The Chatsfield Short Romances 11-15. Fiona Harper
if that is what you want.’
I hold back a sniff and nod vigorously. How does this man, whom I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours, who is so different from me and my safe Sussex village lifestyle, read me better than Gareth did after six years? It must be a dream, something I’ve conjured up in my sleep from too much wishful thinking. I’ll wake in a moment, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, distant sirens wailing through the quiet London streets.
He reaches down for my hand and we head for the lifts. I feel the warmth of his fingers between mine as we travel up to my floor and I let out a sigh. I’m safe. For the moment.
When we get to the suite it is empty, just as Mel and Vikki said it would be. They must be really serious about this wild, sexy fling idea. I almost laugh but then I realise that I’m actually bringing a man, a stranger—although he doesn’t feel that way—back to my hotel room. Reality lurches again. This can’t be real, can it? Cristian can’t be real.
But his body feels warm behind mine as I fumble with the key card in the lock more than once. His hands are solid and real as he gently takes it from me and then the little green light flashes and we are walking into the suite. I’m quite relieved it’s got a living room, I discover, that we’re not just walking in and seeing a great big empty bed taunting us.
I go to the little bar across the room without looking back at him over my shoulder. I find a bottle of something amber-coloured and reach for it and two large tumblers. With shaky fingers I pour a little too much into each glass and then I turn and walk over to him, hand it to him. For some reason I feel the need to smile at him brightly, but it feels papery and thin on my features. He gives me a What are you doing? look.
I can’t tell him, because I don’t know. I just know I don’t know how to do this. Whatever it is.
If this were a book or a film, I’d have that fling. Right now on the expensive Persian rug beneath our feet. The perfect rude gesture to Gareth for his cowardice, for his bloody awful timing. For that stupid little ‘x’ at the end of his text.
If this were a story, I’d wake up tomorrow morning and feel liberated and free, as if everything Gareth has done to me has been washed away, and I’d step out into my bright, shining future. Only, as I stare at the man standing a few feet away, his eyes dark and full of unspoken emotion, I realise that real life is far more complicated than that.
I breathe out. My chest deflates and suddenly I feel very tired.
I walk over to Cristian. I take the glass from his hand and put it on the coffee table, and then I place my hands on his chest, I look into his eyes and then I lay my head on his shoulder. For a moment he is deathly still, but then his arms fold round me, he breathes out a word in Spanish that I don’t understand and I feel his face on my neck as he pulls me closer.
It’s as if we’re dancing again, but this time there are no lights, no music, not even any movement. Just this wonderful stillness that soothes something deep down inside of me. Slowly I begin to relax, feeling the slight roughness of his suit jacket against the skin of my face, the seams and folds of a pocket under the fingers of my right hand, the smell of him—warm and sharp and hypnotising. I lose all track of time, all awareness of anything but these immediate sensations. I could be anywhere. It could be any time of day. I don’t care, because I am holding onto him and he is holding onto me and that is all that matters.
For the first time in ages, I feel as if I am properly breathing. I do it again and again, relishing the feel of cool, fresh air in my lungs. How long have I been holding all this tension? For a week?
No, longer, I realise. Much longer.
Cristian’s hands move on my back, bringing me sharply back to the present. At once I am aware of the carpet beneath my feet, the ornate Art Deco clock ticking on the mantelpiece, the hum of the air-conditioning unit. I peel my face away from his shoulder and look at him.
‘Sophie—’ he begins to say, but I cut him off by reaching up and brushing my lips against his. There is a moment or two, pulse beats, while everything is still again, but then his arms squeeze around me and his lips find mine.
The kiss that follows is exquisite. It is soft, yet teasing. Passionate, yet gentle. I feel as if I am something utterly precious in his hands, something never to be let go of. For a woman whose other half wimped out on the ‘to have and to hold’ part of our marriage contract, it is seductive. Maybe even a little addictive. I don’t want it to stop. Ever.
But it does, and when we pull away from each other and open our eyes, Cristian is looking a little shaken for the first time in our acquaintance. For some reason I find this funny and I start to smile.
‘I did not mean to do that,’ he says in a husky voice.
‘Neither did I,’ I reply, ‘but I refuse to regret it.’
His lips twitch and his eyes warm. ‘Nor I.’
I shake my head and then lay my forehead against his. ‘What are we doing?’ I say on a sigh. ‘This is crazy.’
I feel him inhale, hold it and breathe out again. ‘I know.’
‘You’re going home to tomorrow…’ I hear the hint of despair in my voice. I look up to see if the shutters have come down, the way they did in Gareth’s eyes when I dared to be too honest emotionally, but what I find there isn’t awkwardness, a vague look of fear, but matching longing, matching frustration.
‘This is stupid,’ I say, shaking my head, attempting to back away. ‘We don’t even know each other.’
Cristian holds me firmly, stopping my retreat. He waits until I meet his gaze again. ‘Don’t we?’
My heart starts hiccupping inside my chest.
I close my eyes. I want so badly for all of this to be true, for this to be the key that releases me from the prison I’ve been trapped in. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I really could just take Cristian into my bed and make everything else disappear? I know it would be amazing.
I also know all we can have is this one night.
But will that make it better, or worse? Suddenly I am second-guessing myself again, poisoning the atmosphere of promise clinging around us with my doubts. I step back and this time he doesn’t stop me. I start walking and realise I am heading for the bathroom. I wave a hand. ‘I just need to…you know…’
And then I bolt, running through the bedroom until I am back in my porcelain mausoleum, the door shut firmly behind me.
I stare in the mirror. I don’t recognise the woman staring back at me. She isn’t grey and weighed down. She’s flushed and her breath is coming in short pants. She looks alive. I know I can’t walk back into the other room and grab this chance with both hands, but she looks as if she could. She looks like a woman who knows how to take a leap of faith.
I try to smile at her, to ask her what she’s going to do, but the image shifts and flickers. She’s still there, but now there is someone else there too, like a ghostly shadow.
It’s the woman with the hollow eyes. Her face gets clearer the more I look, swallowing up the other me, absorbing her. I want to shout out to call her back, but I know my voice will carry to the living room.
Now Hollow Eyes is all that is left. She looks back at me sadly. Knowingly.
I brace my hands on the sink and drop my head. I can’t bear to look at her any more. Her work is done, anyway. She’s woken me up from this temporary insanity. Truth has come rushing back into my evening like a cold draught.
I could sleep with Cristian tonight, but it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make me free. The ghosts are still here to haunt me. My friend in the mirror is proof of that. Tomorrow I would feel cheap and dirty. Instead of remembering this wonderful short time together, I would want to pretend