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 writhing. 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
