Near Perfect Miss

I had been anticipating this journey for a long time, crossing the world for a single purpose: Angkor Wat. We all have our passions and the things that motivate us; mine is lost worlds. I’ve hiked to Machu Picchu, scrambled over ruined cities in Sri Lanka, stood with half the world in the Acropolis, and tried to decipher the carvings of Borobudur.

And here I was, in the relaxed but dusty town of Siem Reap, with Angkor Wat looming large. It doesn’t physically dominate the town — it’s too subtle for that — but it is the reason Siem Reap exists.

I travel solo. I have no ties, and at this point in my life, I like it that way. Being solo, I can make it up as I go along, set my own agenda, and come and go as I please. Travelling alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. A solo traveller with an open personality tends to strike up conversations easily, meet interesting people, and occasionally — very occasionally — make new friends.

I’d given myself a week to explore the temple complexes that dot the floodplain, Angkor Wat being the most famous but by no means the only one. I’d explored much of the area by rented motorbike, and now that I was a few days into my week, I was truly feeling my groove — but the dust, oh the dust.

There is no perfect time to visit the area. The wet season is, as the name would suggest, wet. And the dry season is as dry as dry can be, and along with the endless days of incredible sunshine and heat comes the dust. The dust gets into everything — into your body and your soul. There is only one antidote after a morning climbing sandstone temples in the scorching heat.

A long lunch.

The town is not short of places to eat. Cambodia was once part of French Indochina, and the fusion of local flavours and French methods produces some remarkable food. Over the last few days, I’d taken a liking to a corner restaurant with an outdoor terrace that faced the hustle and bustle of the market; the smells wafting across the street were not always enticing, but the street life more than made up for it.

I sat at my newly acquired favourite table, ordered a Campari and soda, and perused the menu. There were all the usual dishes, but my eye stopped at the whole grilled river fish. A little concerning in the dry season, but I like to take a risk, so an order was placed.

My second drink had arrived along with the gorgeous-looking fish when a woman stepped onto the terrace beside me. I glanced in her direction as she decided on a table in the near-empty restaurant. She was dressed casually, but with a careful eye for what suited her. The midday heat had taken its toll, and she looked a little worn; her jet-black hair was tied high, and her large, oval-shaped dark glasses hid her eyes. As she sat at the table next to me, she nodded and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were as dark as her hair. Her long, aquiline nose accentuated the intensity of her gaze. I nodded back, sliced into my fish, and returned to watching the street.

She was studying the menu when the waitress approached to take her order. I smiled to myself when she ordered Campari; it was a point in her favour. She broke my reverie.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how is the fish?” Hers was a decidedly New York accent — Upper West, if I was going to bet on it.

“It’s surprisingly good,” I replied with a smile. “I’d definitely say yes.” I added a wink.

She smiled back and ordered the fish.

“Eating on your own?” she asked, her voice firm but warm.

“Yes, eating and travelling solo,” I replied, then added, “and how about you?”

“Yes, me too,” she said, seeming to debate something internally before making a decision. “Mind if I join you? I’m a bit starved for conversation.”

“Of course,” I said, rearranging the table to make space.

The waitress, returning with the woman’s drink, stood confused for a moment, then helped with the repositioning.

“I’m Rebecca,” she said, reaching out a hand. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and the collection of rings deliberate. Her handshake was gentle but confident.

“I’m Rick,” I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

I held off eating any more; I’d wait until her meal arrived. We both sipped our drinks.

“And what brings you to Siem Reap?” I asked.

“Not really sure.” She looked out at the street. “Just a whim, I suppose. Never been before, and, well, you know.” She hesitated. “The world is a big place, and it’s worth experiencing everything you can.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I was warming to this woman and her quiet confidence.

Her fish arrived, and we chatted the small talk that travellers tend to do upon meeting in foreign lands.

“And what is it you do with your time, Rebecca?” I found that I liked saying her name.

“I do this,” she laughed, waving her hand casually around. “Seriously though, I own an apartment in New York, another in Miami, and one in Tel Aviv. I rent them out, which lets me travel. And how about you?”

“Oh, nothing as glamorous.” I shrugged. “I do up houses and sell them. I can’t do this all year, but it’s nice when I can.”

“Yes, it’s nice to see the world,” she said, her dark eyes fixed on me as she finished her drink, “and make new friends.”

We sat in silence for a moment before she called for the bill.

“I have an appointment, but would you like to meet for dinner tonight?” She stood and reached out her hand.

“What a lovely suggestion,” I said, standing to shake it. “How about here at seven? I know a great hidden cocktail bar just around the corner.”

“See you then,” she waved and hailed a tuk-tuk. I watched her jump in as it swung back into the traffic. She turned in the open seat and waved goodbye.

I sat and ordered another drink.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

And it was a long afternoon. It was as hot as it had been all week, and any thoughts of tripping over tree roots and temple stone felt far too energetic. The rest of the day would be better spent floating in my small private pool at my bungalow. But first, clothes shopping — a dinner-date outfit had not been on my packing list.

The offerings were limited, but eventually a small boutique provided suitable pants and a linen shirt. Being overdressed in the tropics is a no-no, and I know my boundaries. When I dressed for my rendezvous with Rebecca, I decided I looked as good as a life-worn man could in a shop-worn, last-minute outfit.

It would have to do.

