Her heart beat incredibly fast. She looked around her. It was full of people streaming out of buildings for rush hour, moving quickly, smartly dressed, slim, on the move. She felt intimidated, even though of course once upon a time she’d thought herself just like this: catching the Docklands Light Railway; moving through Liverpool Street. But these people! Their teeth were so white, their clothes so expensive. They wore sunglasses and carried juice and barged past the obvious tourists in a clear two-speed system, and Flora, trundling with her carry-on bag, knew she wouldn’t be mistaken for one of ‘them’ for a moment. And she knew equally that Joel absolutely would, that he would be a part of their slipstream without even thinking about it.
She entered the hotel cautiously. It was extremely grand, with high ceilings and columns and expensive fresh flower arrangements. It was filled with incredibly rich-looking middle-aged people, obviously there from out of town: well-fed, well-dressed types, as well as a smattering of beautiful young things. The reception staff, in chic black uniforms, were beautiful too, with small badges on their chests indicating how many languages they spoke. They all spoke at least three. Flora felt like addressing them in Gaelic to give herself a boost, but didn’t dare.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Joel Binder’s room?’
It was only 6.30. Of course he wasn’t back yet. It occurred to Flora suddenly that maybe he wouldn’t be back until late after staying at work then going to a dinner or something. Maybe she could call him, find out. But then wouldn’t she give it away? Wouldn’t it come up as a local call? She wasn’t sure at all.
The receptionist looked at her, Flora thought, with doubt. Then she dismissed the doubt as her just being paranoid.
(Actually, it wasn’t in the least bit paranoid. The receptionist had been madly in love with Joel since he’d checked in and wandered in and out looking Byronic, distracted and completely lonely – but with lovely manners – ever since. She’d had her hair recoloured, tried to be on duty whenever he came in, always had a sweet smile and a friendly word for him – he was working too hard, she speculated, and how amazing that he lived in Scotland – and had entertained several private fantasies about simply letting herself into his suite to be waiting there for him, naked, one evening.)
The receptionist was nothing but professional. She didn’t know who this bedraggled person with the strange hair was, but she wasn’t someone she’d have put with him in a line-up. I mean, if this was the competition …
‘I’m afraid he’s not in, ma’am,’ she said in a slightly accusatory fashion. After all, if this person, or stalker, or whoever she was, couldn’t even work out his movements, she barely deserved to be here.
Flora meanwhile suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired and desperately jet-lagged and grimy and in need of a shower and thirsty all at the same time.
‘Um, could you let me in to wait for him?’ she said. ‘I’m kind of here as a surprise.’
The receptionist looked at her. ‘Well, obviously not, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I mean, you could call him …’
‘That kind of does for the surprise …’ said Flora.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Flora sighed. She looked around. There was a bar in the lobby. ‘I think I’ll just sit down for a little while,’ she said. ‘Wait for him.’
The receptionist was curious to see how this would play out. ‘Of course,’ she said, nodding.
Flora looked at the prices on the menu and tried to do the mental arithmetic to convert them, but found it difficult. She sighed. Whatever it was, it was very, very expensive. She ordered a cup of tea, then realised when it came (and was awful) that actually she didn’t want tea, she wanted wine, but she felt too awkward and uncomfortable to call the waiter back. Suddenly, all the great hope and excitement that had propelled her across the Atlantic – and left her, she knew, very, very, very skint – seemed to be draining away.
She went to the bathroom. The flight had left her skin blotchy and dry, her lips chapped and her hair frizzed. She wanted to go out and see if she could find somewhere to buy some new moisturiser – probably not a Tesco Express but there’d be something, surely? – but what if he showed up when she was gone? She’d have to ask that eye-rolling receptionist again, and Flora wasn’t a hundred per cent sure she trusted her to tell her the truth.
Flora sighed and did what she could with the body lotion the expensive hotel had sitting by the side of the sink. It smelled of lavender and didn’t really do the job properly. As she was doing her best with the feeble contents of the makeup she still had in the plastic freezer bag she’d taken through customs, an enormous girl, like a huge blonde giraffe, came into the bathroom, talking loudly on her phone about, crap, no way was she going to Loopy Doopy you idiot, what are you, twelve?
She didn’t even notice Flora was there – she towered about a foot above her, it felt like to Flora – but instead examined herself critically in the mirror next to her. She was utterly gorgeous: flawless skin, a long aquiline nose, clear blue eyes and pulled-back, silky blonde hair. The girl frowned at her perfect features in the mirror, then dabbed at a non-existent blemish on her chin. Then she realised Flora was there and rolled her eyes, as in, aren’t we all girls together, what can you do?
‘You look great,’ said Flora impulsively. It was impossible, really, to say anything else when faced with such fabulousness.
‘Oh, so do you,’ said the girl unconvincingly, reapplying lip gloss as someone barked down the phone. ‘Well, have a nice day … No, Sebastian, no, I don’t want to go to Ann Arbor …’
She left a light, expensive scent on the air. That, Flora thought, looking back in the mirror after the goddess had gone, feeling dumpier and more washed out than ever, that was what Joel should be with. That was what New York girls were like: pulled together, groomed, fabulous, confident of where they were going and what they wanted. Everything she had seen Joel with in London, over the years, everything she remembered so well. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was this all a ridiculous mistake? She looked at herself, sighing. Then she realised she’d better get out there, in case she missed him. And would there be disappointment in his eyes when he did see her? Was it only on Mure where there was only her, and a lot of seabirds and some sheep to look at?
Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Stop being ridiculous. She came back out and sat down again and tried hard not to worry and to remember back a few months, midwinter, just the two of them, back on Mure, in the pitch black of January when it never really got light and they had stayed in for a whole weekend, spending the entire time wrapped up on the sofa, in blankets, watching old DVDs because they couldn’t stream Netflix, eating hot buttered toast, with salted butter from the farm on bread Mrs Laird had made that morning, nutty and golden brown and simply heaven on the old earthenware plates, and the noise of the fire crackling upwards and the scent of the browning bread and the nearness of Joel and his body and …
Joel stalked straight past her. He didn’t even glance around at the seated or milling tourists who wandered in and out of the hotel lobby at all hours of the day and night: jet-lagged, confused, stressed out or just plain lost.
He moved smoothly over to see if the contracts he was waiting on had been delivered. The same receptionist always seemed to be on duty, he had subconsciously registered, but not actively thought about. She looked at him now with something important to impart on her face. He hoped it wasn’t hassle, like a room change. He just wanted a shower, some work, some food and, even though he had blackout curtains, a high-up, soundproofed room and almost silent air conditioning, he was hoping for sleep, although it was doubtful: he was grinding out the days and making his billable hours for Colton up until he could get home.
Home. The word felt so strange and tentative whenever he thought about it. Was it even possible that there was somewhere he thought of as home? Somewhere he could keep, treasured, secret in his heart even as he walked through boardrooms and hotel lobbies a million miles away; somewhere special, just for him, that was waiting for him at the end of this city, and all the other cities exactly like it …