How to Get Over Your Ex (13 page)

She lifted her chin, willing to bet that every woman in this
room turned up in a tracksuit the first time and had to ease their way into the
rhythmic gyrations they were currently exorcising on an indulgent Zander. And
every one of them must have felt exactly as out of place and outclassed as she
now did.

But had they ever felt as invisible? Despite the raunchy
outfit?

Or was she deluded in thinking the draped fabrics and accenting
jewels were attractive? Maybe where she saw rich, sensual colour, he saw tacky,
flashy glitz.

She turned back for the change rooms.

‘Not yet, love,’ the instructor called, leaving Zander to fend
for himself against the barrage of oestrogen and turning Georgia away from the
gaggle that shielded her from his
non
-gaze towards
the large mirrors lining the wall.

She forced her focus on the instructor, keeping one eye on the
professional moves and the other on her own reflection, mimicking the basic
choreography, taking correction, and trying to repeat the positions and
sequences of the more experienced dancers.

Keeping her eyes steadfastly off the man in the background the
whole time.

Belly dancing wasn’t about sex, the instructor told her,
correcting Georgia’s too-jerky hips. It was about empowerment. But right now she
felt pretty darned sexy. And that wasn’t something she could remember feeling in
the past.

Pleasure, sure. But not sexy. Not...sensual.

The fluidity of the moves started to come more naturally, and
the way the soft fabric brushing against her bare skin accentuated and teased
her senses. It made her feel so...alive.

Between the concentration, the keeping of her arms above her
head, and the surprising amount of effort required to gyrate everything that
needed to be gyrating, her colour and her breath were up in no time. And with
rows of dancers between her and the only distraction in the room she was able to
concentrate better, forcing the embarrassment away with her focus and
determination. It took no time at all to realise that every woman here wore a
mask, something they slipped on with the beautiful fabrics. She might not be
naturally seductive but, by God, she’d learn to fake it. Under her veil, she
could be anyone she wanted. Sexier, smarter, stronger, more fun, more
delightful—everything Zander and Kelly and Dan and her mother thought she
apparently should be.

She twisted and twirled and undulated to the throng of the
music and kept her eyes firmly locked on her own reflection in the mirror. She
took a few more risks. She turned and twirled and kept only half an eye on what
Zander was doing as he wandered the room, recording the music and the
vocalisations of the women who danced for—and around—him.

He seemed totally uninterested in her presence.

Anger fuelled her moves, turned them more defiant.

Really, Zander? Even this isn’t
enough...?

She spun back to the mirror, tired of trying to be what other
people wanted and failing. Tired of making her decisions based on priorities
that weren’t her own. She was going to be wild and sexy and beautiful just
because she could. Here, in this place and in these clothes, she could.

Zander could go jump.

She slowly raised already-aching arms above her head, her
concentration focused on the serpentine movements of her hands, the slow twists,
the way the dozens of borrowed bracelets jangled and spun on her undulating
wrists. She swayed and rolled and let her head fall back, her eyes close, and
just felt the music, felt the movement of the women around her.

And she danced purely for the pleasure of it.

And then she lowered her gaze back to the mirror, back to her
own flushed reflection and sparkling eyes.

Straight into Zander’s.

Everyone else in the room danced on, the instructor dissolved
tactfully back into the throng and the odd person danced across the gap between
them. But it did nothing to shake Georgia’s gaze free of Zander’s.

Every part of
old
Georgia screamed
to stop. Still. On the spot.

Yet her body kept moving. Fluid, teasing. Flirting.

And just like that she felt the empowerment kick in.

Two hours ago she wouldn’t have been able to brush up against
him without feeling self-conscious, but behind the veil she could do anything.
Be anyone. She could look at him as she’d so desperately been wanting.

She danced on. His recorder hung, ignored, by his side.

Around them, the music faded slowly, the chat-level rose. A
door opened on the far side and someone’s husband tiptoed in with a small boy in
tow, both of them dressed in football colours. The balance between make-believe
and real-world started to shift back.

Georgia lowered her arms, and her eyes. And she turned.

Zander still watched her, though his own expression was as
guarded as hers must have been.

‘That was fun,’ she said, still breathing out the exertion. Not
ready to lose the rush of empowerment.

He looked around them. A few covert glances looked back. ‘For
everyone, it seems.’

‘Great workout.’ But all that did was draw his eyes to the
heaving rise and fall of her tiny, beaded top. And he didn’t speak, just nodded
his agreement.

‘I’ll just get changed. Won’t be a minute.’ She knew what came
next. He always liked to interview her right after the first class, to capture
her first impressions. She wasn’t sufficiently clothed or her breath
sufficiently recovered to do that just yet. She followed a couple of other women
into the change area. Most went home exactly as they were so it was just the few
of them, all newer participants, returning to street wear.

