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Seeing Red

A glass of rosy red wine; a misty pink evening sky; the name ‘Scarlett’ - all of my favourite things are a division of the colour red. And now, after seven long years since I last saw him, I still can’t take my eyes off the only red haired man I’d ever loved.
Owen Murphy left me with a young, tender, bleeding heart and on seeing him unexpectedly like this I feel a rush of sore, red-hot anger. My stomach leaps as I watch him from the guard of my reception desk. He leans, oblivious, against a table in the distance amongst the crowd of ‘suits’ that have invaded the hotel for the week-end medical conference. In his smart black pinstripe two-piece, he drapes a toned, tanned arm around a pretty colleague who twists long blonde curls around her elegant finger, flirting and hanging onto his every word.
He hasn’t changed a bit. Still drop dead gorgeous. Still an arrogant bast*rd. The only difference now is the shine of a fine gold wedding band that clinks against his brandy glass.
I stare and shudder at how naïve I was when I first met him as a student. How I’d waited with excitement for a phone call the day after our night of passion all those years ago. How I’d left message after message when I managed to trace his number days later. And how dirty and used I felt when my more streetwise friends explained that I’d been just another conquest behind his real girlfriend’s back.
I glance quickly around the hotel foyer for relief. My throat has dried up at the shock of seeing him again.
“Debbie, can you take over for a minute? I don’t feel very well,” I mumble to my colleague.
“Omigod Rachel, are you OK?” she asks when she notices how the colour has drained from my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Yeah, something like that,” I reply and I scurry to the nearest bathroom to find solace from the hustle of the busy hotel foyer.

“Five minutes is all I want, Owen. At least give me that.” I begged him six weeks after our first encounter.
In the smoky haze of the Students Union Bar I stood vulnerable, feeling naked under the glare of his burly rugby mates.
“Get lost Rebecca and for God’s sake leave me alone,” he’d muttered emphatically. “It was a one-night stand and if Laura finds out she’ll have my life.”
“I’m Rachel,” I corrected him and blinked back stinging tears as reality stabbed my heart. He didn’t even care to remember my name. My cheeks burned crimson with humiliation and I’d battled with the urge to cry.
“Come on Rachel, don’t waste your time on him,” said my friend, linking my arm to lead me away.
“I just need to talk to him, I have to talk to him,” I sobbed, but Owen had already turned his back on me as if I didn’t exist. I walked away with thick, salty tears staining black streaks through my carefully applied make-up.
As Claire led me blindly into a taxi, I painfully recalled how I’d ran my fingers through his hair on that cold winter’s night in November when he’d promised me the world. And of his faded blue jeans strewn over the edge of my bed as I’d nestled into his arms, listening to the pelting rain outside.
But I could never have anticipated that as soon as the rain dried up, so would Owen’s empty promises and to him I would always be just a partaker in another of his forgettable one-night stands.

Now, in the silence of the hotel bathroom I battle with the urge to splash my face with water to awaken my senses. Instead I run my wrists under the cold tap and focus on my reflection - Owen had caused me to ruin my make-up once before. My confidence, my faith in men, my pride - he’d almost destroyed all of that too. Time and time again I’d rehearsed what I’d say if he ever crossed my path again. For years I’d dreamed about finally reaching closure on all the hurt and humiliation he’d caused me at such a young age.
The icy water eventually brings me around and I fish some perfume from my handbag to freshen up. The effect of strong perfume has always helped with my confidence and, boy, do I need it now. I run a comb through my hair and touch up my lipstick. I am ready to face him.

In the hotel lobby, I can see Debbie is flustered as the sea of delegates emerge from the bar to register for the conference.
“Right, Debbie, let’s get this over and done with,” I say with an outward smile as I breeze back into the reception area. The suits begin to form a hap hazard queue and with a deep breath I wade through name after name, my heart thumping in my chest the whole time as I wait for Owen to approach the desk. Each seems to take a lifetime to register and I feel my legs weaken as the queue becomes shorter. I feel drawn to the freedom of the exit doors and wrestle with the notion of backing out and running away from this surreal situation.
And then I hear that familiar husky voice from my past.
“Dr Owen Murphy. South-East General Hospital. I’m attending the obstetrician session tomorrow.”
I am sure my heartbeat has amplified and is bouncing off the hotel’s marble walls. I force myself to look up. His face looks a little more mature, but his chocolate brown eyes and auburn hair look just the same. My fingers slip on the computer keyboard, perspiration seeps through my skin and I can feel my face burn with nervous tension.
Just his accommodation details to confirm and then he’ll be gone. I’ll be home in thirty minutes and the moment will have passed.
But I can’t let it.
“Do I know you from somewhere, Dr Murphy?” I ask, my voice shaking in anticipation of his response. I can feel my eyes well up and I battle again with all the built up emotions I long to lash out towards this stranger. It couldn’t be easier for him to remember me. My name is on my identity badge.
“Unfortunately not,” he replies with a flirtatious smile. “I haven’t been up North since I was a student many years ago. Fine hotel you have here. Maybe I’ll see you over the weekend?”
He winks at me suggestively, gathers his papers from the reception desk and makes his way to the bar, back to his group of companions whose rapturous laughter has spilled invasively into the foyer.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing,’ I long to shout back at him.
Instead I sink into my chair and hold my head in my hands.

In a way I’m gutted he didn’t know me, but not really so surprised. I lift my belongings from under the desk and divert the last few delegates to Debbie who is ignorant to the pertinence of the encounter she’s just witnessed.

Passing by the glass doors of the bar, I can’t resist taking just one last look at Owen Murphy. I carefully contemplate my options. After all, my big moment has been less than fruitful. Should I approach him and tell him exactly what I’ve longed to for years? Or should I walk out the door and close that darn chapter of my life forever?
“I choose closure,” I say to the hotel porter, who looks at me like I’ve lost my marbles, and I march outside into the warm summer sunshine.
I speed my car through the hotel’s wide steel gates, giving way to the imposing lump in my throat and to the overwhelming dam of tears I’d let linger inside me for too long. Then I turn the radio up, slide the sunroof back and cry all the guilt of the past seven years out of my system. All of my wondering, all of my ‘what-ifs’ and ‘what could have been’ thoughts release from my mind out into the wide open space through the roof of the Volkswagen and I finally realise that all along I’d made the right decision.

At home, Scarlett meets me at the doorway with a gap-toothed smile and a tight hug that always takes my breath away.
“Mollie says I can go to her birthday party tomorrow. Can I go, Mum? Please?” she asks, already knowing the answer. She wins me over every time.
I look down into my daughter’s eyes. At almost seven years old, I like to think she has inherited all the grace of her mother, but physically, she draws a striking resemblance to her dad.
“What does Frankie say?” I ask, glancing at my husband who arrives at the doorway, his white T-shirt smeared in tomato sauce to match the cheeky face of our toddler son who clings to his leg.
Scarlett rolls her eyes. Even after three years, she still can’t quite master having to ask permission from two grown-ups who adore her every move. But I know that Scarlett loves having Frankie in her life.
I kiss my husband tenderly, give Scarlett an extra tight cuddle and her long red hair tickles my nose.

Seven years later, I can finally lay the ghost of Owen Murphy to rest. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. But I do.

And I love her more and more every day.

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