Gathering her things together, she stood up, picking up a discarded chunk of bark that lay by her side as she did so. She walked out from under the sheltering branches, just as the sun broke through in all its full force once more. For a few seconds she felt giddy, from the brightness of the light or from the thoughts and recollections that were bombarding her, she wasn’t sure. Coloured specks danced inside her lids as she squeezed her eyes tight to quell her light-headedness and breathed in deeply, inhaling the musky, sultry scents that surrounded her.
João laughed his agreement when Sarah asked permission to take the piece of bark with her; the girls might like to take it to show and tell at school.
“It is a maravilha, a marvel,” he agreed, as Sarah gently flicked an ant off the cork’s grainy surface. “We humans may be clever but we can’t make any material that is compressible, impermeable, insoluble, elastic, renewable…” he paused, caught his breath and carried on, “–and which doesn’t burn. The cork forests hold at bay the fires which ravage Portugal in the summer months, and also prevent desertification. Our lives and livelihoods depend on it.”
Just as Inês had written so eloquently in her journal, thought Sarah, as she observed how João gazed as tenderly at the nugget of bark in her hands as at a newborn baby. And then he shook his head and held the passenger door open with a flourish.
“Almoço!” he cried. Sarah clamboured aboard, wondering why she hadn’t asked Inês what she should do about Scott when they had been on Kite Hill and she had the chance. She wished she had Inês’s wisdom about love to draw on right now, as well as her insights about cork. João slammed the jeep into gear and they set off, Sarah clinging desperately to the door handle as he negotiated the bends and turns of the potholed, rutted track, the vestiges of her past twisting and tumbling through her mind like the tangled weeds and grass past which they drove.
The sun was lower in the sky but no less intense when Sarah arrived in Lisbon a few hours later. In the foyer of her hotel, a former nineteenth-century palace built on a fortune gleaned from cocoa, she saw signs indicating that a large international conference was underway. She could hear the mumbled tones of the delegates attending a drinks party in one of the ornate reception rooms above the double-height entrance hall. A woman flitted past her, chic and slender in a business suit and the kind of high heels that no mother-of-two such as Sarah could contemplate for daily wear. She was talking on a mobile phone in beautiful, lightly accented English, playing hardball with her interlocutor about some deal they were doing. From the satisfied smile that curled across her face, she appeared to have the upper hand.
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 never-ending demands and relentlessness, 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 s
ame 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.
She texted back:
Will do. X
She undressed, pulled on her swimming costume, wrapped a towel around her and headed for the pool. What should she say to Hugo? she thought, as she front-crawled up and down, stroke after rhythmic stroke. She would definitely have to tell him that Scott was here and that she might see him. Then she let out an unexpected underwater laugh which made bubbles come out of her nose and caused her to come up for air mid-stroke, coughing and spluttering. It was all too ridiculous. He would probably have forgotten who she was.
She pulled up by the side, resting her arms on the stone edging of the pool. The slabs were warm from the sun, their slight roughness smoothed by a thin film of water. She observed how her forearms were covered in goose bumps that made each hair stand on end, petrified droplets of water shimmering in between. Lifting her face to the evening light, she closed her eyes, enjoying the strange contradiction of the cool water on her legs and stomach and the last of the sun’s warm glow on her shoulders, and tried to empty her overcrowded mind, to let her thoughts drift away.
“Oh my God, I do not believe it!” A deep, resonant voice broke into her daydreams.
“I do not believe it! Sarah Lacey. How the hell are you?”
5
Portugal, 2010
Horror seared through Sarah’s body, momentarily freezing the blood in her veins. Surely it wasn’t Scott, surely the moment they met again after twenty years wasn’t going to be when she was soaking wet, hair bedraggled, wearing a tatty old swimming costume and no make-up?
But she knew that it was him. She would recognise that voice anywhere. And he clearly had not forgotten her.
She opened her eyes, blinking the water out of them. She was so embarrassed at the circumstances that she could hardly bear to look up, but when she did there he was, right in front of her, impossible to avoid.
“Scott! How amazing,” she stuttered, her teeth suddenly beginning to chatter violently.
Just act normal, she admonished herself. Just behave as if it’s an everyday occurrence to meet an ex-lover, the love of your life, when you’re in a swimming pool in Lisbon.
She pulled herself out of the water.
“I got your email – I was on my way back to my room and I was going to reply to you there. I just cannot believe it!” Scott’s incredulity was apparent in his voice and his delight-crinkled eyes.
Sarah was standing up now, acutely aware of her hair strewn everywhere, and of her faded, baggy swimsuit with the sagging elastic. If only she’d packed a decent one, she thought, before remembering that she didn’t have any other costume, it was so long since it had seemed to matter what she wore to go swimming.
