Nicola Marsh - Valentine's Day

‘I’ll order some drinks,’ she called to his back.

The shower in that old stone bath worked as if it was brand new and it rinsed the travel grime off him no time. He pulled on a deep red T-shirt and a pair of brown shorts. As he crossed back out to Georgia he noticed he now matched the floor rug.

His own kind of assimilation.

Weeks of tension started to dissipate.

On the balcony, a different girl from the one he’d checked in with finished placing out two tall glasses of something and then she smiled at him as she ducked around the far side of the daybed niche. Yet another exit. He could well imagine spending his two days in Turkey trying to find his way out of his room. Or back to it.

Georgia leaned on the balustrade in the corner of the balcony, potted colour either side of her legs. The golden late-afternoon light blazed against her white cotton dress, making it partly translucent and thrusting a graphic reminder of the body he’d tried so hard not to ogle in the dance studio back to the forefront of his mind.

He was used to admiring Georgia’s quick wit and her ready opinions and her passion for all things green. He was used to staving off the speculative zing when he brushed up against her or touched her. Or kissed her. But he was neither prepared nor sufficiently armed to manage the explosion of sexual interest that had hit him when she did that little private dance for herself in the mirror back in London. All that rippling and writhing. Nothing different from what the other women had done much more gratuitously for him but somehow so much better.

So much worse.

If she turned around right here and now and started to undulate that body he could see the shape of below her dress it wouldn’t be the slightest bit out of place with the ancient curiosity of Turkey stretched out behind her. And he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about standing, transfixed.

Or possibly about sweeping her up and falling down with her onto that luxury daybed just metres away.

He cleared his throat. ‘Are you about to accuse me of having a better view than yours?’

She turned, smiling. ‘No. The view is the same. I’m just the next level down.’ She pointed down and across to a small balcony with a single chair on it. He liked the idea that he could watch her without her knowing. A small shape on the chair below caught his eye.

‘You have a cat,’ he said, expunging such inappropriate thoughts from his mind.

‘I do. Sweet thing.’

‘I think I saw its kittens at Reception.’

She smiled and it was like that breath of apple-scented air he’d taken after the long drive. ‘I’m guessing there’s a lot of cats in Göreme.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll have to get onto Casey. I seem to be missing mine.’

Her eyes glowed half with the rich light of the evening and half with a rich light all their own. ‘I’ll trade you cat-time for spa-time.’

He breathed her in. ‘Done.’

For moments neither of them spoke, they just stood lost in each other. ‘Want to go for a walk?’

No. He wanted to haul her behind him into that big, comfortable, wasted bed and not come out till morning. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not outside his head. And if he was smart he wouldn’t let it happen inside his head, either.

No complications.

No risk.

No Georgia.

‘Sure. Show me the town.’

* * *

There was a lot to see in Göreme. They roamed all over the maze of paths and stairs and twisted byways, sometimes emerging accidentally in the private areas of people’s homes and then retreating, embarrassed, despite the friendly and unsurprised response of those intruded upon. Clearly, they weren’t the first tourists to end up in someone’s living room. They hiked out on foot a half-hour from the town and spent the last two hours of light poring over the ancient rock-hewn world-heritage monasteries with their immaculate and stunning frescoes. A local kindly showed them back through the warren of now-dark dwellings after the sun plunged unexpectedly quickly below the horizon. Orange light glowed from almost all of them but it didn’t help them a bit with their orientation.

‘Thank you,’ Georgia gushed as the pleased-as-punch man deposited them on the doorstep of their hotel and then waved his farewell. She wasn’t totally sure Zander would find his way back to his room without assistance—she’d needed two attempts the first time for her own room—so she followed him up.

‘Left,’ she dropped in just at the last moment.

He turned and looked at her. ‘Not right?’

‘Not right.’

Left it was. One more corridor and they were at his door. ‘What about dinner?’ he asked.

She groaned. ‘That would have been good to mention back at the entrance. We’ll have to retrace our steps.’

‘Hang on, I’ll just get a jacket.’

He was back in moments with a light jacket over his T-shirt. Whether it was for the evening cool or whether he wasn’t used to going to dinner in a T-shirt, it didn’t matter. He always looked extra good in a collar so the stylish jacket was very welcome from her point of view. He’d morphed back into casual Zander as the afternoon wore on. The same man she’d spent so much time staring at and smiling at back in the King’s Arms.

That was a slight analgesic against the dull ache of his rejection the past fortnight.

Discovering the city with him was a joy. His inquisitive mind and her gentle probing drew fascinating information from the locals. Twice he’d bemoaned not bringing his recorder with him on their walk to capture the lyricism and beauty of the language and the particular sound of voices as they soaked into the ancient limestone. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The hotel had a small outdoor balcony restaurant on its roof and a serve-yourself arrangement inside. Georgia laughed at Zander’s bemused expression.

‘When was the last time you ate at a buffet?’ she said. Though this was no ordinary buffet. Colourful fruits she’d never seen before spread out on one table and dishes of aromatic mysteries on another. She loaded a little bit of each onto a large plate and planned to round off her day of Turkish discovery here.

Some of it was odd, some of it was tasty, and two things were just plain amazing. She went back for seconds of those. They talked about the flight, the drive out, their impending early start for the balloon trip; anything they could think of that wasn’t about London.

As if by agreement.

Here, they could be two totally different people. She didn’t have her purposeless life or her humiliating proposal to deal with. He didn’t have his work or his marathons to distract and absorb. And they didn’t have the Year of Georgia between them.

Or the kiss, and what it meant.

Or his running from the dance studio. And what that meant.

She knew that she never would have achieved this amazing experience if not for the shove that Zander’s radio promotion had led to. She would have drifted along in her rut for who knew how long before eventually bumping to shore and clambering out, miles off track.

‘It’s hard not to sit up here and feel that anything is possible,’ she murmured out over the night lights of Göreme.

‘Anything is possible.’

She laughed. ‘Spoken like a true executive. For most people a lot of things are impossible. Financially, socially, time-wise.’

‘You just have to get your priorities in order.’ He shrugged.

She stared at him. They could make small talk or she could ask him something meaningful. ‘Do you prioritise activities over personal things?’

He looked up. Cocked his head.

She sank back into her over-stuffed chair, stomach full and single drink warming her from the inside out. ‘You keep yourself closed off from people, yet you’re so busy and active all the time. That must be a conscious choice. It would take quite a bit of work, I would have thought, to be around people all the time but not really interact with them on a meaningful level. It must be exhausting.’