. . . a late-night dip
One of the best parts about travelling with a companion has been the lack of long, agonising journeys alone.
Each train journey comes with a built-in entertainment system in the form of Noah Davidson.
At least, it has until today. Today’s the first long-haul train that’s actually cared about people sticking to their seat reservations.
So instead I sit alone, in a tightly packed four-seater, arm to butt with a stranger who takes pride in stealing both available armrests.
It’s not the first time we’ve sat alone; we had to on the way to Berlin, but that was three and a half hours apart. This is over six hours and I ran out of things to keep me entertained a good hour ago.
The guy opposite me emits a snore loud enough to echo through my headphones. I turn off my endlessly buffering movie, flick back to my text messages and start typing angrily.
It takes over twenty minutes to send, the single tick taunting me each time I check. Eventually it does and his reply feeds through almost instantly.
The love of the journey! And poor planning, but mainly the journey thing.
I chuckle lightly. It’s somehow enough to wake Mr Snorer and prompt a scowl. My phone buzzes again.
How’s the journey for you?
I take a subtle picture of the occupied armrest and the elbow now digging into my side. He laugh-reacts to it instantly, sending his condolences in the form of a GIF of a tiny violin.
ME: Got any free seats near u?
NOAH: None at all I’m afraid. This train is jammeddd and someone’s not wearing deodorant.
I laugh louder this time. Too loud, apparently. Mr Snorer makes a show of very pointedly inserting his earphones. I swallow the rest of the laugh down and give a quick whispered sorry before going back to my messages.
ME: Got it, I’ll stay where I am.
NOAH: Hang in there, less than 3 hours left.
I glance at the time and do the maths before letting out a deep, agonising sigh. We’re not reaching the station until at least 7.30 p.m. and probably won’t make it to our accommodation before eight.
ME: What a waste of a day. No more long trains pls.
NOAH: Adding it to the ground rules doc as we speak x
It takes us thirty-five minutes to get from the station to the hotel, thanks to Noah’s insistence that we walk so he can ‘stretch his legs’.
I tell him that it’s privileged coming from someone with nothing but a duffle, but then he hooks it onto my case and takes both our bags, and I can’t really say no.
However, when we enter the hotel sweaty from the walk and grubby from the long journey, I immediately wish I’d fought harder.
After my first few stories went semi-viral, a few hotels reached out offering free stays.
One of which was the Grand Palais, a luxury hotel in the heart of Salzburg.
We originally only planned to visit Vienna, but when I relayed the email to Noah he found and reserved a train on the spot, leaving the next day.
I can confirm he was right with his urgency.
This place is even grander than the pictures.
‘The fridge is stocked!’ Noah says. ‘And they have a free laundry service! I can use all those coins I’ve been saving for something more fun than the launderette!’
He’s practically flying around our room, yanking open drawers and cupboards with the energy of a kid on a sugar high. A wide smile stretches from ear to ear as he pushes at a random button, cueing what I’d assumed was just a wall to slide open and reveal a large entertainment system.
‘Do you see this?’ His head snaps my way.
‘I do,’ I nod, my voice low and hushed.
After over a month of hostels and dirt-cheap hotels, the splendour of this place is a tad overwhelming.
The tall ceilings and marble pillars and sweeping floors of the reception alone were enough to knock the wind out of me.
I felt myself shrivel into my denim jacket – a little stinky from over a month of constant layering.
The receptionist’s eyes widened when his system alerted him to our room – a penthouse suite, probably worth more than everywhere we’ve stayed combined.
‘Am, come here!’ Noah yells from around the corner.
Yes – the corner. This place has corners and multiple rooms and floor space. It’s bigger than Sara’s apartment. Significantly so. So much so that it makes me cringe.
‘I’m serious, come!’
I yell back, ‘I’m on my way!’ I’m too tired and overstimulated to walk any faster. But eventually, I follow his voice far enough to find him standing in our bathroom. ‘Is that . . . ?’
In the centre of the room, decked out in cream marble with magnificent sloping and golden detailing, sits a gigantic hot tub.
‘It has jets!’ he says.
