Garden of Stars (32 page)

She handed the scrap of paper to Sarah.

“I believe that it's fairly easy to find. There's a park opposite, the Jardim da Estrela, and a tram stop nearby that's probably the most convenient way to get there. Or you could always take a taxi – maybe that would be better as the matter is so urgent to you.” She replaced the lid of her pen, deftly. “And now we really do have to leave as my colleague will be waiting to lock up.”

Sarah got up, hastily grabbing her cardigan and bag and almost knocking over the chair as she did so. “I'm so sorry to have kept you,” she apologised, as she followed the Senhora to the door. “But thank you so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

They were on the front steps now, where a young man was waiting, a bunch of keys dangling from the fingers of his right hand. Senhora da Conceicão turned to Sarah and smiled warmly. “You are most welcome. Good luck with your search.”

The door slammed shut, the keys turned in the locks and she and the young man were gone. Sarah sat down on the steps in the full glare of the sun and shut her eyes. She still had the paper the Senhora had given her in her hand. A few moments later she opened her eyes, folded it carefully and put it into her handbag. She would deal with it when she got to Lisbon. For tomorrow, Scott would be here and they had four whole days and nights to spend together.

She went back to the hotel, lay on the bed trying to rest. She felt as though she had sleepwalked into this situation; had followed a pre-designated path that she was powerless to alter or deviate from. This was really it. By this time tomorrow, she and Scott would be driving to the hotel in the Douro together, and when they got there, they would be sharing a room, a bed, and without doubt they would have sex. So she would be an adulteress, a mother who was shamelessly betraying her husband, her children, and by extension, her friends and family, all of whom thought she had a perfect marriage, lived a perfect life.

And yet I have no intention of stopping it, no intention of calling him and telling him not to come.

The sight of Scott in the car the next day, sweeping up to the hotel entrance with the roof down, turned Sarah's stomach inside out. She hesitated for a few moments before stepping out from the shadows, savouring the anticipation of their greeting.

“Shall we go?” he asked, as she did up her seatbelt and pulled her sunglasses over her eyes.

She nodded, incapable of speech, not caring where they were headed because in that moment it didn't matter where they went or how long it took. All that mattered was being together, her and Scott.

The car ate up the miles, the engine quiet, tyres smooth on tarmac. There was hardly any traffic. Sarah had expected to be nervous, but instead she felt nothing but a deep sense that to be sitting by Scott's side was right, was where she was meant to be. So much had happened since their chance encounter. All their emails, and chats, and phone calls and video calls. All had cemented both their knowledge of, and desire for, each other. Right now, London and everything it contained seemed to belong to some different Sarah, who existed in a parallel universe, two lives lived side-by-side but with no connection. She wandered if that was how she had allowed it all to happen; because it wasn't really her but a phantom Sarah trying out a different role, an alternative life.

Wisps of cloud drifted in the sky above a landscape parched and brown from the long, hot summer. Banks of eucalyptus and pine trees flashed past, interspersed by tenacious wild honeysuckles and brooms. Sarah saw a sign for Amarante and pointed it out to Scott. She had, of course, explained about Isabel's death and the search that she must undertake for her grave, but she did not want the sadness of that story to taint their time together. The few days they had were the ones when she would be working on the article, not looking for the baby, and the article was essential because it was funding the search. Spotting the name of the town that seemed to be so intrinsically linked to the unfolding of the heartbreaking tale made her temporarily forget that resolve.

Scott glanced over to her. “Poor Inês. I can't imagine what she must have been through.”

“Yes.” Sarah nodded, worry about her great-aunt causing her to bite the inside of her lip. “I must go there – to Amarante – some day. I'd like to see the place where Inês spent time…before.”

Scott grimaced. “I understand.”

He indicated right and turned off the motorway. “When you told me about it, I knew you would want to see it. So I thought we'd stop for lunch there.”

Sarah looked at him, forehead furrowed quizzically. “Really? OK, great.” She couldn't think of anything else to say to the fact that he had planned something that meant so much to her, had known exactly what she would want to do.

