washed through her. And hot on its heels was the blazing knowledge that she owed him no apologies.

  ‘And you should enjoy it. It’s your thing,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not up to spectating on a bit of sexy dancing? You didn’t mind the salsa.’

  ‘Sexy would be fine. It’s just that it’s...’

  Colour started to show low on his jaw. Given how dim it was under the shade-sail on the hotel roof, the fact that she could see it meant it had to be a reasonable amount. Was he blushing?

  ‘It’s what?’ she risked.

  Embarrassing? Pathetic? Something that really shouldn’t be done in public?