Garden of Stars (11 page)

The restaurant was perfectly positioned to watch the sunset, and was full of both tourists and Lisbonites, who Sarah assumed must be very well-heeled once she saw the prices on the menu.

“The food is great,” said Scott, noticing her eyes widening in horror. She and Hugo hardly ever ate out and she'd forgotten that it was possible to pay €30 for a plate of prawns. “But of course, you're paying for the view and the setting. Or rather, I should say ‘I'm paying…'”

Sarah looked up at him and grimaced, doubtfully. “It's lovely. Thank you for bringing me here. I'm feeling very indulged.”

She realised that she sounded prim, unfriendly even. But Scott just smiled laconically and raised his arms in a ‘devil may care' gesture. “I've spent far too much time on my own in Lisbon over the years. It's a rare treat to have someone to spoil. So thank you, too.”

Sarah forced her shoulders to drop and her body to relax as she drank her wine, more quickly than she knew she should. The sun was burning a fierce, final red now, that faded to orange as it spread across the darkening sky.

“It's your turn to tell me your life story, isn't it?” Scott's expectant expression made Sarah blush. “That's what we agreed.”

She grabbed the bottle that the waiter had left in an ice bucket by the table and sloshed more wine into their glasses. “It's soooooo unexciting, you wouldn't believe,” she replied, dismissively, before telling him about her career and her children and her life in London. She found herself mentioning Hugo only briefly. Scott was intrigued by the story of Inês's journal, listening attentively, speaking only to ask the odd question, or to request more detail. He was mystified as Sarah as to what could have prompted her to reveal its existence now, so many years after it had been written.

“I suppose you'll only find out when you've read it all,” he suggested. “And – if it's not private – I hope you'll tell me when you do.”

Smiling, Sarah agreed. She wondered why she had revealed the story to Scott when she had not to Hugo. Perhaps because Scott seemed to be actually listening, and hearing, what she had to say; things Hugo so rarely did these days.

The conversation moved on to Sarah's article, all she had discovered about cork, how she was loving the opportunity to get her teeth into such a fascinating topic. The waiter brought their order – swordfish for Sarah, polvo à galega, octopus with sea salt, olive oil and red peppers for Scott.

“It's so strange, isn't it,” mused Sarah as the waiter departed, “to be here in Lisbon together after all this time.” She fiddled idly with her napkin. “And still to have so much to talk about, as if we last saw each other a few months ago.”

“Strange? Or fate?” Scott raised his glass to her. “Whichever it is, here's to us – to an old friendship and a chance meeting.” His eyes caught hers as he continued, “I'm so glad it happened. I can't tell you how glad.”

A ring echoed out, blasting into the subdued hum of chatter, sounding like a klaxon amongst the closely-packed tables. The cutlery jumped and jostled against their plates, disturbed by the thudding vibration of Sarah's phone as it danced crazily over the thick white tablecloth. She snatched it up, sending a stray knife scuttling across the table where it crashed into Scott's water glass and knocked it over.

“I'm so sorry, is it all over you? You can't take me anywhere, can you?” Her attempt to cover her mortification with humour floundered as she bent over to pick up her napkin from the floor beneath her chair. She leant towards Scott, uselessly flicking it over his lap to try to mop up the spillage.

“Sarah, Sarah, it's fine, it's only water. Just answer the phone.”

At that moment, the call rang off. She looked at the screen. “It was my husband, Hugo. I did speak to my mum today, but that was earlier, and she's gone now anyway. It's her film club night, so she wanted to be home. I'm so sorry, do you mind, I better go and call him, check that everything's all right.”

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

“Yes, right, good. Back soon.” All attempts at nonchalance failed and she knew that she sounded as flustered as she felt. “I'll be as quick as I can, I promise.” She gave him a little wave and then turned away to the exit.

“Hi, sorry, I missed your call.” Sarah stood on the narrow pavement where the restaurant lay between a shop, now closed, and a small but busy bar which was open to the street. “Didn't pick up the phone in time. Are you OK?”

“Yes,” said Hugo, noncommittally. “I just wanted to find out if you were. OK, that is.”

