by Ella Hayes
This was his legacy: a chain of violence and misery. Even his heroic brother, Bram, had succumbed and there were moments when he was sure that he could feel the darkness of generations creeping through his own veins. It was why he spent his life boxing at shadows, keeping himself on the ropes, not letting what was inside him see the light of day. It was a matter of self-control.
Madelon was always teasing him about being so buttoned up and that worried him too. Was his intensity overbearing?
Eline had once told him that he was good, kind and noble, but on the day she’d left she’d looked at him scornfully. ‘You want to control everything, Theo. It’s boring as hell.’
He pushed through double doors into another empty room—a family room for a man with no family. Was he boring as hell? Was he too controlling? He pictured Mia’s face on the barge. When he’d tried to extract that promise, she hadn’t looked intimidated. She’d looked...surprised. Bemused. And then she’d looked him squarely in the eye and refused.
For a moment he’d wanted to open himself up to her—tell her more about his father, the way he’d been, what he’d done to the family—but he’d stopped himself. He was ashamed of his background and he wasn’t ready to reveal that shame to Mia, even though he felt safe with her, even though kindness and empathy shone through her eyes like starlight. When she’d told him about why she’d chosen Cleuso, his heart had melted. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed not to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He’d kissed her cheek instead, so full of emotion, so disorientated that he’d left without asking her for her phone number.
And now he was pacing from room to room, veins throbbing with restless energy. Since Eline, he’d been tight as a clam, but something about Mia made him want to unseal himself. But he was scared too. Opening was hard for him, even by degrees, even to someone who seemed as sweet and trustworthy as Mia. Eline had turned against him, broken his heart just when he’d needed an ally. People changed: his father, Eline, Bram... How could you see a person’s true colours when the kaleidoscope was always turning?
At the door, the way Mia had looked at him, that uncertainty in her eyes mingled with gentleness, openness... If he’d tilted her chin, touched her lips with his, would she have pulled away or kissed him back? Just the thought of it made him dizzy. She was lovely. He wanted to see her again, wanted to know her better. He’d have to take it slowly, scope things out, but he couldn’t do anything without her phone number. Asking Ash for it would be too weird...
He pressed his hands to the crown of his head, spun around slowly. She lived close by. If he was to drop in unannounced, would she think he was stalking her? He tipped his head back and stared at a jagged crack in the ceiling. He needed to go for a run. Running was his thing. He always felt better afterwards, clearer in his mind. He’d think about Mia later.
* * *
Mia jingled her bell three times then braked gently, waiting for the tourists to realise that they’d strayed onto the cycle path. They suddenly broke stride, jigged a little dance of shock then scurried to the side. She smiled, waved and pedalled on. Lotte wouldn’t have slowed down; she’d have sped up, scowled her way past. But then Lotte was a native, impatient with tourists, especially the drunken men and the stag-nighters who gawped at the girls in the red-light district; and the flocks of raucous hen-weekenders cavorting around the streets in their cheap pink sashes, brides to be; bridesmaids; mothers. The city had become a magnet for the wrong type of tourists. That was what Lotte said.
She rang her bell again, smiling at more scuttling tourists. She wasn’t as jaded as Lotte. The city still excited her. It was a vibrant place, a magnet for artists, makers, creators and innovators... Like Theo! Her heart jolted. It happened every time she thought about him which was getting to be a little inconvenient. She cycled slowly, scanning the canal railing clad in bicycles of all shapes and sizes for a gap where she could park hers.
Up ahead, a man was unchaining his bike, lifting his little boy into the seat positioned over the front fork. Whole families could fit onto a single bike if it had the right attachments, like the bicycle in the children’s book her dad used to read to her when she was little. The story was about an inventive woman who kept adding gizmos to her bike to make it better. She’d loved that book, the way her dad had used to do the woman’s high, squeaky voice, his gold-rimmed reading glasses glowing in the light pooling from the bedside lamp... At least that was what she remembered. Ash said that their dad’s spectacles had been silver, not gold. They used to argue about things like that, trying to tie down memories that always seemed to be a confusion of the real and the imagined. If they’d got some of their parents’ personal items back, maybe it would have helped somehow, but they hadn’t.
The man with the bike was strapping his little boy into the seat, listening to the child’s chatter, smiling and nodding. She looked away, eyes misting. The passage of time was diluting so many of her recollections, turning them into mere impressions, like paintings. She’d have done anything to bring those memories back into focus, even for a moment, but she couldn’t. She caught a tear on the back of her hand. Maybe the colour of her dad’s readers didn’t matter. What was important was that he’d read her the story, done the voices, made her feel loved. He’d always listened with great interest to her childish babblings. He’d always made her feel important. He’d been a good man. Patient, clever, and kind. Maybe that was why he’d been so well regarded in the diplomatic service. He was a natural!
She swallowed hard, smiling at the man and his little boy as they finally vacated the space, then she slotted her own bike into the gap and chained it to the railing.