His top comes off, then his trousers as he frantically strips. I shield my eyes as a reflex, shrieking and turning away, but not before catching a glimpse of his incredibly toned torso.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting in the tub – it’s been a long day,’ he says excitedly.
‘Naked?’ I ask.
I hear a splash, but I daren’t look. I keep my eyes focused on tracing the patterns of the marble in front of me. I cannot get into a habit of ogling Noah. It is definitely not good for our friendship.
‘In my boxers, calm down. My trunks are still wet from the baths; it’s the next best thing. You coming in?’ he asks.
Bad idea.
‘It’s late. And we haven’t eaten,’ I say.
‘It’s eight-thirty and we can order room service until midnight.’
I risk a glance, swivelling round to find him comfortably collapsed in the tub, his arms splayed out on either side of the rim.
His head lolls back peacefully, eyes closed and face the picture of serenity.
The water bubbles around him, spitting and steaming and washing his face in a mist that makes him glow from the outside in.
He stretches out further, a small, satisfied groan escaping his lips.
Suddenly the tension between my own shoulders heats up, reminding me of its existence.
‘Okay, fine. But don’t look!’ I drop my jacket to the floor.
I shed my T-shirt and leggings, watching them fall on the tiles before I tentatively shimmy on in.
The warmth ripples through me instantly, bubbles tickling at my skin, and I can’t help but sigh.
It’s everything I didn’t know I needed in one warm, wet, comforting package.
I close my eyes and sink further in until nothing but my bra-strap-clad shoulders poke out of the water.
‘Can I look yet?’ he asks, hand placed firmly over his eyes.
‘Go for it,’ I say.
Our eyes meet and we break into instant smiles. This is it. The perfect treat after a terrible day.
‘Meeting you has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ he says.
It’s so flippant, so cool, a real throwaway comment.
He doesn’t understand the impact of his words and the way they turn my stomach upside down.
I dated Tom for five years and he would compliment me, of course, but it was always so generic.
It never went past me being ‘pretty’ or ‘funny’, and it always felt like it was said out of routine.
I longed for compliments that felt personal and passion that felt real, but that’s never what we were.
I convinced myself that pleasant routine was enough.
Given the fuzzy feeling in my stomach now, I know that’s not true.
‘You don’t mean that,’ I say, trying to fend the butterflies off.
He looks straight at me. ‘Yes, I do. I mean, look at this place!’
The water ripples as he shifts, his arms thrown up in the air as he frantically gestures at the decadence that surrounds us.
I take in the gold accents, the draping curtains and the unbelievably high ceiling, and try to process it for myself.
I am sitting in a hot tub in the most cavernous bathroom I’ve ever encountered, staying in a room that would probably cost me six months of café wages.
And I got here myself. This is entirely because of me. Because of the column I wrote myself.
‘Thanks for bringing me along for the ride. I can’t wait to tell people “I knew you back when”,’ he continues.
There’s no fighting it now; my stomach skips and hops in time with the curl of his lips.
A warmth pools in my core, spreading through me from the inside and rendering the heat of the hot tub near-redundant.
My cheeks burn hot, dizzyingly hot. It’s too intoxicatingly fiery for this late at night.
I gasp for air before I even realise what I’m doing, and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth in embarrassment.
But Noah doesn’t notice. He’s too busy leaning over the side and fiddling with something on the floor.
‘Champagne?’ he asks. He turns back to me with two fizz-filled flutes clutched in his hands. ‘They had it on ice by the door. I figured it would be the perfect hot-tub refreshment.’
I take the glass from him, willingly chugging it all before he’s so much as lifted his one to his lips. He stares at me both bemused and impressed, reaching for the bottle and silently refilling my glass before I have a chance to explain myself.
‘To you and that brilliant brain of yours, landing us a swanky place to stay that’s way out of both our price ranges.’ He toasts me.
I raise my glass back to him, the clink echoing through the room and hitting me right in my jittery, fizzing heart.
I bring my drink to my mouth again, holding the champagne on my tongue in an attempt to make this one last longer.
But I can’t help it – I need to drown the pattering in my gut before it has the chance to evolve into anything else.