“There won't be any of São Gonçalo's cakes around, though,” Scott continued, teasingly, attempting to lighten the mood. “I'm pretty sure that they only sell them in June.”

Sarah shrugged and smiled, sadly. “It doesn't matter. I'm not sure how I feel about them anyway.”

Was it better that Inês had had a child and lost her than that she had never fallen pregnant at all? How could she, Sarah, who had been so lucky, who was so lucky, with her two beautiful girls, possibly answer such a question?

They picnicked by the river. Up and down both banks were wide, flat rocks, worn smooth by the centuries of water coursing over them. Scott and Sarah jumped from one to the other, the picnic basket lurching between them, until they found a quiet spot underneath a spreading willow tree. All around them were families, children splashing in the shallows, boys with makeshift rods pretending to fish, teenage girls sunbathing on brightly coloured towels. But Sarah was aware only of herself, and Scott, together.

Taking off her sandals, Sarah dangled her toes in the river, watching as their shape undulated and morphed beneath the rippling surface, relishing the velvety feel of the soft water against her skin. Tiny fish darted between the rocks and clumps of reed and river grass. Scott popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and under the blazing sun they drank and ate bread, cheese, cold meats and a fresh, ripe mango dripping with syrupy orange juice.

“I would so love to swim,” sighed Sarah wistfully. “I wonder if Inês did, when she was here? She adored the water.”

“Do it, if you want to.” Scott lent back, supported by his hands, his arms sinewy and strong, his fingers splayed against the rock's grey surface.

“I think I will.” Sarah pursed her lips, her decision made, and then frowned. “But then again – I guess I can't as all my stuff's in the car, isn't it?”

“Would that have stopped Inês?” Scott's eyes glinted in challenge.

“In the 1930s, in broad daylight on a busy afternoon, probably!”

They both laughed and then Sarah gave a slight shiver, remembering their last swim together, Scott's unfaltering rescue of her, their semi-naked embrace. “Anyway,” she went on, “this is in danger of becoming a habit, you and naked dips!”

“I'm teasing you.” Scott reached into the bottom of the picnic basket, underneath the remains of the baguette and greaseproof-paper packages of leftover salami and ham. He pulled out a bag, opened it and handed to her its tissue-wrapped contents. “I got this for you. A present. For exactly this eventuality.”

Sarah unwrapped the parcel slowly and pulled out the garment inside, shaking it out and holding it up in front of her eyes.

“I saw it in a shop near the office,” said Scott. He hesitated, studying her face, gauging her reaction as she looked at the shimmery black swimsuit in her hands. “I thought…well, it looked like something that would suit you, so I bought it. No nudity and hopefully no near-drownings today!”

Sarah had still not spoken.

Scott shrugged. “But I can take it back if you don't like it.”

She could sense that he was embarrassed, mistaking her silence for dislike of his gift. Whereas the truth was that she was stunned by the time and trouble he had taken but at the same time was thinking, was it a cliché? Was swimwear like lingerie, bought by lovers, never by partners? Was it cheesy and trite of him to have done such a thing?

She leapt to her feet, banishing her silly doubts. Why did she always have to over-analyse everything?

“No! It's beautiful. I'm going to put it on right now.”

With a bit of wriggling and folding herself into strange shapes, she managed to get into the costume without revealing too much to the rest of the world. She pulled off her dress and waited for Scott's judgement. She knew already that it was by far the most glamorous swimsuit she had ever owned, with a buttoned front and a back that was a lattice work of thin straps. She could feel the way that they fanned out across her slender frame, could imagine how the black lines complemented her pale gold skin.

“You look stunning,” said Scott, quietly. “As well as very, very sexy.”

Sarah blushed.

Scott got up, tore off his T-shirt and shorts, under which he already wore swimming trunks, and came to stand beside her on the rock. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She started to enjoy the gift, to relish the feeling of being attractive. It had been a long time. She shut her eyes and the feel of him flashed an image to her mind of his body, toned and muscular, fit, lying next to hers, on top of hers…

“And now we jump!” Scott leapt off the rock, pulling her with him, and they landed in waist-deep water that made Sarah squeal in shock as the cold hit her.