The day was bright and warm. That was what she needed to focus on! She looped her bag across her body, straightened her hat and set off walking. There was blue, blue sky and sunlight glinting through fresh green leaves glittering on the dark choppy water of the canal. She loved the canal houses that lined the banks. Tall, narrow with curved or stepped or oblong gables, and so many windows, as if light was everything. It was the sunlight that had drawn her outside. She’d needed to escape from the barge, from the memory of Theo’s face as they’d said goodbye. That moment at the door, softness in his gaze, something raw behind it, his chest rising and falling... And then he’d leaned in slowly, kissed her cheek. What to make of that? Two days had gone by—two whole days—and she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t write. She didn’t know what to do with herself.
She hadn’t wanted him to leave. It was obvious that he thought he’d crossed a line trying to extract a promise from her, but he hadn’t. She’d seen on his face that he was genuinely concerned for her safety. Ash had been the same when she’d told him about it—a lot more vocal, actually.
On a different day she would have found Theo’s protectiveness endearing, but she’d been so busy flexing her new ‘head over heart’ muscle that she’d failed to tell him that she appreciated his concern—that she was fine with taking care of herself. She could have added that the real danger lay in trusting someone else to take care of you, but that would have opened the door to a different conversation, and she wasn’t ready for that.
At the entrance to the Bloemenmarkt the crowd bottle-necked but she didn’t mind. The flower market was best viewed at a leisurely pace. You needed time to take in the riot of colourful flowers, the stiff tulip stems with their bullet heads in jewel-brights and milky pastels. The scent was intoxicating but difficult to describe, even for a writer. Fresh, wet, sweet, musky...fragrant.
She wandered on, faltering at the sound of a raised voice filtering through the crowd. She turned, caught sight of a man sitting at a table outside one of the eateries. Two glum children sat beside him, an overturned glass on the table between them, pink milkshake flooding the surface and splattering onto the ground. The man was mopping at the mess with his napkin, shaking his head, grumbling at the kids.
It was nothing but it made her think ab
out Theo... Had his alcoholic father shouted at him, or worse?
We’ve got the tee shirt.
He hadn’t volunteered any further information, and she hadn’t wanted to ask, but if personal experience had motivated him to become a trustee of the refuge then maybe... She shuddered.
Seeing Theo in his fine suit and impeccable shoes, every inch the successful businessman, it was hard to imagine that his background could have been anything but privileged. Was that why he was so guarded? Was he concerned about his image? She stepped under the striped canopy of her favourite stall, perused the selection of house plants. She conjured a memory of him barrelling along on her bright orange bicycle with herself behind, laughing and shrieking. Hardly the behaviour of someone who was concerned about his image.
She trailed her fingers through the fronds of a fern then went to look at the succulents. When she spied a baby aloe plant at the back of the display, Theo came to mind yet again. Aloe—the plant she’d told him about. She huffed a little sigh. He was under her skin, in her thoughts, and now he’d found her here among the plants. Those eyes, the way they’d held hers before he’d kissed her cheek... How would it have felt if he’d kissed her lips instead? She closed her eyes, felt her heart jolt for the umpteenth time. It was trying to tell her something and it was being very insistent. If she listened to her heart, admitted to herself that she wanted to see him again, then there was still the niggling problem of not having his phone number. She picked up the aloe and twisted it this way and that, checking that it was a good one. He’d said he’d never owned a plant and for some reason this one seemed to have his name written all over it.
What’s meant for you won’t pass you by.
A smiled edged its way onto her lips. She’d buy it—for him. If she bought it maybe the stars would guide him to her door again.
* * *
The willow trees around the lakes in Vondelpark looked vivid in the afternoon sunshine. The park was busy: families, tourists, cyclists, skaters. They were all out enjoying the spring weather. On some paths Theo had to duck and weave as he went along, but it felt good to be outside, moving, pushing his body to its limits. His tee shirt was damp, cool, against his skin when the breeze rippled, but he liked the simple cause and effect of working out and sweating. It was satisfying. Pleasurably predictable.
When he got to De Vondeltuin café he slowed to a walk, swiping the sweat off his forehead. He took a long drink from his water bottle. He liked De Vondeltuin, especially in the evenings. It was where he and Madelon used to meet. A casual dinner on the terrace, talking as evening fell around them. Now that she was famous, they wouldn’t be able to do that any more, at least not without being disturbed. A knot tightened in his stomach. The price of fame could be incalculable. Just one photograph of Madelon and him together could open a door to misery for Bram. The press would have a field day.
Esteemed actress is sister of MolTec millionaire and a deadbeat.
They’d twist the facts, just as they’d done with Fred Zucker...
He’d met Fred through Eline. Fred was a great guy, friendly, good-natured, a popular professional cricketer who’d done a charity catwalk show along with other members of his team. Fred was generous with his money and his time, but that didn’t stop him from being pilloried by the press on account of a shady relative. That was what the gutter press did—destroyed good people.
Theo felt his jaw tightening. If the hacks joined up the dots, they’d be staking out Bram’s house in no time, knocking on his door, making his life hell... Madelon would weather it, he would cope, but Bram wasn’t strong enough to deal with it. That kind of attention could wipe out all the progress he’d made, set him back by miles. Theo wouldn’t let it happen. He’d storm the gates of hell itself before he’d let his brave, damaged brother go through that.
