by Sarah Mason
We all order another drink and Holly and I discuss the Emma situation in the only way women can. The fifth time we wonder who on earth the father of Emma's child could be, Sam and James start to look bored.
“All right you two. That's enough. Can we talk about something else?” says Sam.
“What do you want to talk about then?” I ask.
“I thought you were going to keel over when you saw me coming back with Martin Connelly, Clemmie.” James grins.
“I had to practically sit on her to stop her from bolting,” says Sam.
“When you said we should talk about something else, did it have to be this?”
“You make wonderful peanut butter and banana sandwiches,” says Sam comfortingly. True. True. “Just the thought of them is making me hungry. Why don't we go and get something to eat?”
“I'd like to take a shower and change,” says Holly.
“Me too!” I agree.
“Shall we meet back down here in half an hour?” says James.
We all get up and move toward the door. I drag my feet unwillingly because much as it is lovely to see Holly and James, it also means that Sam and I really won't get to spend any more time alone together. Soon we will return to England, he'll marry Charlotte and that will be that.
“Clemmie, would you mind if James and I had a quiet supper by ourselves?” whispers Holly on the first landing as we lag behind the men. “It's just that things have been a little tense lately and I think it would do us a lot of good to relax.”
“Of course! I don't mind spending the evening alone with Sam!” I say eagerly. The words “alone with Sam” hang jauntily in the air. “I mean, so you and James can mend ah, er, little . . . or patch things . . .” I haven't a clue what I'm talking about but leave it at that and hope Holly doesn't misinterpret anything. “You two slip off. I'll square it with Sam.” I nod encouragingly and hope I don't look too lecherous.
Madame has given Holly and James a room on the first floor (she obviously didn't like the look of me) so we drop them off there and Sam and I walk up the next flight of stairs together toward our own rooms.
“Holly and James want to have a quiet supper by themselves,” I say super casually. “They've been having quite a rough time lately.”
“Okay.”
We climb in silence for a second.
“Well, would you like to go and find some food?” asks Sam.
“Only if you're hungry,” I say nonchalantly.
“Would you prefer an early night? There's been lots of stuff going on. Don't worry about me, I can pop out and get something.” Hmmm, maybe a little too nonchalantly.
“Er, no,” I say quickly. “I could probably manage a little something.”
“I'll see you in reception in, say, twenty minutes?”
I nod, leave him on his floor and then indifferently meander my way up another flight of stairs until I am out of sight and then leg it to my room. Twenty minutes! God, you've got to give a girl a chance. Can I do what I have to do in twenty minutes?
I arrive at my room, thrust open the door and run to the wardrobe. The cupboards are bare. A brainwave occurs to me and I leg it down another four flights of stairs. At least I'm going to be fit at the end of this.
“Holly!” I hiss as I thump on their door. I don't care if they're jolly well having sex in there. Their relationship might be hanging on a thread but at least it's there.
Holly opens up. “Clemmie, what on earth are you doing?”
“Erm, I was wondering if I could borrow something to wear.”
“Why? Didn't you bring anything?”
“It's all dirty. Freak accident with the sun lotion.”
“What's wrong with what you're wearing?”
God, what do I have to do to gain access to her wardrobe?
“Dirty too.” Holly's eyes wander down my outfit. “Well, I feel dirty. Could I just borrow a little dress or something?” I plead.
“I suppose,” she sighs, begrudgingly opening the door. The shower is on so I presume James is in it. “Just as long as you don't get sun lotion on that too. I want to wear it tomorrow.”
She goes to the open suitcase on the bed and unpacks a lovely little French Connection number, which is embroidered with huge circles in scarlets and orange and comes to just above the knee.
“Thank you!” I gasp, clasping it to me.
Back in my room, I try to remember all the things you're supposed to do before a hot date. I can only take inspiration from my in-flight magazine. So I hop into the shower and soap everywhere thoroughly, remembering to shave both armpits. I moisturize all over my body (this is crucial apparently but not sure why) but have to hold back from any nail varnish as my normal quick-drying method of wafting my hands above the toaster is not possible.
I arrive in reception with a screech about twenty-five minutes later. My espadrilles don't really go with the dress but other than that I have to say I am quite pleased with the results.
Sam is chatting to Madame in a mixture of broken French on his part and broken English on hers. They stop as I come over and Madame gives me a knowing look in light of our recent encounter on the stairs. I try not to blush and concentrate on Sam instead, who is looking devilishly attractive in jeans and a thin, black jumper.
“You look nice!” he greets me.
“Holly's dress,” I explain.
“I think we might have to go out and get you some clothes tomorrow. You seem to be very thin on the ground where your wardrobe is concerned.”
“Lack of funds. It's been about two years since I've bought anything.”
“I'll buy you some things,” says Sam firmly.
“No, you don't have to do that,” I say, feeling madly encouraged.
“To be honest, Clemmie, if I have to see you in that ropey old skirt again, I might have to top myself. I'll be doing humanity a favor,” he says dryly as he turns on his heel and walks out of the hotel.
Hmmm. Not sure that's quite so encouraging.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks as we emerge into the evening air. “I thought maybe we could get some French bread and pâté and a bottle of wine and go down to the beach for a picnic.”
