I head back to the MTR station to return to the hotel, thinking about the fact that Sam still looks out for the old man. I wonder if that kind of loyalty extends to ex-girlfriends who ran out on him too.
Back at the hotel, I spend the rest of the day preparing myself for the big reunion. I can’t decide what to wear. Bearing in mind that I’ll probably have to stand on a street corner waiting for Sam to arrive, I don’t think that a black leather miniskirt is a wise choice. Not unless I want passers-by to throw money at me. Although, given my VISA bill, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
In the end, I opt for the ‘recent death in the family’ look. Black three inch stiletto boots, black jeans and a shirt to match.
I take a taxi back to Causeway Bay; there’s no way these boots will get me up and down the steps of the subway without danger to life. I arrive at exactly six o’clock and take up residence on the steps of Sam’s old building. I wave across to Huey and he waves back, then shrugs his shoulders. I take that to mean that Sam hasn’t come yet.
My legs are starting to shake, but I don’t know if it’s nervous excitement or because my jeans are too tight. The time drags by. Six thirty. Seven o’clock. Seven thirty. Eight fifteen.
He’s not coming. He’s heard I’m in town and he’s gone into hiding.
I’m trying to decide how long I can sit here before getting arrested for vagrancy – twenty years, if Huey is anything to go by – when a silver Porsche turns in to the street. Flash git. People shouldn’t be allowed to buy cars like that; it just makes the rest of us mere mortals feel inadequate.
Huey jumps up and the car stops beside him. He leans into the driver’s window. So that’s it. Huey has a drug habit and this is his dealer.
Suddenly, the driver’s door flies open and Sam is running towards me. My chin bone drops to the pavement. God, I’d forgotten how magnificent he looked. His brown hair is still short and no stranger to styling gel, he’s tanned and exquisitely muscular. He’s a work of art. Someone should cast him in bronze and open him to the public. What had ever possessed me to leave this man?
‘What did you do, Sam, rob a bank?’ I splutter.
‘Cooper! What the hell are you doing here?’ How many times have men asked me that in recent months?
‘I forgot my keys. I came back five years ago and you weren’t in, so I’ve been sitting here ever since.’
His face cracks into a huge smile as he hugs me.
‘No, really, why are you here?’
I can think of a thousand bullshit reasons but I’m tired of all the subterfuge and nonsense, so I go for compete honesty.
‘I came to see you. It’s a long story.’
I can see this catches him off guard, but he doesn’t look horrified, so that’s a bonus.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the Windsor.’
‘That place is extortionate!’
‘I know. My credit card cried when I checked in.’
‘Look, that’s crazy. Come and stay with me.’
I thought he’d never ask. I’m about to thank him when a flicker of something crosses his face, turning his grin to a frown. ‘Shit, there’s a slight problem.’
Here we go, I think, running through my past experiences. Which one is it? You’re gay, you’re married, you hate me, or you have to disappear to Canada. As for the question of whether there’s still a sexual attraction, that was answered the moment I saw him.
‘I need to go to work for a while tonight. Tell you what, I’ll take you back to the Windsor and you can grab your stuff and head over to my place. I’ll get back as soon as I can.’
I breathe a sigh of relief, sending the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive again. This could be good. It could be really, really good.
He drops me at the Windsor, gives me his new address and a set of keys, and I promise that I’ll be waiting there for him tonight.
I pack my bags, check out and take a taxi to his apartment, giddy with excitement. I scold myself. Have all my experiences so far taught me nothing? Be calm. Be wary. Take it easy. My optimism gene hears the warnings and decides to ignore them all.
When the taxi driver stops, I’m sure he’s got the address wrong. Sam did rob a bank. The flat is on the Peak, the most expensive area on the island. It’s in an ultra-modern block, with a red carpet under the awning leading to the entrance. There are two doormen in uniform waiting to open the doors for me. I can visualise myself living here. I am SO destined to end up in a place like this. When I say who I’m here to see, they immediately summon the lift.
‘Welcome. Mr Morton called and said we should expect you.’
I flush. Giddy optimism is in charge yet again.
As I open the door to the flat, it just gets better and better. The floor is a light cream marble, the walls a pale shade of gold. Three of the walls have white leather sofas curving round them and in the centre is a low marble table big enough to throw a blanket on and sleep four. There are church candles on every surface and a chandelier that could illuminate Blackpool is suspended from the ceiling.
I move through to the dining area. The colour scheme is the same and I can’t stop staring at the dining table.