He took another pull from his water bottle, found himself staring at a girl with light-brown hair twisted up the way Mia wore hers. The girl was laughing with her friend, waving her hands about, bracelets jangling on her wrists. He turned away.
What did Mia do with herself on Sunday afternoons? He could see her hanging out at the quaint, bohemian waterfront café that Madelon used to like: Hannekes Boom. She’d fit right in there, being a bright young thing. Not that he was old, but he felt old most of the time. He’d always felt old, had always been beset with grown-up worries. He’d worried about where they could go to hide when his father came in drunk and spoiling for a fight; he’d worried about Madelon seeing things a little girl shouldn’t have to see; he’d been horrified at the sight of Bram’s bruises. The magic of childhood had passed him by, but that was the reality for kids from homes like his. It was why he’d got involved with the refuge; why it would be a lifelong commitment.
He ran a hand through his hair, set off running again. Mia was bound to be out somewhere, doing something, but with whom? It was hard to believe that she was single.
And then it came back to him, what she’d said when she’d told him about that night with Lotte’s attacker.
‘We bonded over brandy and a mutual hatred of scumbag men.’
Having a general hatred of scumbags was understandable, but maybe she’d been talking about a specific scumbag.
He gritted his teeth, ran faster. The thought of anyone hurting Mia made his blood boil. She reminded him of Bram, jumping into situations without thinking of herself. She’d intervened to make sure Ash got his chance to pitch; she’d braved a dark side street armed only with an umbrella; she’d stopped Lotte taking his photograph at the fundraiser; and she’d picked the kitten that no one else would have wanted... How could anyone ever hurt a girl like that? She was a sheltering sky, a haven, a beautiful soul. No wonder he felt her magnetic pull; no wonder he wanted to spend time with her. She felt like home, and a home was all he’d ever wanted.
* * *
As he neared the Leidsegracht-Prinsengracht bridge, he saw a group of tourists staring into the water. There was an air of anxiety in the craning necks, in the hands fluttering and hovering around mouths. He slowed, leaning over the railing to see what they were looking at. Something was splashing about in the water, splashing and sinking, flailing its paws, wailing. He glimpsed sharp white teeth, a pink tongue and wild, frightened eyes before the creature slipped under the surface.
It was a cat, drowning right in front of him! His pulse exploded. He bolted to the edge nearest to where it was struggling, looked around frantically for anything to throw, anything at all that it could sink its claws into, but there was nothing. He considered his tee shirt, pulling it quickly over his head, ripping the side seams apart so that he had the longest possible rope, then he flattened himself on the ground and threw the loose end over the water towards the cat.
‘C’mon, kitty! Grab it. Grab it!’
The cat lashed about. The tee-shirt rope wasn’t quite reaching.
He yanked the wet fabric back and looked over his shoulder at the spectating crowd. He caught a man’s eye. ‘Grab my ankles; hold on tight.’ With the stranger’s hands locked around his ankles, he pushed himself over the edge of the bank so that his torso was clear over the water. He threw the makeshift rope towards the cat again, and this time it was close enough. The cat yowled, sank, then came up, clawing at the fabric.
Relief rushed through him. ‘That’s it! Hold on. Hold on, kitty...don’t let go.’
He pulled in the tee-shirt rope slowly, not wanting to jerk the fabric out of the cat’s claws. When the animal was near the bank, he bent from the waist and reached out his hands, stretching and stretching, but the canal side was too high. His fingertips were just inches away from the frightened animal, but he couldn’t quite reach.
‘Come on, cat...try!’
The frantic eyes locked on his and with a burst of super feline strength the cat launched itself upward, sinking its claws into his forearms. He gritted his teeth, then gritted them again as the cat clawe
d a route all the way up his arm to his shoulder. He ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut as the cat’s claws raked the skin along one side of his face, and then it was over.
He shimmied back onto the bank, breathing hard, heart pumping, face stinging. There were lancing pains in his arms, and his stomach muscles were burning from planking over the water, but the cat hadn’t drowned and that was all that mattered. As he got to his feet a little ripple of applause filled the air and then a movement in the crowd drew his attention.
A girl in a trilby hat was working her way to the front. Her head was down and she was crooning softly to the damp, furry bundle in her arms, a furry bundle which, on closer inspection, looked vaguely familiar. And the girl...her height, her figure, the curve of her cheek beneath the brim of her hat... He felt the pavement shifting beneath his feet, the blood galloping in his neck. Could it be that in a city of over a million cats he’d somehow saved Cleuso? What were the odds? He couldn’t calculate it any more than he could stop the smile spreading painfully across his cheeks.
* * *
‘You...?’
That was all she could manage. It was hard to speak when your lips wouldn’t move. He must have been the one who’d saved Cleuso and, from the look of things, it hadn’t been an easy rescue. There were long, red scratches on his arms and on his left shoulder, another trio of scratches along the left side of his face. He had to be hurting, but his eyes were twinkling, and he was smiling such a smile.