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 even. It feels strange—alien—but good.
‘So,’ I say as I try and scoop up the last of my spicy tomato sauce with my remaining prawn, ‘where are you off to next after London? France? Italy? Australia?’
He puts his fork down and looks at me. ‘I am going home.’
I nod. Somehow I understand this is significant. Not the fact that he’s going back to Argentina, but that this trip is different. ‘When?’ I ask, then busy myself with arranging my cutlery on my empty plate.
‘Tomorrow.’
I look up quickly, see the regret in his eyes. I wonder if he experienced the same stab of cold I did at his reply.
‘I’ve been raising the finance to buy back the vineyard my family once owned. I’m going back to Mendoza to finalise the deal.’
I leave my knife and fork alone, look up and smile softly at him. ‘That’s marvellous. I mean, I know that I don’t know you…not really…but somehow I can tell you’re going to make amazing wines.’
I see the smile in his eyes. I want to smile back, grin so wide it feels as if my mouth can’t stretch enough to accommodate it, but I don’t. I look at the half empty wine bottle on the table between us. ‘What’s the name of your vineyard?’
‘Why?’
I shrug. ‘Because I want to look out for it. Maybe I’ll find a bottle of your wine one day and I will think of you.’ My words have made me sad, even though I know that is all the future connection I could ever hope to have with this man.
‘Then I hope you will enjoy it.’ His voice is as rich and warm as the Shiraz we’ve just drunk. I can feel him looking steadily at me. ‘But it will be a long time, and it will take a lot of dedication and hard work before that moment arrives.’
My face stays tilted down, but my eyes look up. ‘You won’t be coming back to London again?’
‘I will come to visit Tomas and Felicity at some point in the future, but I will not be in London as frequently as before, no.’
He smiles again, but this time it is tinged with sadness. Neither of us say anything for a while and then he breathes in sharply, as if being woken from a dream, and looks into my eyes. ‘I wish I could stay longer.’
His words tug at something deep inside me.
‘I do too,’ I reply, even though I know how insane this is.
He reaches out across the table and laces his fingers between mine. We both stare at our intertwined hands. It feels as if we’ve just made an important statement. I want to cry, but at the same time warmth rushes through me, making me feel giddy.
Cristian