They chatted excitedly as they stripped off the layers of magic
and mystery and slid themselves back into their clothes. Just one hour ago being
in her underwear in front of strangers was excruciating. Now they were sisters.
Lumps, bumps, big, small. The thing that had shifted inside her wasn’t switching
back.

The three others had only been coming weeks and were curious
whether she’d enjoyed it, whether she’d be back. She knew, without question,
that she would.

‘I hope you’re bringing
him
every
week,’ Emma said. ‘Way to change the dynamic!’

They all laughed.

‘No one means any offence by dancing for your man,’ another
said. ‘It’s just the novelty.’

‘He’s not my man,’ Georgia was fast to correct, though low so
that Zander wouldn’t hear them through the flimsy fabric walls.

That caused more hilarity. ‘Oh, love,’ Emma whispered, ‘if he’s
not I think he soon will be. We all saw his face while you were dancing. He’s
wound as tight as a drum. It would be a shame if no one was to benefit from all
our good work tonight.’

Georgia stopped one leg halfway into her tracksuit bottoms and
stared at the women. They laughed wildly again. She understood exactly. A weird
kind of adrenaline was still coursing through her body, too. She would have
joined their laughter if the suggestion hadn’t thrown her into such a breathless
stupor. And an unshakeable vision of her
benefitting
from tonight’s endeavours.

She tidied her hair, carefully folded her borrowed costume
items, and placed them in the washing pile, and then dawdled a moment longer.
Delaying the inevitable. She wasn’t sure she could walk out there and see Zander
if the women with all their speculation were still around.

The longer she took, the fewer people would be in the room.

But eventually she couldn’t delay any longer. He needed his
interview. She rolled the waistband of her running pants down to be more like
the beautiful women she saw at the gym, more like the low-hung skirt that had
just caressed her legs. More casual. As if this weren’t an enormous deal. She
took a deep breath and stepped out of the change area into the dance space. Only
a handful lingered. None of them was male. After the events of the evening she
couldn’t really blame Zander for stepping outside so that he didn’t have to face
his unexpected seductresses in the full fluorescent light of indoors.

She thanked the instructor warmly and whole-heartedly, assured
her she would be back the following week and stepped out into the cool night
air.

She looked left.

She looked right.

She looked across the road in case he was leaning on the
lamppost, waiting.

Her stomach clenched. Nothing. No Zander anywhere.

They’d arrived separately but she saw him pull up so she knew
where his Jag was. Tucking her crossed hands under her armpits, she hurried down
the road a way in case he was waiting in his car. But there was just a dry
rectangle on the otherwise rain-dampened road where his Jag had been.

Gone.

Her jaw tightened. Maybe he’d gone for a drink with one of the
other participants in the class. Maybe he’d formed a connection with someone in
particular while she was so busy ignoring how he was ignoring her. But that
seemed both unlikely and unfair to Zander—he wasn’t a complete jerk. His absence
didn’t automatically mean he’d scarpered with some hot, bejewelled stranger. It
just meant he hadn’t stayed to see her.

That probably should have made her feel better.

But it didn’t.

All that power, the erotic blast, the sensual costume...the out
and out
risk
she’d taken forcing herself to let
those secret feelings show on the outside. All that had done was sent Zander
running. So embarrassed by her display that he couldn’t even stick around to
face her.

She’d thought maybe he was being tactful, keeping his eyes
averted, trying to make a difficult class that bit easier for her. That maybe he
was more affected than he was letting on. She’d thought that burning, blazing
moment in the mirror might have been sensual desire pumping back at her.

But what if it was anger? Or discomfort.

A tight ball settled high in her chest. Maybe he was just plain
embarrassed. Just because he’d admitted to there being some chemistry between
them didn’t mean he wanted it there. Or wanted to do anything about it beyond
the kiss they’d shared—some lousy accident of adrenaline.

She hooked her thumbs under the curled waist of her pants and
let them unravel back to their usually modest position. She flattened them down
with unsteady fingers as deep sorrow washed through her.

That was it.

She was done.

If who she was just wasn’t enough for the high standards of
Alekzander Rush, then so be it. She liked Georgia Stone. Lots of people did. And
not because she was a carbon copy of everyone else spilling out of London’s
entertainment district, but because she was
her
:
loyal and bookish and fond of long, quiet walks in ancient forests and lazy
afternoons with girlfriends tucking into a steaming ale pie.

She’d set out on the Year of Georgia to find out who she really
was and—surprise, surprise—she’d been there all along. And it only took her half
a year.

She turned and walked the block back to her car.

