Red wine, for example. The bouquet of a fine Merlot reminded her of his first fumbling attempts to seduce her. Chicken korma reminded her of evenings in his flat watching Friends and really wanting Rachel and Ross to be happy together because didn’t everyone deserve to be as happy as Lisa and her loved one were back then? Certain songs could destroy her with their echoes of a happier past. Hearing ‘Wonderwall’ could actually take her knees out from under her and had done so on a particularly embarrassing occasion in Wimbledon’s Central Court shopping mall. But there were also the stupid tunes that they had jived around the kitchen to; imitating each other’s dancefloor styles and pulling goofy faces. Funny how he could only ever dance in time while he was doing an impression of her …
Well, that was then. Now Lisa had moved on to vodka tonics, become a vegetarian, stopped watching Friends and could no longer listen to ‘Bewitched’. That wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. The real pain was the constriction she felt around her heart when the tube sailed past Sloane Square. She hadn’t walked down the King’s Road since the night he said he no longer loved her. It was as though she might see the ghosts of them peering in through the window of a jeweller’s shop. He was always looking at watches – though he was still unable to get anywhere on time if it mattered to Lisa. She had harboured a wild fantasy that one day he might spend a couple of minutes measuring up the diamonds for her left hand instead of the latest Breitling.
So, the King’s Road was out of bounds too. At least until her mashed-up heart was a little less scabby. Perhaps in ten years’ time she might once again brave the hallowed halls of Peter Jones. But as for Amsterdam … Amsterdam, she would never be able to go back to. Because, if there was a defining moment in their relationship it was a weekend spent in Amsterdam, December ’96. Bright but cold. Frost crystals glittered the pavements. The trees along the canals wore little white lights in their bold bare branches. She thought she had met her soul mate. They were in love.
When she closed her eyes, Lisa could almost feel the icy tip of his nose as he kissed her on a dainty bridge somewhere near Dam Square. She remembered feeding him french fries and mayonnaise in a tiny café under the disapproving eye of some old matron; she remembered laughing with him at the dull brown pictures from Van Gogh’s potato period in the Van Gogh museum; talking to each other in pidgin Dutch; learning the words for bedroom and whipped cream … He had loved her then, hadn’t he? Looking back, with the sound of their last argument ringing in her ears, it was difficult to tell. Before the end, she had suggested that they go to Amsterdam to celebrate their anniversary. Now she knew she would never go back.
Shame her boss didn’t quite understand the new world map of the recently broken-hearted.
Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Just twenty minutes to go before Lisa was due to make a presentation to her company’s new Dutch clients. Lisa yanked the blue Samsonite trolley case off the luggage carousel and in doing so nearly managed to pull her arm from its socket. She thought she’d travelled a lot lighter than that. With one eye on her watch, as if constantly checking the time might stop it from passing so quickly, she hurtled through the arrivals lounge. A small gang of men leaned against the barrier to separate new arrivals from over-eager loved ones. Lisa scanned the drivers’ hand-scrawled boards for her own name and, locating it with bionic long-distance vision, hurled her bag over the barrier towards her own driver before following the bag with a pretty spectacular vault.
They made it to the bleak out-of-town offices of the H & P Advertising Agency with two minutes to go. Lisa clipped her way into the building on executive heels, praying that she looked efficient and enthusiastic rather than plain (or should that be plane) manic. Her plan had been to arrive a whole two hours earlier. Where but at Heathrow could a girl find fog to ground a scheduled flight at the beginning of June, for God’s sake?
A round-faced assistant showed Lisa straight to the conference room. She tossed her jacket on the back of a chair, grinned her biggest grin and opened her case to get out her notes. But she couldn’t find them. Instead she found three pairs of stars-and-stripes boxer shorts.
Back at her hotel – The American (that irony was not lost on her) – Lisa finally let go the tears that made her feel as though her eyes must be bulging cartoon-style throughout the rest of the abortive meeting. She said what she could without the notes and her carefully drawn story-boards but she couldn’t remember the deal-clinching figures. She had her lap-top in her hand luggage but the battery in that had run down and no one could find her the right kind of adaptor to use with Dutch plug sockets.
‘Don’t worry. Anyone could pick up the wrong case,’ said the super-cool MD, but Lisa knew that kind of mistake had never happened to him, nor was it ever likely to.
‘Imagine how the bloke who did get your case will feel when he pulls out your knickers at some high-level meeting,’ said Jane when Lisa called the London office to check for messages and voicemail.
That was no comfort either. Lisa had packed the grungiest pants imaginable. So grungy that the thought almost made her ready to resign her own case to history forever. Even if he had handed it in, how would she be able to face claiming such disgraceful luggage?
