Page 76 of When We Were Young

Emily

The hotel shampoo smells expensive, with its citrus notes and spicy undertones.

It lathers luxuriously, and as the suds slide down my body, I think of the beautiful leather-bound sketchbook lying on the bed in the next room.

It was a thoughtful gift. I wish I had sounded more grateful.

I recall the passionate way Scott spoke to Pierre about my work, the effort he went to, twenty years ago, to photograph every piece in my exhibition.

It’s touching that he believes in me. Has always believed in me.

Scott is still on my mind as I squeeze water from my hair and apply the creamy conditioner. Him being thoughtful, saying nice things, it reminds me of that day a hundred years ago when I told him I was pregnant. He’d said he wanted me. Wanted me. Remembering that now gives me a stab of guilt.

Could he have meant what he said? Or was he simply in shock after the bombshell I’d just dropped? I lose my train of thought for a moment, caught up with the fizzing in my stomach at the thought of Scott wanting me. That’s what he said back then. I want you. Why don’t you want me?

Ever since Liv told me about Will’s otosclerosis, I’ve been thinking about things differently. But thinking differently about Scott is unnerving and a little scary.

I like the idea of him wanting me.

Maybe I want him, too.

I realise with sudden clarity, as if the shower is washing away all the lies I’ve told myself over the years, that I’ve been all alone, punishing myself when I could have been with Scott.

All at once I’m sobbing, tears mingling with the shower water. I need to talk to him. I can’t wait a minute more – I’ve wasted too much time already.

I’m not even sure if I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, but I shut off the water, step out and dry myself hurriedly.

Wrapped in the fluffy hotel bathrobe, I grab my key card and reach for the door handle.

I glimpse myself in the mirror on the back of the door.

My hair is tangled and dripping. What am I doing?

If I turn up at his room like this, he’s going to think it’s about sex.

He’ll think I’m there for the same old desperate shag we won’t talk about afterwards.

‘At least put some bloody clothes on,’ I tell my reflection.

I run around the room like a madwoman, grabbing clothes, brushing hair, drying it with the pathetic hotel hairdryer. I pull on a black dress and apply a lick of mascara.

This time I make it out of the door and halfway down the corridor to his room before I realise it’s totally the wrong time.

We’re meeting Pierre and the photographer and God knows who else for dinner in less than half an hour.

There’s no way we can sort out two decades of misunderstanding in that time.

And we can’t skip dinner. I turn on my heel.

A door opens behind me. Scott’s voice echoes down the hall, ‘Em?’

I pivot. He’s dressed smartly in a navy suit, no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone.

‘Hi!’ I squeak.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Er… I was coming to knock for you, but I forgot my handbag.’

‘You look lovely.’ He walks alongside me. The barest touch of his hand at my lower back sends a shiver through me.

‘Thanks.’ I’m bursting with nervous energy, like a teenager with a crush.

He hovers by the door while I dart around my room, grabbing lip gloss, phone, and clutch.

Thank goodness there are people in the lift, otherwise I might pour my heart out on the way down. I’m not sure how I’ll contain myself through dinner.

The table is set for nine. Pierre has me sitting on his left-hand side with Scott opposite us.

The table is too wide to talk across, but Scott keeps giving me reassuring looks.

He knows I’m out of my depth at this table.

Pierre introduces me to the photographer on my left and various members of his team.

I can’t pronounce most of their names, let alone remember them all.

Course after course of food arrives. I don’t know what I’m eating, but it all tastes heavenly.

Pierre entertains us with stories of demanding wealthy guests and badly behaved celebrities over his forty-year career in hospitality.

He doesn’t mention names but gives us enough clues to guess.

The fine wine goes down easily, the warm buzz of it relieving my anxiety.

I’m like a shaken-up snow globe finally settling.

They bring coffee and handmade chocolates. Scott knows I’m watching as he bites into one. His eyes widen and his face melts into exaggerated ecstasy as he chews. I giggle. He composes himself and gives me a wink.

The marketing manager says something to him, and he inclines his head to hear her. His gaze is on me while she talks. Everything slows down. The chatter in the room, the clinking of glass and the scraping of cutlery all fade out.

It’s just Scott and me holding eye contact.

And his expression is so serious and steady, and in such stark contrast to the playful face he pulled only a moment ago, it sends a thrill through me.

It reminds me of being a kid, sticking your head out of a moving car window and gulping for breath.

I try to convey with my eyes what I haven’t yet been able to put into words and I’m overwhelmed by the urge to go to him. To kiss him.

‘Did you try the truffles?’ Pierre holds a little plate before me.

All the sounds are back. I smile, select a chocolate, and take a bite. Across the table, Scott is showing the marketing manager something on his phone. I can tell from his expression, it’s a photo of Liv.

After dinner, we ride the lift to our floor. My head’s spinning. Every step I take as we walk down the corridor, I go to speak, but words escape me. What the hell am I going to say? I fancy you?

We reach his room first. I should say something now but, as I open my mouth to speak, his pocket starts buzzing.

He apologises, pulls out his phone and says, ‘Kat, can I call you back in two minutes? Thanks. Bye.’ Then he gives me all his attention, and it’s like basking in the sun. ‘Sorry, were you going to say something?’

‘No…’ Nothing I can say in two minutes.

‘So, you’ll take the commission, right?’

‘I don’t know. The thought terrifies me.’

‘Why don’t you see what you come up with? You can always duck out of it later.’

‘Well, I do have ideas…’

‘You see!’ His grin is wide and infectious. ‘Well, better get some sleep, busy day tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’

‘Goodnight.’

‘Night.’

I lie in my enormous bed, unable to sleep.

Just because the man showed the slightest bit of interest almost twenty years ago, doesn’t mean he’d be interested now.

He didn’t mean what he said when we were young.

About getting together. He couldn’t have done – he was in shock.

I’d just told him I was pregnant, after all.

He’s never shown any sign of having feelings for me since.

Those few times we slept together, they were always instigated by me.

He felt sorry for me. It didn’t mean anything; it was just sex.

Besides, his girlfriend is gorgeous. Half my age.

What was I thinking? Thank God I didn’t make a fool of myself.

I lie there, willing him to come to my room but knowing he won’t. He never once came to my bed in the past. It was always me going to him.

I fall asleep a moment before the alarm goes off at 6 a.m.