Page 97 of Hot to Go

I walk towards her but she takes a step back. ‘No. He described a girl that I didn’t recognise at all. I knew it was just anger, and bitterness. But it did make me realise that this…whatever this is…it’s happening so quickly. When did you leave him?’

‘March,’ she tells me.

‘That’s eight months ago.’

‘So your solution, after Seville, after everything we shared together, is to back away? After everything that’s happened in that time? How I’ve left him and rebuilt my life?’ she says, her cheeks flushed.

‘Because you never told me about any of it, Suzie. For all we shared, you never confided in me something that was really important.’

‘Or maybe not very important at all, because he’s nothing tome. You…you…are important. You…’ she says, her voice trembling.

My chest feels heavy and I can’t bear the look on her face as she says this. There was rationale there. In my kitchen that night, high on Lenor and heartache, it felt like the only adult thing to do. To not get swept up in this lusty, hot holiday romance. To translate that spark into something more meaningful, that would have the potential to last. To get in the way of the universe and regain some control of my life.

I take a step towards her, longing to fold her up in my arms but not wanting to overwhelm her. ‘It’s only until January. This gives you time to go and sort things with your ex. Draw a line under that once and for all. So we can separate out the two and see things a bit more clearly,’ I explain.

She stands there in disbelief, then looks around the room. ‘Then all of this…’ she says.

‘Is amazing…’ I tell her.

‘No. It makes me look like a bit of an idiot,’ she replies, putting her hands to her forehead to hide her shame. ‘Scrunch up that note because I’m mortified. I…I…opened myself up to the possibility of us. Of loving someone again and letting them in and you’ve kind of closed the gate in my face.’

I stand there completely dumbstruck. The flamenco dancer’s skirt starts playing the Gipsy Kings and I bend down to flick the switch. ‘I just…’ I want you. Every part of you, right here, right now if time and place allowed for it, though we’d most likely get fired and put on some sort of bad teachers’ list. The universe is screaming yes but I’m putting my finger to my lips and telling them to just shush for a moment.

‘I can’t do this again. I just can’t.’ Her bottom lip trembles. She bites it to try and control the emotion.

‘Suzie…it’s not a no. It’s…’ There’s a touch of desperation in my tone.

‘A wait and see,’ she tells me. She looks me in the eyes and shakes her head. ‘I think I’m done here,’ she mutters.

‘Don’t walk away…’

‘No, that’s whatyou’redoing, Charlie.’

And with that, she brushes past me, turning away from me so I won’t see a tear roll down her face as she leaves the room. That’s when I realise I may have really messed up here. I’ve run away from the sun. My sun.

I widen my eyes as they travel around the room and all her handiwork before they land on my pens. I look at the labels. They’re all named Carlos.

PART FIVE

PARIS, DECEMBER

TWENTY-TWO

Suzie

I reckon you just find some fit businessman in the lounge looking for a one-night stand and get busy, Suze. I won’t mind. Use the room! Go incognito! Bring back Aurelie!

I look down at the text on my phone, laughing to myself. Typical Lucy. Come to Paris with me, Suzie. We’ll have a laugh, get drunk and run up and down the Eiffel Tower. But wait in the hotel first because I’m stuck at work. I look at the text again. Bring back Aurelie? Maybe not, because there seems to be some company Christmas do happening here in this hotel so I am surrounded by the sort of businessmen who have tufts of hair coming out of their cuffs and earholes. That said, I think this is a very Aurelie place. It’s a classy Parisian joint with its brass fittings, high ceilings and marble floors. I can picture Aurelie here, she’s got a vintage Chanel bag, of course, but she wears heels with well-fitting jeans and a casual blazer without looking like a PTA mum. She has a bold lip, sips on Pastis and when a man approaches her, she’s bold, cool, sexy and charming.Tell me about you. I am not impressed. Buy me another drink.You know she’s wearing a matching set of underwear too. I laugh. Oh, Aurelie. You were super fun. Thank you for being there when I needed you most, when I needed escape and excitement and adventure. I hope we’ll always be friends.

‘Plus de vin?’ a waiter asks me.

‘Oui. Merci.’

Oh, Paris. Everything about this hotel is entirely magical and charming. It’s also decorated to the nines for Christmas with its big red velveteen bows, fairy lights and Christmas trees in every corner. There’s a mountain of festive patisserie behind a glass counter in reception and unlike London, it’s not the same old Christmas soundtrack of raucous seventies pop hits but some traditional carol-like folk songs that waltz through this bar and just sound classy because they’re in French.

I knew it would be like this so when Lucy asked me to come with her whilst she attended some auditions, I jumped at the chance for a weekend away, to wrap myself up in another place, far away from London. I mean, I’ll always love London. London has in many ways been good to me and will always be home, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been lost in these last six weeks. Since Charlie left, I’ve been twiddling my thumbs, wondering what the hell happened there. There were so many questions. Paul emailed Charlie. What did he say that made him put his defences up like that? It’s made me hate Paul even more.

We’ve not been in contact. I’ve seen Charlie reading my messages in the departmental WhatsApp group but I don’t even get a thumbs up. I’ve gone to message him so many times and not been able to find the right words. What if it’s just not meant to be. Maybe that really was the end of it all. If it was, then what a complete and utter tragedy. Because back in October, I spent a day on my knees laminating and making him a full-size flamenco dancer out of cardboard, tissue paper and tulle. Though the more I think of it, seriously, who does that? Who crisis-manages romanticdilemmas with crafting? No one. Divorced or not, I likely killed that on my own. As the weeks went on with no Charlie, no romantic entanglements, I bounced between lots of different emotions. Sometimes I missed him, I closed my eyes to imagine him, the way he’d make me feel, laugh. But then I’d push it all away, just in case I never got to experience any of that ever again.

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