“You beast! I was so not ready for that. I'll get you for it…” And then they were chasing each other, half-running, half-swimming, plumes of water flying up between them, Sarah's reticence evaporated. They ended up on the opposite bank, underneath a low-hanging shrub, almost hidden from view. Scott pushed himself against her as he kissed her, hard and long. Her insides dissolved and she clasped him tightly back.

“I want to make love to you, right here, right now. I can't resist you.”

The noises from all around, squealing and laughter, splashing and horseplay, seemed far in the distance, muted and insignificant. He moved one hand up to the back of her head and the other around her waist to pull her even closer in and kissed her even harder.

Eventually, Sarah pulled away. “Later.”

They packed up and walked back to the bridge.

Sarah had a cup of tea in a café while Scott went to a phone shop to sort out a problem with his Portuguese mobile. She had a bought a postcard to send to Inês, depicting the bridge viewed from the river Tâmega, the Hotel Silva in the background, and got out her pen to write it.

Dear Inês

Do you recognise the photo on the front of this card?

Yes, I'm here, in Amarante, on the way to the Douro where I'll write my article.

She suddenly became aware of the champagne coursing through her veins, of the fact that she was writing to Inês whilst waiting for Scott to reappear, as if that were not only normal, but legitimate.

Inês, we have talked about love and here I am in the town that bears its name.

She had not intended the card to be anything more than a token gesture to let Inês know that she had arrived safely in Portugal. But now she found herself desperately wanting to tell Inês that she was here with the man she adored, and that man was not Hugo. She hated that she had kept it from Inês for so long, especially now that Inês had divulged all her own secrets.

And I'm wondering about love, what it is and what it means.

Her pen seemed to be in league with the champagne, taking the decision of what to write from her.

And how something that feels so right can be so wrong.

I think perhaps you know.

She was staring at the card, and the biro in her hand, not quite sure what she was trying to say, what exactly she required from Inês, when Scott reappeared by her side. His presence next to her sent a shiver down her spine.

“All sorted,” he said. “So if you're done, let's get on our way. It's still a good hour or so to the hotel.”

“I'm ready.” Sarah added a quick last line.

I'll find Isabel for you. I won't give up until I have.

She put a couple of kisses at the bottom of the card, scrawled Inês's address on it and stuck on the stamp that Scott gave her from his wallet. On the way back to the car, Scott pointed out a post box and she thrust the card in.

If anyone had the answer, it would be Inês.

27

The road leading to the hotel swept along beside the majestic river that darkly reflected the deep blue sky above. Sarah sat slightly sideways in her seat, watching Scott as he drove, trying to implant the image of him, right here and right now, indelibly in her mind so that it could never be deleted. As the afternoon shadows lengthened they began to climb, higher and higher through ever tighter hairpin bends. The trees cleared and Sarah could see the precipitous vineyards on the opposite bank of the river; rows of stone walls and vines snaking along the hillsides, following the natural contours of the valley, forming an elaborate and mesmerising pattern.

“Welcome to the País do Vinho,” said Scott.

He turned the car to the left and shortly after, pulled up on a gravel driveway in front of a whitewashed wall covered in luscious, fuchsia-pink bougainvillea flowers. Scott jumped out, opened Sarah's door for her, and led her to an archway beyond which, across a stone-slabbed forecourt, lay a beautiful solar, a typical Portuguese manor house. A breeze caught the bougainvillea's blooms and they fluttered as if waving Scott and Sarah in.

In their room, Sarah gave Scott the bottle of whisky she had bought for him, his favourite label. Scott opened his suitcase. “I've got another present for you, too.” He kissed her forehead as he handed it to her.

Sarah took the silver gauze bag and pulled out the box it contained. Inside was a delicate silver chain on which hung an amber pendant, small, shiny and exquisite. She touched it, felt its smooth, soft hardness, saw the tiny specks of long-dead insects, dust and dirt encased within it.