Free Garden of Stars by Rose Alexander Page A

she responded, thoughtfully. “I never anticipated settling in my home country. After living here, I thought I’d be far more adventurous than that, imagined I’d find some far-flung corner of the globe to call my own. I can’t believe I’ve been so ordinary, so predictable.” She sighed. “Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
    Neither of them spoke for a moment. Sarah wondered if Scott was thinking what she was thinking.
    He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. “Sarah, I’m so sorry, I want to hear all about you, too.” His voice seemed very loud as it broke their silence. “But it might have to wait for a bit.”
    She nodded, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture that indicated it was really of no consequence.
    â€œI’ve got to meet some colleagues in the restaurant for dinner; it was too short notice to cancel,” he went on. There was the tiniest hesitation and then he said, “You’ll come, won’t you?”
    The invitation took Sarah by surprise. But Scott was already standing, his expectant expression exhorting her to join him. Surely no harm could come of a dinner with plenty of chaperones?
    As they left the bar, Sarah recollected why the piece the pianist was now playing was so familiar. It was the sound of the ice-cream van that used to wait outside her primary school, selling bubble gum lollies that made your tongue turn blue and synthetic white ice cream with or without a flake. The theme tune of Dr Zhivago rattling out endlessly from the van’s ancient speakers, day after day, too slowly and out of key, symbolised summer. Inês, who often picked her up from school to help her mother out, had always let Sarah choose a treat. Over thirty years later, Sarah could suddenly taste the intense sugar-sweetness that, as a child, had brought her such pleasure.
    The music faded gradually away as Scott took her towards a side door in the main atrium that she had not noticed before. It led into a corridor with plain white walls and well-worn stone slabs underfoot, brightly lit by bare bulbs. He grinned at her as they entered.
    â€œShortcut to the dining room. Bit cheeky…I think it’s probably supposed to be a service passage just for the staff. But nobody’s ever told me not to use it, and,” he shrugged in a way that seemed suddenlyso familiar to Sarah that she shivered, involuntarily, “when it’s the quickest way to food – what’s a man to do?”
    She sniggered and looked guiltily around her, enjoying this minute disobedience. Scott had always liked to break the rules. The eyes of the diners already enjoying their meals turned towards them as they entered. Towards Scott, and Sarah, who felt herself walk taller and more confidently at his side. Together, they had always seemed more than the sum of their parts.
    It was amazing how little difference twenty years could make.

6
    Scott introduced Sarah to his colleagues, who were all Portuguese, with the exception of one large, loquacious Frenchman, Pierre. He took it upon himself to monopolise Sarah, telling her all about his holiday in Bloody Salty. At least, that’s what she thought he was saying, and it was halfway through the meal and thanks only to an intervention from Scott before she realised he was trying to get his tongue around the name Budleigh Salterton.
    Once she got used to his mangled English, Pierre turned out to be a lively and intelligent conversationalist, but even so, Sarah surreptitiously kept her eyes and half her attention on Scott. A party person unlike her, he had always loved to entertain and was in his element, plus of course his Portuguese was way more fluent than hers. As the evening drew on, the company grew ever livelier, and soon the whole group was talking and joking together, anecdotes and witticisms flying back and forth across the table. Sarah’s head began to ache with trying to keep up; it was a long time