She studied Scott’s face discreetly. There were the beginnings of slight bags under his eyes, and shallow lines across the brow that she remembered as flawless and smooth. He was fatter, but still looked fit, and his hair was the same honey brown and thick as it had ever been, his skin still the colour of a smooth hazelnut shell. His dull, charcoal grey business suit in no way masked the sex appeal he had always carried so easily. Above all, he was unmistakably Scott Calvin.
“Look at you. You look amazing.” His voice brimmed over with gladness and enthusiasm. “Absolutely amazing!”
The idea was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but smile. He moved towards her, made a half-gesture to hug her, then faltered, registering the fact that she was soaking wet.
“Yes, I wouldn’t come too close,” she laughed, a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “You look far too smart in that suit, and I’m sure it’s dry clean only.”
His eyes danced in the old familiar way, and her stomach lurched. “So how come, Sarah? Why here? Why now?”
Bashfulness descended on her once again. “I…I’m… I’m writing an article for a newspaper,” she managed to stutter. She bit her lip, took a breath and started again. “It’s about cork. And yourself? You’re here for the conference, obviously.” She answered her own question without giving him a chance to.
“Yes that’s right. It’s an annual event, attendance compulsory…” His words tailed away as he looked at her again, his feigned grimace turning to a complicit grin that was so well known, so intimate that she was instantly nineteen again, utterly bewitched by a boyfriend more glamorous, attractive, desired and desirable than she had ever imagined possible.
“It didn’t go down too well at home – with Celina – but work is work.”
A sudden small, fizzing twist of pain knotted in her belly as he said his wife’s name.
There was an awkward pause, the conversation frozen mid-stream.
“I…”
“You…”
They both spoke, and stopped, simultaneously.
“It’s such a coincidence.” Scott’s voice was soft and low, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I could never have imagined it.”
Sarah felt droplets of pool water gathering on her forehead and wiped her hand across her face to dispel them.
“Well, you know what they say.” Her words were glib and meaningless, blurted out to cover her confusion. “It’s a small world.”
A breeze had come up now that the sun had disappeared behind the rooflines; it ruffled the surface of the pool, causing ripples to spread in ever widening circles.
“Yes.”
The breeze grew stronger. Sarah shuddered.
“Hey, you’re getting cold.” Scott hesitated, surveyed the loungers for a towel, saw one a few steps away and went to get it, clumsily tripping over the base of a table as he did so.
“Careful,” exclaimed Sarah, involuntarily, and then clamped her mouth shut, wishing she hadn’t drawn attention to his mishap.
He was smiling widely as he returned to her side with the neatly rolled towel. “My feet always were too big. Always getting in the way.”
Another wisp of wind brought a change of atmosphere that lingered in its wake. Scott unfurled the towel and shook it out. “Nothing’s changed.”
Oh, but it has, Scott, Sarah wanted to cry out. So much has changed, in ways we could never have imagined. Apart from anyth
ing else, we’ve both grown up – and not together, which is what I dreamt of, once.
Scott wrapped the towel around her shoulders, deftly and surely, and as he did so, his face passed close to hers and briefly, their eyes met. Sarah had a sudden, ridiculous urge to grab him, hug him, kiss him. To feel his lips on hers, to taste him. As if in some unconscious attempt to stop herself, she stepped backwards, nearly falling into the pool as she did so. His arm went out, instinctively, to save her. His touch on her wrist was firm, his support solid.
Just as it had been on the night they first met, at one of those African dance and music clubs where the uneven floors were sticky with spilt drinks and covert drug deals took place in darkened corners. Raw energy mingled with undercurrents of tension between the people of many cultures who gathered there, not just Portuguese but Angolan, Brazilian, Goanese. Some came from places that Sarah had never heard of before; Soviet sponsored students from Guinea-Bissau with tins of caviar in their plastic holdalls, young men from São Tomé with glassy dark skin and smiles so wide it seemed their faces might split apart.
She had spotted Scott early on that Friday night. Their first glance was fleeting, rippling like electricity along the zinc bar, cutting through the crowd and going straight to its target. But in just that split second, she had known. They both had.
“Watch out!” His voice, so familiar, a voice from her past that was suddenly, unbelievably, also in her present. “You don’t want to go for another dip.”
The memories faded away.
“No, no I don’t,” she agreed, and giggled unnecessarily. There was a pause. “Still, you’re a qualified lifeguard aren’t you?” ventured Sarah, to break the silence. “I’d be in good hands if I needed rescuing.”
Garden of Stars Page 5