mother-of-two such as Sarah could contemplate for daily wear. She was talking on a mobile phone in beautiful, lightly accented English, playing hardball with her interlocutor about some deal they were doing. From the satisfied smile that curled across her face, she appeared to have the upper hand.
Sarah glanced down at herself, her flat pumps covered in Alentejan dust, her faded ditsy floral skirt which, if it ever had been fashionable, certainly wasnât any more. The temperature was blissful inside this old part of the building that had been so cleverly designed to combat the heat of summer, cool chequered tiles underfoot and a circulating breeze from open doors on all sides. But still a hot flush swept over her, combined with a jolt of realisation that she wasnât sure who she was any more, or who she wanted to be. Marriage and kids had crept up on her, with their never-ending demands and relentlessness, and seemed to have stolen her identity, to have stripped her of any sense of self.
She looked at the pencil-skirted businesswoman again, mesmerised by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels on the hard floor, and felt the green tinge of envy descend upon her. What did it take to be like that? To be certain?
The reception desk was busy and whilst she waited to check in, Sarahâs gaze wandered around, taking in the ornate wood panelling and the oil paintings that adorned the walls. Beside her was an easel on which stood a large display board. She glanced up at it and saw that its purpose was to give the conference delegates information about session times, subjects and speakers. Her eyes ran idly up the list of names for no other reason than that it was her habit to notice and read things. She got to the top of the list and half turned her head away, to assess her progress in the queue. Then stopped, abruptly. Took a deep breath and slowly looked back at the board, scarcely believing what she had seen. Read it again and again. And then again, as her stomach turned itself upside down and sweat broke out on her forehead.
The name of the dayâs principal speaker headed up the list.
The letters whirled and reeled in front of her eyes, unravelling and rejoining, forming and reforming, in the space of seconds.
S-c-o-t-t C-a-l-v-i-n
It couldnât be him.
Dizziness overcame her and she gasped for air as if she had been punched in the diaphragm. She put out her hand to grasp the easel to steady herself.
It must be him.
Eventually, the noise of everyday business, of footsteps and voices and phones ringing brought Sarah back to her senses. She had no idea how long she had been standing there, in the elaborate foyer with the carved wooden staircase curving away on two sides, light from stained-glass windows streaming in above, her eyes fixed on the board but seeing nothing. She became aware of one of the hotel staff, the concierge, looking at her, frowning, then turning to a colleague and saying something she couldnât hear. As if to remind herself that she had to be somewhere, she glanced at her watch and then hurried to the desk, now queue free, feeling dazed and light-headed.
How could it possibly be that he was here, so close to her, close enough to just walk up to and say, âHello, Scott. Fancy meeting you here. How are you?â When she had been vacillating about whether to contact him in advance of her visit or not, she had at least been in control of the situation. Now she had lost that control because here she was, thrust into his immediate vicinity merely because of the hotel sheâd booked. Was it fate? A sign? Or was that kind of reaction superstitious rubbish, not to be given serious consideration?
The receptionistâs hair was dyed ash blonde and pinned into an immaculate chignon. It seemed to have an independent life of its own, and Sarah could not stop staring at it as she answered the womanâs questions absentmindedly, hardly hearing what she was saying. She was conscious
Sarah glanced down at herself, her flat pumps covered in Alentejan dust, her faded ditsy floral skirt which, if it ever had been fashionable, certainly wasnât any more. The temperature was blissful inside this old part of the building that had been so cleverly designed to combat the heat of summer, cool chequered tiles underfoot and a circulating breeze from open doors on all sides. But still a hot flush swept over her, combined with a jolt of realisation that she wasnât sure who she was any more, or who she wanted to be. Marriage and kids had crept up on her, with their never-ending demands and relentlessness, and seemed to have stolen her identity, to have stripped her of any sense of self.
She looked at the pencil-skirted businesswoman again, mesmerised by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels on the hard floor, and felt the green tinge of envy descend upon her. What did it take to be like that? To be certain?
The reception desk was busy and whilst she waited to check in, Sarahâs gaze wandered around, taking in the ornate wood panelling and the oil paintings that adorned the walls. Beside her was an easel on which stood a large display board. She glanced up at it and saw that its purpose was to give the conference delegates information about session times, subjects and speakers. Her eyes ran idly up the list of names for no other reason than that it was her habit to notice and read things. She got to the top of the list and half turned her head away, to assess her progress in the queue. Then stopped, abruptly. Took a deep breath and slowly looked back at the board, scarcely believing what she had seen. Read it again and again. And then again, as her stomach turned itself upside down and sweat broke out on her forehead.
The name of the dayâs principal speaker headed up the list.
The letters whirled and reeled in front of her eyes, unravelling and rejoining, forming and reforming, in the space of seconds.
S-c-o-t-t C-a-l-v-i-n
It couldnât be him.
Dizziness overcame her and she gasped for air as if she had been punched in the diaphragm. She put out her hand to grasp the easel to steady herself.
It must be him.
Eventually, the noise of everyday business, of footsteps and voices and phones ringing brought Sarah back to her senses. She had no idea how long she had been standing there, in the elaborate foyer with the carved wooden staircase curving away on two sides, light from stained-glass windows streaming in above, her eyes fixed on the board but seeing nothing. She became aware of one of the hotel staff, the concierge, looking at her, frowning, then turning to a colleague and saying something she couldnât hear. As if to remind herself that she had to be somewhere, she glanced at her watch and then hurried to the desk, now queue free, feeling dazed and light-headed.
How could it possibly be that he was here, so close to her, close enough to just walk up to and say, âHello, Scott. Fancy meeting you here. How are you?â When she had been vacillating about whether to contact him in advance of her visit or not, she had at least been in control of the situation. Now she had lost that control because here she was, thrust into his immediate vicinity merely because of the hotel sheâd booked. Was it fate? A sign? Or was that kind of reaction superstitious rubbish, not to be given serious consideration?
The receptionistâs hair was dyed ash blonde and pinned into an immaculate chignon. It seemed to have an independent life of its own, and Sarah could not stop staring at it as she answered the womanâs questions absentmindedly, hardly hearing what she was saying. She was conscious
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