And if Zander didn’t like the Georgia she’d uncovered,
well...his loss.

EIGHT

August

There really weren’t enough showers cold enough or long
enough to get the haunting, hot mirror scene out of Zander’s mind. It was all
too easy to cop out when you were the boss, when you had staff to do things for
you.

Minions.

He’d never felt the distinction so clearly until he had Casey
ring Georgia up and let her know he wouldn’t be coming to belly-dancing classes
with her any more. That she was OK to go to them solo. That he got what he
needed that first night. It wasn’t hard to find an excuse. Salsa was on a
Wednesday night. Belly dancing was on a Tuesday. He had network meetings until
late on a Tuesday.

Not so late that he couldn’t get across town to the dance
studio, in fact, but it was too convenient an excuse to pass up. There was no
way on this green earth that he was setting foot back in there while Georgia was
around.

He’d already been back to see the instructor, to get from her
the interview he’d been too much of a coward to get from Georgia right after her
first class had finished. It was only the fact that her borrowed car was parked
virtually outside the door to the dance studio that made it even remotely OK
that he’d just bolted on her. Left her there alone.

What a class act.

She hadn’t called him on it. Or emailed. Or even asked Casey
what was up with her coward of a boss. And that said a lot about how she was
feeling about his disappearing act. Defiant. Irritated.

Possibly hurt.

But getting hands-on with her was no better an idea now than it
had been up at Hadrian’s Wall. And so walking out of there seemed like the most
prudent action at the time. He’d spent a lot of time and energy avoiding
emotional entanglements, focusing on his career; this was really no different.
If spending time around Georgia was making it too hard to keep her at arm’s
length, then there was really only one solution.

Getting Casey to do his dirty work for him—well, there was no
excuse for that. He’d just needed some space from the mirror scene before they
headed off into the wilds of Turkey together.

But that was only effective if he could exorcise the memory
branded into his brain.

And three hours in the air and three more in a car—no matter
how luxurious—was a lot of nothing to try and fill with other thoughts.

Another cowardly act. Getting Casey to shift his flights so
that they weren’t travelling together. That bought him precious more hours to
build up his reserves against Georgia. To get through the weekend in Turkey.
Both of them had jobs to be back for come Monday morning so this was the most
fleeting of Turkish experiences. But he’d re-routed through Istanbul whereas
Georgia was touching down in Ankara. Again, precious hours for last-minute
fortification.

‘Göreme.’

His driver slowed on the limits of a village. At first glance
it looked much like the extraordinary landscape they’d been driving through for
some time: gorgeous, golden rock faces, enormous jutting spurs of sandstone. But
as they got closer Zander started to notice the details. Square edges, dark
windows, balconies, a layer-cake of dwellings carved into the rock face. They
drove more fully into town and it looked much like any other, people milling
around stone storefronts with brightly painted signs on them, cars angle-parked
in front for the convenience of shoppers. But behind it—towering high behind
it—a rock face filled with homes.

And hotels. Like the one he was heading for.

They pulled around a corner and the whole city unfolded before
him. A mix of enormous stone monoliths surrounded by carved homes. And nearly a
dozen bright colourful balloons drifting silently overhead. The sharp
protrusions of the rocks contrasted with the square edges of the façades of the
cave-houses and the bulbous curves of the hot-air balloons, which dropped
insanely low to give their passengers a good look at one of Cappadocia’s
underground cities.

The whole thing was bathed in a golden, afternoon light.

Zander wound his window down and breathed in the air—sweet,
fresh and carrying a distinctive tang. Was it apples?

He asked his driver.

‘Shisha,’ he said simply. The apple-flavoured tobacco smoked by
the locals.

The car stopped in front of a stone hotel that reflected the
shapes of the entire city. Square edges of the block construction of the fascia
of the hotel, the rolling curves of the darkened archways that led deep into the
rock face, and the sharp, zigzagging stairways that led up the mountain face to
the dwellings higher up. But the closer he looked, the more detail he saw.

Intricate carved patterns around the doors and windows. Niches
everywhere filled with bright intriguing ornaments, and potted colour spilling
from every available surface.

Clearly the Cappadocians loved their plants as much as Georgia
did.

Georgia.

He looked up the length of the building, at some of the
balconies carved into the rock face, as if she’d be standing there waiting for
him. A beautiful smile on her face. Bouncing on her toes the way she did when
she got excited.

He forced the image away. That kind of thinking was barred,
too.

