The Chatsfield Short Romances 11-15. Fiona Harper

where we stand on the roof terrace of The Chatsfield the whole city lies before us, washed clean from the grime and heat of the previous day by the silvery blue light creeping across the sky. Cristian and I have walked, we have talked. We have kissed and just held each other, but now the night is almost over, the seconds draining away along with the safety of the darkened sky and I feel the old sense of heaviness returning. I start to panic.

      He knows this and comes to stand behind me, folds his arms around me and places his cheek next to mine. My breathing begins to slow.

      I close my eyes against the invading dawn, hoping to delay it just that little bit longer. Why now? Why did I have to meet him now, not in two years’ time…? Or why not seven years ago, before I’d even met Gareth? Fate might have blessed us by letting us find each other, but her cruel sense of humour means this will always be a ‘what if?’, a bittersweet memory that both soothes and taunts.

      ‘It’s so unfair…’ I whisper softly.

      Cristian just holds me tighter. ‘It is not fair or unfair,’ he says. ‘It is life.’

      I turn and face him, grab his shoulders just a little desperately. ‘Can’t you stay?’ While I wait for him to answer I start trying to work out when Gareth will realise I’m draining his bank account and if there will be time to buy a plane ticket to Argentina before then.

      He looks down at me, those dark brown eyes so expressive, even while hardly any of the emotion shows on the surface. I used to think Gareth had hidden depths, that his emotional constipation was masking who I believed him to be, but staring at this man, I know this is what strong and silent looks like. His heart beats; it is not made of concrete.

      ‘Even if I could, I would not change anything,’ Cristian says.

      I shake my head.

      ‘Grief has its own time scale,’ he adds. ‘You cannot rush it or wish it away. I know this.’

      I know it too, but I want to pretend I don’t. My voice rasps when I respond. ‘Will I ever see you again?’

      For a long time he doesn’t open his mouth, but then he says, ‘That, Sophie, will be up to you.’

      Something inside me shoots up like a firework, even as I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

      He takes my face in his hands, drops a swift, soft kiss on my lips. ‘What I mean is that you need space and time, and that I am going to give them to you.’

      Space and time. Just what Gareth had asked of me. I’m not at all amused by the irony, especially as I realise Cristian is much more generous than I am. I wanted to take Gareth’s time and space and shove them up his—

      ‘Sophie?’

      I focus back on Cristian. I can feel the warmth of the rising sun touching my shoulders now and I shake it away.

      ‘Ciera los ojos,’ he says and I do as I am told, closing my lids and eradicating everything but the feel of him, the faint scent of his aftershave. His right hand moves to just below my shoulder blade, his left intertwines with mine, but we don’t dance, we just stand there, feeling the warmth of the dawn grow brighter and hotter.

      ‘I will be back in London one year from today,’ he whispers in my ear.

      I start to open my eyes to look at him, but the little noise that he makes tells me I need to be patient, that it isn’t time to break the spell.

      A year? That seems like an awfully long time. ‘Will you?’ My voice is so faint I’m not sure he even hears me.

      He nods and I feel his stubble against my cheek. ‘I will be here, in this very spot, waiting for you.’

      Tears spring from under my closed lashes.

      ‘If you want to meet me here, it will be up to you.’

      I almost laugh. ‘Of course I’ll—’

      He cuts me off without either moving or saying anything. I just feel the change in him like a drop in temperature. ‘You cannot say that yet. Not until you have been through the depths and come out the other side. Until then, it is impossible to know what you want.’

      ‘What time?’ I whisper.

      ‘Sunset. And then we can continue our night together as if it did not stop.’

      He kisses me one last time, and it reminds me of the Malbec he gave to me the first time we met—rich and velvety, full of promise—and then he steps away. Somehow I know I’m not supposed to open my eyes.

      I hear his footsteps fade across the terrace and disappear.

      Part of me wants to collapse into a heap and take up where I left off a day and a half ago, immersed in my own misery, barely surviving, but a newer part refuses to be that weak. The new part turns and faces the sun, tilts her head back to feel its warmth on the face he just touched and kissed. She smiles.

      I don’t know if I’ll tell Mel and Vikki about this. I don’t know if they’ll ever believe me. Better to let them think I had my fling. And I know they won’t believe that Cristian will be here in twelve months. Despite all her giddiness about men, Mel, in particular, is very sceptical. She’d probably say it was sweet talk to stop me following him and making a fuss.

      And I suppose, after my aborted wedding last week, I should probably think the same.

      I try to picture things that way, to just brush this off as a lucky escape, but I can’t. All I can see is an image of Cristian standing here on a warm and breezy summer’s evening. As hard as I try, I just don’t see myself here, humiliated and alone a second time, waiting for a man who never comes.

      But more than that… I look further, wider, and I realise my future is no longer a thick grey fog, stretching out before me forever. This bright morning sun that is warming my cheeks, making the lights dance inside my eyelids, has burnt it away.

      I stand like that for ages, feeling the sun climb higher until it bathes me completely, and when I finally open my eyes again, I know exactly what I must do.

      I need to talk to Gareth. As much as I don’t want to, I need to open this wound and clean it out, try to understand and move on. He owes me this. Forget the credit card, this is the one debt he really needs to pay.

      And then I must not be afraid to mourn. I must be brave enough to follow grief’s lead until she has danced her way through me.

      I blink back the low sun and head for the door back into the hotel, a smile on my face and a determined sway in my step. Once inside, I take the lift down to the hotel reception, knowing that the very first thing I need to do is reserve a room—for exactly one year from today.

      ***

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