The holiday romance

I went on a three-night junket recently. Top stuff; great venue, once-in-a-lifetime activities, good food, minimal work. Straight out of the old school, it was. It was like a short holiday, with an even shorter briefing attached. And the briefing was interesting.

You can imagine, then, that I was in a pretty good mood throughout. This good mood brought with it a relaxed open-mindedness and I struck up a conversational friendship with one of the host PRs. It turns out we had many similar tastes. We liked the same music, the same sports, we shared a fondness for the same writers. The cultural references flowed in volume like the wine and the laughter. Perhaps something might have happened, were it not for the fact that we both have girlfriends and, at six foot three, he was too tall for me.

But here’s the thing: When we got to the airport – the two of us were on the same flight home – the relationship began to change. Plucked out of the bubble of the press trip, where life was easy, free and luxurious, reality began to kick in. The first sign was just after check-in. As we approached security, I already had my book in mind. At the gates he said:

“Are you going through now?”
“Yes,” I replied, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at the thought of 90 minutes of small talk as we waited to board.
“I think I’m just going to get something to eat here before I go through,” he said.

I felt a curious contradiction germinate inside me. On the one hand I was pleased to be able to spend some time on my own. The lucky escape, right? On the other, clearly so was he! What’s wrong with spending time with me? Suit yourself, I thought.

On the plane, the enjoyment of a new acquaintance was fading like a week-old tan. We sat in stony silence, occasionally offering one another the bare minimum of conversation that politeness requires. And at the baggage hall back home it was time for goodbye.

His bag came out first. He waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly anxious to leave. “God, just go, will you?” I was thinking to myself. “You don’t need to stick around. I don’t want anything more from this, I’d rather just leave it as a pleasant memory.” But he kept waiting, dutifully. In the end I said:

“Look, why don’t you just go. My bag seems to be taking a little while.”
“No, no,” he said. “I can’t do that, I’ll wait.”

A minute passed.

“Erm, I think I might just…” he said.
“No, that’s fine, off you go. I’ll probably be here all day,”
“I’ll email you in the week. Y’know, just to catch up,” he said, shouldering his bag and offering his hand.
“Ok, enjoy the weekend,” I said, relieved and disappointed all at once.

He never emailed me. They never do.