It took a few minutes to register in the small, cool interior
of the hotel reception. From where he stood he could see five possible exits. A
set of stairs going up, another set twisting Escher-style around to the left and
down, a small archway and a larger one to its right and the view behind him
after his climb to the hotel’s entrance. A balcony wall dotted with pot plants
and with an old shingled sign saying
Reception
. A
ginger kitten rubbed its cheek contentedly on the sign while another slept
curled around the base of the plant in the pot. And behind them, the
extraordinary expanse of the city.

‘This is amazing,’ he murmured to himself.

‘Welcome to Göreme,’ the young girl said in confident English.
Better than his driver’s. And certainly better than his own Turkish. ‘This
way.’

He followed her through the labyrinthine interior of the hotel,
instantly feeling the heat of the desert afternoon drop off as the earth’s
insulation did its job. The walls, windows and stairs of the hotel were all
carved from the surrounding mountain.

‘I hope you will be comfortable here,’ the girl said, pausing
at a landing with a timber door. She pushed it open. The room inside was
enormous and open-plan. Carved entirely out of the ancient limestone, its walls
streaked with eons of stratification. On one side, a large window faced the
bobbing hot-air balloons outside, streaming golden light in from the west.

Polished timber floors stretched out underfoot and carved
archways led off in two directions. One to an external balcony niche and one to
the natural flagstone floor of a luxury bathroom deeper in the rock face. The
whole place was filled with plump, bright furniture, and traditional rugs and
light fixtures.

Comfortable?
‘I can’t see how I
could be anything but.’

Truly the most amazing thing he’d ever seen.

He thanked the girl and closed the door after her, then set
about exploring, following his nose to a new extraordinary smell. His balcony
had its own large niche built into it off to the side of his room. Off the side
of the rockface. It had an expansive daybed complete with rich linens and a
small, low circular fire on the stone floor, on which hot Turkish coffee bubbled
away on a piece of roasting hot slate. A ubiquitous hookah was set up ready to
go next to it preloaded with fragrant tobacco.

He poured himself a cup of dark, strong coffee immediately.
Then he turned and stared at the view down to the hustle and bustle a dozen
flights of steps below and out across the valley of houses to the ones lining
the hill on the other side.

All so ancient.

Traditionally built. Yet peppered with solar panels, satellite
dishes, and modern conveniences as carefully meshed as the hot water, Wi-Fi, and
television in his room.

A muffled knock drew his eye back across the room. It took him
only a moment to cross to it and open it, expecting the girl that had just
left.

‘I asked them to let me know when you arrived,’ Georgia said,
standing on the threshold of this amazing place dressed in a light, cotton-weave
dress in the style of the locals, her hair peppered with tiny flowers. She
breezed past him into his cave.

‘Wow. Yours is much bigger than mine. Oh, you have a
window.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I have a skylight. Carved out of the top of the room. My whole
room is one big arch, it’s very medieval. But beautiful. And so
comfortable.’

‘When did you arrive?’ he hedged, knowing full well because
he’d taken such care not to travel with her.

‘This morning. I flew in overnight and slept in the car on the
way out here. You wait until you see Göreme bathed in morning light.
Stunning.’

She spoke as if she’d been living here for years and he had no
trouble believing it. There was something very right about the way she fitted
into the natural setting. Like a local come to show him around. She set about
poking around every corner of his room and checking out the balcony. ‘Oh! A
daybed,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m thinking Casey’s looked after you this trip.’

He didn’t doubt it. He’d been like a bear with a sore head the
past ten days so his assistant probably thought a dud room would be more than
her life was worth.

‘Oh, my God. Definitely the executive suite.’ That came from
his bathroom. He followed the sighs. She trailed her hand over every surface of
a room about half the size of the open-room area again, gouged into the rock
face. An enormous ornate stone bath filled the corner and he had sudden visions
of slaves filling it with buckets of scented rosewater for some Turkish
overlord. Or princess. Georgia peered into the void. Then turned and glared at
him. ‘It’s a spa!’ she accused.

‘You’re welcome to borrow it.’ He laughed. Given he was only
here for two nights it wasn’t exactly going to see a lot of use, otherwise.

He followed her back out into the main room and onto the
balcony beyond. To the front of the niche with the coffee and daybed in it was a
low timber table and two old traditionally upholstered armchairs. Completely
exposed to the outside air.

‘Clearly Göreme doesn’t get a lot of rain,’ Georgia said,
sinking into one of the armchairs

His lips twisted. ‘Make yourself at home.’

She peered up at him and sighed. ‘That’s exactly what it feels
like. But I’ve only been here a couple of hours.’

‘Hospitality is obviously a traditional trade here.’ Their
customer service and presentation was faultless. He felt ridiculous standing
over her, still dressed in his Londonwear, while she lounged there looking so
comfortable and fresh and assimilated and...Turkish. ‘I’m just going to change.
Give me ten.’

‘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?’