Sarah watched as the barman chopped limes to the beat of a salsa tune, then switched on the blender, blitzing the ice into tiny shards, a tinny, tumbling noise filtering through the chatter of voices onto the street.

“I'm good. Fine.” Sarah felt as if she were talking to a stranger, a conversation of carefully chosen words too considered and constrained to be comfortable.

The barman poured the caipiroscas, vivid green lozenges of lime and crystals of ice jumbled together. He raised one glass high up into the air, pointed to it, then looked at Sarah with a questioning expression.

“Oh no, sorry,” mimed Sarah, grinning apologetically and shaking her head. The man feigned despondence, his shoulders collapsing and his eyelids drooping. Embarrassed, although she knew he was teasing, Sarah waved, turned and walked away. Hugo was speaking and that she hadn't heard a word.

“Sorry, what was that? I lost you for a bit.”

“The girls. They're missing you.”

“They were all right when I spoke to mum this morning.” Sarah felt a tight clenching in her stomach. “I'll be back on Monday, anyway. Tell them I love them, won't you?” She paused, then continued brightly. “What are you having for supper?”

“I've ordered a takeaway from Mung Thai.”

“Oh great, that'll be nice.” She paused, then resumed. “I should go now, Hugo, the others will be waiting for me.”

“OK. Take care. Love you.”

“And you.”

Back at the table, Scott indicated towards her unfinished meal. “I stopped them taking it away. Everything all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” What else could she say? “The girls seem all right and Hugo's having a Thai.”

Scott raised his eyebrows. “Well, that's one way to keep oneself entertained while the wife's overseas. You Brits are so liberal, aren't you?”

Sarah giggled. “What I mean is, he's having a Thai takeaway. You know, green curry and pak choi.”

But underneath her jocularity, Sarah could not stop thinking about her children, her precious babies, fast asleep in bed, dreaming. And of her husband, of Hugo, who was constantly preoccupied with the challenges of his business. Who could never find his reading glasses. Who had recently taught Honor to ride her bicycle without stabilisers, and been so proud of her as she wheeled to and fro, brand new helmet glinting in the sun. Who was always careful and considered, never spontaneous. Who often looked straight through her, his wife Sarah, on his way out to work in the morning, as if she were a fixture and fitting of the house rather than a person with needs and desires.

Her feelings towards him were so contradictory, she could make no sense of them.

“Let's do it. Dare you.”

“Do what?” Even as she said the words, Sarah knew what he meant. They were on the beach, its wide expanse revealed now that the tide had gone out.

“Go swimming, of course.”

She paused. She was smiling on the outside, panicking underneath. I don't have a swimsuit, she thought, wildly. Or a towel…

She felt Scott's eyes upon her, full of expectation, assumption even, that she was still the old Sarah, the Sarah that he knew so well. The Sarah who took risks and was never staid and boring as she so often felt herself these days. There was no one else in sight. Lack of towel and costume had not put Inês off, she had not been a martyr to convention. In a split second, the decision was made. She unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head.

“Skinny-dipping at midnight,” she shouted against the wind, as she dropped the dress to the sand and undid her bra clip. “I haven't done this since Melides!”

Melides, where the bleached sand dunes met the thundering ocean under the bluest sky and fiercest sun Sarah had ever experienced. They had wild-camped in the scrubland behind the beach and spent the white-hot days rolling in the foaming Atlantic breakers, the evenings drinking warm red wine around the campfire. In those days, the only way to the South and back without making a huge and costly detour by road was via the chain link ferry that crossed the river to Setúbal. It meant hours waiting in the dark in the weekend rush, surrounded by people and voices and lights and the deep, still silence of the future. Sarah recalled clearly how little the wait had mattered, then, when they had time, lots of it, all their lives ahead of them. And how it had not occurred to any of them, yet, that if you get it wrong, you do not always get the chance to put it right.

“Sarah! You're still wearing your underpants.” Scott's voice cut through the memories.

She smirked, bashfully. “Well…it just didn't feel quite right…to – you know…strip off completely.”