How lovely! “That sounds great.”
He grins at me and I nearly swoon with delight. Just remember, I tell myself firmly as I trot behind him into a little shop, he is going out with Charlotte who is a very nice girl.
The shopkeeper is trying to close up for the night but still has one stick of French bread left so we scurry around picking up some pâté, olives, a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. At the last minute I find some of those mini-gherkins pickled in vinegar which I absolutely adore. Sam rolls his eyes at me. After we have paid for our purchases, we walk down the street toward the beach. “So what do you think about Emma?” I ask, anxious for his take on it. “How do you think Martin Connelly will react when he finds out she's pregnant?”
“Well, it certainly turns his revenge plan on its head. He thought he was the one doing all the duping.”
“Do you think she knows he's infertile and that's why she's panicking so much about seeing him again?”
“No, I think she thinks the child is his.”
“I wonder if they'll tell him now.”
“That's up to Emma and her father. It's absolutely nothing to do with us anymore, thank God.”
“I don't think I have a massive amount of sympathy for her,” I say.
“Mine is fast running out,” agrees Sam. “I think we should forget about her and just concentrate on enjoying ourselves.”
Oooh, yes please. I'm all for enjoying myself, I think greedily.
We walk in single file down the one-way street toward the beach because the roads are so narrow. It is a beautiful evening and the air feels heavy with birdsong and freshness. I have to make a conscious effort to stop clutching myself with pleasure. Please do not make a fool of yourself, I tell myself firmly. He merely suggested a picnic on the beach because we are stuck tog
ether for this evening and it's a nice thing to do. If he had been stuck with Holly then he would still have suggested a picnic on the beach.
We clamber down on to the stony beach. The sea gently laps the shore and we make our way toward a large rock and spread out our things. I try to sit down delicately but Holly's skirt isn't giving me much room for maneuver and I have to sort of crumple in a heap. I pull my legs daintily to one side and suck in my cheeks. By contrast Sam chucks himself down and then rummages in the bag for the wine and corkscrew.
“I'm afraid you're going to have to swig it from the bottle, Clem.”
“That's okay.”
He deftly opens it and then proffers it to me. I hand it back to Sam after taking a gulp and am happy to notice that he doesn't bother to wipe the top of it before he too takes a swig.
I don't know if it's because I'm having to drink from the bottle but it doesn't take long for me to sink into a pleasant state of inebriation. Sam leans back against a rock and we have an absolutely marvelous time. We talk about anything and everything and Sam's tone is distinctly flirtatious. I don't think I am imagining it. His hand occasionally brushes mine as we go about our little picnic and his eyes sometimes hold mine longer than is strictly necessary. Occasionally I have to pinch myself to believe the whole thing is actually happening and is not the result of my rather overfertile imagination.
Eventually we decide it is too dark to stay on the beach, gather our belongings together and meander back to the hotel. We don't speak very much on the way home but the atmosphere is heavy with intent. He glances at me, I glance at him—there is a whole lot of glancing going on.
Once in the hotel, we walk up the stairs and I hover uncertainly on the second landing, wondering what happens next. Sam takes matters into his own hands and says he'll escort me to my room. I start to feel incredibly nervous and run through a mental checklist: Have I brushed my teeth? (Yes, definitely.) Did I leave my clothes all over the floor? (Maybe. Can't remember.) Do I have a matching set of bra and knickers on? (Do I own one?)
We slow down to a positive dawdle until we reach my room. His chocolate brown eyes fix on mine as I lean against the door feeling like a foolish teenager.
“Where's your key?” he asks softly, still staring straight into my eyes.
I rustle about in my handbag and produce it. He starts to lean gently toward me. This is it! I close my eyes and wait for the blissful feel of his lips on mine. It's as though I have been waiting forever for this moment and . . . it appears I might have to wait a bit longer because out of the corner of one half-closed eye I notice that Sam has merely leaned forward in order to unlock my door. I hastily snap my eyes open and stare at him like a rabbit caught in headlights. Oh God! How embarrassing! Did he see me with my eyes closed, positively panting? I was so absolutely sure something was about to happen. Sam is looking thoughtfully at his shoes, as though he is trying to find the words to say something difficult. Maybe he simply doesn't fancy me. After all, he does have a girlfriend, one he has admitted to being terribly fond of, so why on earth should he be messing about with me? I feel absolutely mortified. And there was I, puckered up and ready to go. Sam looks at me; he has obviously found the words he was looking for.
“Em, Clemmie. I think we need to—” He breaks off suddenly and turns his head. I realize he is listening to voices on the stairs. “Madame is coming and . . .” He starts to listen more intently.
“What's the matter?” I ask.
“That's Charlotte's voice. Charlotte is here.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sam quickly moves away from me and starts to walk down the corridor to meet her. With a mixture of shock and apprehension, I half-heartedly follow him. Charlotte? Is he sure? What on earth is she doing here? A decidedly more male voice suddenly attracts my attention and I start hurrying after Sam until I round the corner.
“Barney!” I exclaim. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Oh hello, Clem. We were just coming to find you! How are you? You look nice, been out to dinner?”