The pool and the gin and tonics did the job. I floated the afternoon away, and the thought of Rebecca and those eyes was never far from my mind. When you have a seven-o’clock date — and I was calling it a date — with someone you don’t know, and an entire afternoon of anticipation, the day stretches. And of course, there is also doubt.

The doubt builds as the hours pass. You question everything. Was she just being polite about meeting up again? Were you misreading the mood? It all starts to build, even if you’re usually confident. Doubt has a way of undermining you.

Seven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

Standing beside the terrace of the lunchtime café, the evening lights giving the town an almost carnival air, my doubts mounted. I’d arrived early, and now she was late. I cursed myself for being naïve — and then she stepped from a tuk-tuk, and my doubts vanished.

She was transformed. Her hair, no longer tied up, flowed long and silky over her shoulders, her casual travel wear replaced by a cream linen maxi-dress — not the local linen of questionable quality. Even I could tell this wasn’t a last-minute purchase. The contrast with her hair and travel tan was intoxicating.

“You look remarkable,” was all I could muster.

“This old thing?” she laughed. “You don’t scrub up too badly yourself.”

“The bar is just around the corner,” I said, hesitating for a moment. “But if you’d prefer Raffles, I’m sure we could snag a table. It’s only a few minutes’ drive.”

“That’s where I’m staying,” she laughed. “I’m sure the bar will be more than suitable,” she added, slipping her arm through mine.

Her closeness made me want the walk to last longer, but we were soon at the bar, and the doorman opened the way without hesitation.

There are few really good bars in the town, but this was one I’d discovered on my first night. Inspired by 1930s Shanghai, it was Sino-Deco chic — deep reds, warm lighting, and dark spaces. The cocktail list was inspired, and the service subtle.

“Would you like to sit at the bar?” I asked. “It’s quite fun to watch the barmen at work.”

“How about that quiet alcove over there?” she said, motioning to a darkened corner table. The waiter took his cue and led us away from the busy, light-filled entrance.

The table was small, the chairs close, and a candle provided the only obvious light. We ordered Indochine martinis, a house specialty. In the soft light, looking into her coal-black eyes, I found myself momentarily speechless.

She broke the silence.

“So, Rick. Do you find yourself in New York very often?” There was a hint of interrogation in her voice.

“Sadly, never.” I shook my head, then added, “But I could if I had reason to.”

“Hmmm. No one should have a reason to visit New York — it’s a reason unto itself,” she said, then threw me a bone. “But of course, an added incentive always helps.”

“Yes, it does. I just don’t know if—” Before I could finish, our drinks arrived, and I let my words die mid-air.

The martinis were sweeter than I’d like, and I sensed Rebecca thought the same.

“Maybe something else on the next round?” I asked.

“Yes. The next round. My choice.”

“So, I take it there is no Mr Rebecca?” I thought it was time to dive deeper.

“Nope. Never really has been a Mr Rebecca,” she shrugged. “I’m always too busy, and besides, I don’t need one. How about you? What about a Mrs Rick?”

“There was once, but that was long ago,” I said, finishing my drink. “And if I’m honest, a Mrs Rick doesn’t suit me anymore.”

“Good to hear,” she winked and motioned to the waiter.

Rebecca ordered classic martinis and some finger food. I felt the night slipping along, my doubts disappearing as we drank and ate. Every now and then, her hand would lightly brush my arm or thigh. Each time, a flash of electricity passed along my skin. Her eyes told me she knew the effect she was having.

The plates were cleared, and a third cocktail arrived — a slightly less intoxicating Negroni. Rebecca sighed.

“The thing is, Rick,” she said, looking into my eyes. “I’ve had a truly lovely time, but my flight leaves at six in the morning, and I’m not keen on last-minute, one-night stands.”

“Hmmm. That’s a real pity,” I said, then added in mock seriousness, “And here was me planning to move to New York.”

“So close — yet so far,” she laughed. “It’s very much a ships-in-the-night situation.”

We sat in silence, each lost in thoughts of what might have been. Waiters seem to have a sixth sense; without asking, one approached with the bill.

“At least let me shout dinner,” I offered.

“Thank you,” was all she said, touching my arm.

We stepped back onto the street. There was a slight distance between us; it was physical, nothing more. The air was still warm and thick — some would call it oppressive. I counted the minutes. In this quiet street, there were no tuk-tuks.

I was thankful.

“I’ll walk with you till we spot a ride,” I suggested, then added, “if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” She reached for my hand as we rounded the corner.

This street was full of life and colour — and, sadly, transport aplenty. A keen driver spotted us and, before we could wave him away, he was beside us.

“Where to, mister?”

“It’s just for the lady. Raffles Hotel, please.”

Rebecca hesitated at the tuk-tuk step. She turned to face me, meeting my eyes.

I slipped my arm around the small of her back and, touching her hair with my left hand, leaned in and kissed her. The kiss could have been longer, but it was long enough to know.

When you know, you truly know.

“Oh well,” she sighed. “That was — how can I put it — unexpected.”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Something to remember.”

“At least we’ll always have Siem Reap,” I winked.

“That’ll do,” she rolled her eyes. “I’ve probably just had a near-perfect miss.” She stepped into the tuk-tuk as it pulled away.

“Sweet dream, Rick.”

“Sweet dream, Rebecca — and say hello to New York for me.”

The tuk-tuk disappeared into the traffic, and I suddenly realised we hadn’t even exchanged surnames.

It was probably better that way.