Poppy sits down on a free bench, having checked that it is clean and that not even a speck of dust threatens her light dress. In her hands is a brand-new white handbag. Here at the spa hotel, it has become a habit to put on one of her best outfits after dinner and go for a walk. Most of the other guests are showing off their clothes too. One woman admits, “Where else can you take your dresses out for a spin, if not on holiday? At home there’s nowhere to go.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees George approach and settle unhurriedly beside her. “Let’s be quiet together,” he says in a low, earnest voice, a voice that fits the peace and the lovely surroundings. Under his beige blazer is a white shirt, his trousers are perfectly pressed, and his dark hair is cut as if he has just stepped out of the barber’s. The grey at his temples, like a silver thread, does not spoil his appearance at all; on the contrary, it gives him an air of confidence and solidity.
Poppy noticed two days ago that whenever they meet, he looks at her in a special way, singling her out from the other women.
“That’s a beautiful phrase, ‘let’s be quiet together’,” she says, enjoying the words.
“With you, Poppy, even being quiet is a pleasure, though I am always happy to talk.” George turns slightly in his seat, giving her his full attention. He has liked Poppy from the very first meeting.
She turns towards him too, radiating a warm gaze.
“By the way, I expected you at the dance yesterday, but you didn’t come… Don’t you like dancing?”
“Not at all, I love dancing, but yesterday I went for a walk. The evening air is so fresh; you just want to keep breathing it in.”
“I didn’t know you were fond of evening walks,” George says, brushing her hand with an almost invisible touch. Poppy feels a little tingle. His brown eyes look at her hopefully.
“Let me invite you this evening on a walk along a route of my own,” he goes on. “I discovered it myself; there’s a magnificent view – you can see the hills clearly. But I had no one to share that feeling of beauty with… now there is someone – you.” And he squeezes her hand slightly, as if signalling the start of a more determined pursuit.
Why not, Poppy thinks; it is only a walk. Besides, walking far on your own is risky, and with a man beside you it is far safer. She watches a couple walking past their bench, a man and a woman deep in conversation; clearly they met here at the hotel and are now enjoying each other’s company.
“What a beautiful hand you have, Poppy,” George says, almost in a whisper. He moves a little closer, admiring her profile.
She does not want to ask whether he is married; as a rule, most people here are attached, and they justify their flirtations with a craving for novelty and fresh impressions. Just now, though, it feels wonderfully pleasant to sit on a bench with a man who clearly likes her and has chosen her from everyone else.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk right now,” he proposes. “We’ll chat, and this evening I’ll invite you to the café.” George offers her his hand elegantly to help her up.
She agrees without any hesitation, picks up her white handbag and takes George’s arm. After about five steps, as carefree as a girl, she swings the handbag and lets it slip from her fingers. It lands in a small puddle left by the rain. Poppy lets out a little cry, both from surprise and from the contrast: the snow-white handbag is lying in the mud.
“No harm done; it will be as good as new in a moment,” George says, carefully picking it up and placing it on the grass. Poppy takes out some tissues and starts rubbing at it, but cloudy marks remain.
“I’ll go and wash it properly in my room,” she says.
“Then I’ll wait for you. Or better still,” he goes on, already sounding much more familiar, “I’ll wait for you after dinner at the same spot… all right?”
She nods and hurries to her room, holding the handbag away from her so she does not get dirty. Poppy washes the new white handbag that she bought specially before coming to the spa hotel. And although every trace of dirt seems to have gone, the bag still feels somehow unclean, as if it has lost its newness.
She thinks of George’s invitation for the evening walk, and of his look hinting at more, and she feels an unpleasant aftertaste. For the first time all week, a feeling of something unpleasant and irritating creeps in. She suddenly compares her relationship with George – on the surface quite harmless – to the handbag that fell into the mud.
The phone rings. “Mum, Dennis and Artie won’t let me do my homework,” she hears her youngest daughter’s voice on the line, with laughter in the background.
“What are you all doing?” Poppy asks, as if coming back to reality.
“Poppy, it’s me,” her husband’s voice comes through. “We’ve brought the grandchildren round. We decided to bake a pie, but Daisy says no, she says we’ll make a mess of the whole kitchen.”
“Andrew, buy something nice for the children from the shop. When I get back, I’ll bake a pie, or perhaps a cake.”
“Come home soon, we all miss you,” Andrew says. Then, more softly, “And I miss you most of all. If you like, I’ll get in the car this minute and come and collect you.”
“There’s not much longer to go. Be patient. I miss you too. Put Daisy on.”
After speaking to her daughter, then the grandchildren, and telling her husband she loves him too, she realises she is late for dinner. She changes quickly, picks up the handbag, turns it over in her hands and makes sure there is no trace of dirt left. “There, that’s better now,” she says to herself brightly. And she certainly does not need to go running off for a walk with some George – this she has now realised, comparing the handbag that fell into the mud with their budding relationship.
Poppy feels how much she has missed her husband, her children and her grandchildren… she had come away for a rest from them, and yet now she is glad to hear their voices, and she would love to see her husband in the kitchen, doing his clumsy best to bake a pie for the grandchildren. She remembers how Andrew wanted to surprise her with a culinary masterpiece on Mother’s Day; it was sweet and amusing to watch him fumble. Silly, but so lovely and heart-warming.
“I won’t take the bus. I’ll tell Andrew to come and collect me when my stay is over, and I’ll show him the beautiful places around here; we can walk together. And we don’t need any ‘dirty handbag’.”She sets the handbag down on the chair, no longer trying to wipe away a stain she cannot see. At dinner, when George rises from his table with a hopeful smile, she meets his eyes and gives a small, final shake of her head. He understands, nods, and sits back down.
Later, in her room, she calls Andrew. “Come and collect me tomorrow,” she says. “I want to show you the hills.”
There is a pause, then his voice, warm and full: “I’ll be there before breakfast.”
She sleeps soundly that night, and in the morning she is already waiting outside when his car appears. He steps out with wild hair and a crooked grin, and she notices a smear of flour on his cheek.
“I tried again,” he says. “The pie is a disaster. Daisy says it looks like a mudslide.”
Poppy laughs until tears come. She takes his face in her hands and kisses the flour. “It’s perfect,” she says. “It’s ours.”
They walk up to the hills together, and when she sees the view George had described, she finds it beautiful—but not because of the hills. It is beautiful because Andrew’s arms are around her, and his heart beats next to hers.
The white handbag stays in the hotel room, empty and clean. She doesn’t need it. Some things are meant to be held, not carried. And some people, she thinks, are not destinations to discover; they are the place you stop looking.