“Em, yes. Sam and I just got back . . .” I am watching Sam who is kissing Charlotte. I feel sick to the stomach. How could I entertain such notions about him when he has a girlfriend? “Sam was just seeing me back to my room,” I say distractedly. “What are you doing here?” I ask again.
“Well, Sam called and told Charlotte that there had been some complications and you were going to stay a couple more days. So we didn't see why you should have all the fun and caught the next flight we could out of Bristol. Aren't you pleased to see us?”
“Em, yes. Thrilled.” I try to give a passably good impression of a smile and feel quite, quite horrible. Sam and Charlotte have started to wander back down the stairs now and Barney and I follow them. We pass Madame on the stairs, who gives me the dirtiest of looks, and I feel unbearably awful. Barney thanks her politely and then puts his arm companionably around me. “We didn't think we'd find you in, thought you'd be out painting the town! Madame has found me a single on the first floor and Charlotte has dumped her stuff in Sam's room.”
“Of course,” I say falsely as the situation starts to ram itself home. Right between the eyes. Charlotte will be sharing Sam's bed tonight.
Barney and I catch Sam and Charlotte up on the first floor.
“Clemmie!” Charlotte exclaims and kisses me on both cheeks. “I haven't said hello! How super to see you! Barney and I couldn't bear to think of you all having such fun without us.” I studiously keep my eyes away from Sam. “Can we go somewhere for a drink?”
“The hotel has a bar,” says Sam.
“You can tell us exactly what's been going on!” says Charlotte chattily as she links her arm through Sam's. “We've been waiting all day at Bristol for a last-minute flight but at least it was cheap.”
They make to move down the next flight of stairs but I interrupt them. “I'm going to go to bed, I'm all in. Sam will tell you both all the news.”
I will Sam to look at me, just to give me some small sign that everything might be okay, but he doesn't. He is clearly as embarrassed as I am. So with a slightly wobbly jaw, I bid them all goodnight and turn on my heel.
In my bathroom, I take a good look at myself in the mirror and lean my hot forehead against the cool glass. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? Because I wish the good Lord would take me right now if it is. My mind relentlessly plays the whole scene over and over again. My face puckered up, eyes closed, lips at the ready and Sam having to gently tell me that he wasn't really up for it as I am sure he was about to. Oh, the shame. Am I so out of practice that I can no longer judge a situation? Or do I fancy Sam so much that I am completely blind to all the pertinent facts? Such as his girlfriend. Or how about the fact we have known each other for years now and Sam has never shown the slightest romantic interest in me. Let's face it, he'd be more likely to fancy Holly than me. All that kissy stuff and constantly sticking up for her.
Tears fill my eyes suddenly and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Please don't start crying, I tell myself firmly. You'll end up with a hideously swollen face and slitty eyes and you'll have to tell everyone you've been eating avocado again. Besides which, Sam will guess you've been crying and this will become even more embarrassing than it is now.
I step out of Holly's dress and hang it on the edge of the wardrobe. I stand for a second and survey it. It's beautiful and a fat lot of good it's done me. I would have been better off in my tatty old skirt and cowboy boots; at least that way I wouldn't feel as though I had deliberately set out to beguile Sam, and I wouldn't feel so awful about Charlotte.
I wander over to my bed, lie down and try to think about stuff back home to take my mind off Sam. I expect to lie awake all night but to my surprise I start to doze, and then fall asleep dreaming of seagulls and French fries.
I sheepishly turn up at breakfast the next morning and am extremely pleased that the first person I see is Barney. He is sitting alone at the breakfast table and in front
of him is a huge basket of bread. Madame is obviously in love.
“Morning, Clem! Don't you just love French bread? It was worth coming all that way just for breakfast. I could eat a whole loaf of it.” He looks down at his plate. “Actually I think I might have done. How are you anyway? Been having a nice time? Sam told us all about Emma and Martin Connelly, that's a bit of a shock, isn't it?” Barney pauses to shove another piece of bread into his mouth.
I have been so absorbed by my own problems that I have momentarily forgotten about ruddy Emma. God, even she has managed to seduce two separate people in the last six months.
“Yes, it is, isn't it?”
“Do you know who the father is?”
“No idea at all.” Probably another Adonis she managed to ensnare with her squashed lemon expression and charming manner. Maybe I should think about an image change.
“Sam said James is going to see Emma today.”
“I'm going with him.” When I think what she's put me through in the last week or so, there is absolutely no way I am not going to be present when Emma tries to wriggle out of this one.
“Can I come too?”
“I think that might be a bit of a crowd, Barney. But I'll tell you all about it when we get back. Anyway, how's things with you?”
“Pretty good actually.” He beams his dazzling smile at me and liberally smears his bread with more butter.
I narrow my eyes and look at him. Something is up. I hazard a guess. “How's that girl of yours?”
“Great! We managed to spend a bit of time together while you lot have been away!”
“And you've been getting on?”
“We're getting on really well.”
“So I take it that she has seen the error of her ways?”
“Well, I wouldn't go that far but it's been much easier to spend time with her while you lot haven't been around.”