Maybe Sensible Sarah had not been altogether banished. And after all, Inês had worn her slip.

Scott's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “So I guess I should leave mine on, too. For the sake of propriety.”

But Sarah was already running towards the sea, drunk on the moment, exhilarated. In a few easy paces, he caught up with her, and as the first waves lapped around their toes, he grabbed her by the fingers.

“I'm not holding onto you to protect you,” he teased, raising his voice above the ocean's gentle roar. “Just to make sure you don't chicken out.”

Sarah turned to him, her free hand on her hip in a gesture of defiance. “Right. We'll see who's a chicken. Last one under is a cissy.”

Despite her bravado, she couldn't help but shiver as they plunged forward into the breakers a few metres out. The unfamiliar sensation of the breeze fanning against her breasts and thighs was strangely sensual, and looking down she saw that her nipples were firm and erect against the cold. Every nerve tensed in preparation for the shock, she pulled loose from Scott's grasp.

She dived, and the salty water, thick and viscous, invaded her mouth and ears and nose whilst its icy chill burnt her skin. She emerged from under the wave gasping for breath yet triumphant and there was Scott next to her, his thick hair sleek and water-darkened, his face impossibly handsome in the moonlight, his body muscular and strong.

“OK, I've got to hand it to you,” he shouted, above the roar of the ocean. “I didn't think you'd do it!”

Sarah laughed. “Oh ye of little faith,” she called back, before being knocked sideways by a wave much bigger than all the rest. A frisson of panic seared through her. She seemed suddenly to be in much deeper water than she had thought and every time she tried to stand, a vicious undertow pulled her feet from under her. Amidst the crash of the rolling breakers and her spluttering attempts to find her footing she could see, but not hear, Scott chuckling, and then his expression, when he realised she was in trouble, suddenly turn to a wide-eyed stare of panic and alarm.

Half-submerged, Sarah saw him disappear as he dived beneath the surface. Then the sea tumbled her over and pulled her downwards, flooding her mouth and nose and ears with salt water that made her retch as she briefly surfaced. She gasped for breath, inhaled another mouthful of ocean, felt her arms flailing desperately against the sea's force, her fingers grappling for a handhold that didn't exist, her body fighting for survival. Kicking desperately to keep afloat, she shut her eyes and, not knowing what else to do, prayed.

And then suddenly Scott was there, by her side, reaching out to her, grabbing her slippery hands and hauling her towards him, pulling her back from the sea's grasp, using his height and strength to gain a foothold where she could not. She let him help her into shallower water before falling against his chest, her breath juddering out of her in relief.

“Christ, Sarah, what the hell was that all about?” Raw fear, uncontrollable, caused him to shout. “Determined to test my lifeguard qualifications or something?” He folded her in his arms, his attempt at humour tinged by desperate relief. “I nearly didn't get to you. I thought I wasn't going to reach you.” He squeezed her tighter.

Sarah was shaking, tears welling in her eyes. Scott had every right to be furious with her, but she hadn't meant to go under. At the same time as remorse engulfed her, she also became aware of her breasts against the chilly dampness of his torso, her nipples pressing against his bare flesh. Of the bulge of his penis against her belly. Of the scent of him, the sweat that his exertion had produced despite the cold, its smell so potent in her memory from another time and place. She looked up and saw his face, dark at first and then lit by the moon as it reappeared from behind a cloud, staring down at her, warming her with the brownness of his eyes. Realised how close they were, much too close; knew that she should move away and felt afraid of how profoundly she didn't want to. She became aware also of his embrace tightening around her, and everything in the whole world stopping for a moment, coming to a total standstill as moonlight dappled the two of them and the wet, glistening sand on which they stood.

Abruptly, she pushed herself away, awkwardly attempting to cover her breasts with her arms. “I'm really sorry, Scott. I didn't mean to frighten you, or put you in any danger.”

As she spoke, her eyes fell unavoidably to his underpants, moulded like a second skin around him, and drooping heavily at the sides as the weight of water dragged the hems downwards. His eyes followed hers, first to himself and then to her, her plain black knickers also waterlogged and wrinkled, clinging perilously to her every contour.