Garden of Stars (8 page)

But then the time for second thoughts had passed, as he had seen her and leapt to his feet with a cry of “Sarah!” He wove a tricky path between the occasional tables, armchairs and eighteenth-century love seats that littered the room and, finally arriving by her side, swept her up into a huge hug.

Letting her go, they stood for a brief second, both seeming at a loss for words. He led her back to where he had been sitting and gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

She sat.

“You look great,” he said, as he placed himself beside her. He had shaved and he smelt discreetly of expensive aftershave, spicy and fresh. Laughter lines showed more clearly around his mouth, and now that she looked more closely, she could spot a hint of grey at his temples. These faint signs of maturity seemed more to increase his attractiveness than to lessen it.

“Thank you,” Sarah replied, still feeling childishly tongue-tied.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I can recommend a really great white port they have here. Or perhaps you'd prefer wine, or a G&T?”

Sarah concentrated hard on making her voice sound nonchalant and calm. “I'll have the white port, please. You were the one who introduced me to it and I still love it.”

She faltered, wondering if she had said too much, reached back too far into a past that was probably of such insignificance to him that he must surely have long forgotten the details. But somehow she was unable to stop. “Do you remember when you took me to the Port Wine Institute for the first time?”

The Institute had seemed to Sarah like a gentlemen's club might have been in the 1920s; all wood-panelling, discreet hush and austere waiters. The names of the different ports sounded like types of cat – tawny, ruby, vintage, white – and the alcohol burnt down her throat, making her feel fuzzy and odd. When they left, exiting the huge wooden doors into the golden lamp-lit city, she had stumbled slightly on the uneven steps and clutched onto him to stop herself from falling. She had wanted to hold onto him forever.

“Sure I do.” Scott gestured to the waitress as he spoke. “I loved taking you to all those places. You appreciated everything so much.” He rearranged the coasters on the walnut table in front of them. “Easily impressed, weren't you?”

Sarah frowned. Then the frown turned to a smile as she realised that he was teasing her. “I was.” She smirked bashfully. “And so in awe of you.”

They both laughed.

“So,” said Sarah, breezily. “Joking aside, where do we start? It's been – what, twenty years? – after all.” She wasn't sure why she felt it necessary to pretend that she couldn't remember the exact length of time that had passed since they last saw each other. “You better tell me what you've been up to.”

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.

6

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?” Sarah's response was lightning fast.

Scott's laughter exploded out of him, stopping everyone else at the table in their tracks, making them demand to know what was so funny.

“English humour,” he replied, when he had regained his composure. “Can't be translated, I'm afraid.” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile and winked. Sarah giggled. It was fun, being someone different for an evening. Or maybe she was being not someone new but the person she used to be.

As the evening drew on, one by one Pierre and the others retired to bed. By eleven, Scott and Sarah were alone again.

Scott settled himself back into his chair.

“Do you fancy a nightcap? Share some port with me?”

“Oh no!” The words blurted out like bullets and Sarah was out of her seat as she fired them.

She swallowed hard and concentrated on regulating her voice before she continued. “What I mean is, it's a lovely idea but I really can't, I've had too much to drink already – it was such an early start
today, I'm very tired, I really must…” Her words petered out as she became aware that she was rambling and that Scott would not be in the slightest bit interested in her travel itinerary.

“I really have to go to bed,” she concluded, flatly.

Scott's forehead creased with concern as he regarded her. “Of course. You must be exhausted. I hope you sleep well.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled something out and handed it to Sarah. It was his business card. For a brief moment as he passed it over, their fingers grazed against each other and heat radiated through Sarah's veins.

“So – tomorrow.” Scott's words were a statement rather than a question. “Tomorrow will you let me take you out to dinner, just you and I? And it'll be your turn to talk.”

“OK. I mean – fabulous. I'd love that.”

“What time will you be finished?” There was an urgency in Scott's voice, underneath his lightness of tone.

Sarah mentally considered her schedule before answering. “I'm visiting a cork processing factory not too far away, so, ummm, I guess I'll be back in Lisbon by three-ish.”

“Great.” He indicated towards the card clasped in Sarah's hand with a flick of his head. “Call me as soon as you're back. I'm already making plans for what we can do.”

In her room, Sarah checked her phone. There was a text, an answerphone message and a missed call, all from Hugo. Anxiety made her stomach clench tight. She opened the text first.

Call me when you can.

Her instinctive reaction was to ignore it, but she just as quickly realised that avoiding him might look suspicious. And maybe talking to him, hearing his voice, would be comforting, would help to clear the fog that was clouding her mind, to dispel the nonsensical thoughts that were taking shape there.

First, she listened to her answerphone.

“Hi, I'm trying to get hold of you. I can't find the car key and I've got that meeting first thing, in Coventry of all places.”

Her stomach muscles released and relief flooded over her. So that was all it was; no awkward questions. She knew about Hugo's meeting, which for some reason had to happen on a Saturday, and had made sure her mother was happy to take care of the girls all day.

“Can you call me ASAP and let me know where it is?” the message continued.

The relief of a second ago gave way to annoyance and hurt. That the missing car key was somehow her responsibility, even though she hardly ever used the car. That he could leave a message without asking if she was all right, if the hotel was good, if the article was going well. And, most of all, bewilderment at his total lack of acknowledgement of her meeting with Scott. She had been worried about his reaction, but now found that no reaction at all was worse. He didn't even seem to have registered that she had told him about it, let alone to think it worthy of comment.