‘What else was in your case?’ Jane asked in a further attempt to make light of the disaster. ‘Vibrator?’
‘Worse,’ said Lisa. ‘How about a self-help guide to finding your ideal man?’
‘Sheesh,’ said Jane. ‘You’re never going to be able to get that bag back.’
It was hot in the hotel room. Lisa leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window and looked out into the square below. It was still light at seven o’clock. A beautiful summer night. Tourists milled about in search of somewhere to spend the evening. Café proprietors drew attention to their menus. Hot and bothered culture lovers were tempted from their museum tours by the prospect of a long cool beer.
Lisa had a sudden unwelcome flashback to the french fries and mayonnaise. Her bedroom window was almost opposite the café where the BE had licked her fingers clean and whispered promises for the night ahead. As if on cue, a young couple chose a seat in full view of Lisa’s depressing hotel room and snuggled close. Lisa suddenly felt very sorry for the middle-aged woman who had once been subjected to a similar display and drew her curtains on the scene.
She had three more nights of this. A room with a view of the place where she had once been so happy. Miserable memories and not even a pair of clean knickers to do her wallowing in. She had phoned the airline but no one had handed in her case. The receptionist at the hotel promised to let her know if it turned up there instead. In the meantime, Lisa didn’t have anything to wear but her best boardroom suit. It had been crumpled by the plane journey, sweated in on her race to the first meeting, and, even as she inspected part of the hem that was starting to come down, she somehow managed to spill half a cup of coffee on her skirt.
She ripped the skirt off immediately but within seconds the scalding heat had coloured her legs lobster red. Lisa cried again as she tried to rinse the stain out in the inadequate bathroom basin. Pale blue linen. Dark brown coffee. She rinsed without a hope.
Lisa sat on the edge of the bath and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Maybe she would wake up. Maybe she would open her eyes and find herself back in her own little bedroom, ready to start the day with an entirely unmistakeable bag. But when she did open her eyes, the stranger’s case was still in the corner of the room and the stain on her skirt was starting to dry in the shape of the British Isles.
Lisa ran her fingers over the Samsonite impostor.
What if the owner of this case had a pair of jeans or something in exactly her size? She could put on clothes from this case and go shopping. It wasn’t quite eight.
Lisa opened the case and took a better look. The three pairs of stars-and-stripes boxer shorts were exactly where they had been when she opened the case in the H & P office. Gingerly taking each pair by the waistband, she made a neat little pile on the bed an
d began to investigate further. She guessed by the careful folding that the stuff in this case was clean, at least. She pulled out a T-shirt, a bright souvenir from a Thai beach full-moon party. So the owner of this case had travelled. Or he knew a man who had. Ralph Lauren Polo socks. Not too impoverished either, by the look of things. Lisa admired his smart leather toiletries case. Took a deep sniff of his aftershave. Jean Paul Gaultier for Men. Nice. Different. Her ex had never liked it.
Beneath the wash-bag – bingo. Lisa nodded with approval when she pulled out a pair of battered 501s. Whoever owned this case must have a pretty neat backside. And long legs. Tall. Slim. Beautifully scented. He could be her ideal man.
But there was no point getting quite so attached to someone she would never meet. For all the identifying evidence in his Samsonite, the idiot hadn’t taken the time to fill out his name and address on the luggage tag. Lisa resolved to leave the bag with the airline staff when she went to catch her flight home and zipped it shut again. Minus the jeans.
Combined with her neat black court shoes and her smart suit jacket, the look was a bit Farah Fawcett Majors, but at least Lisa was fully clothed once more. By the time she got to the lobby, she had convinced herself that she almost looked stylish in a very retro way.
She waited behind a man with spiked blond hair at the desk to hand her keys in. The concierge was taking her time with him. Lisa had been appraising his neat bottom for a couple of minutes before she realized that she was idly gazing at the backside she had been fantasizing about as she rifled through the poor man’s case.
At the same time, the concierge noticed that Lisa was standing behind the stranger and with incredibly unwelcome efficiency, announced: ‘Well, this is Miss Glover, right here.’
Lisa was pulling an expression that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a halibut when the stranger turned to her with a milk-steaming smile.
‘I think I got your case,’ he said.
‘I think so,’ said Lisa.
‘Are those my jeans?’ he asked.
Right then, Lisa knew there was no God. What benign celestial being would have allowed her worst knickers and her well-thumbed copy of ‘How to attract true love into your life through meditation and positive affirmations’ to fall into such divine-looking hands. And then to be caught wearing his trousers?
The stranger was still grinning at her.
‘Mark Law,’ he introduced himself. ‘And I do believe I’m wearing your knickers.’
After that, it would have been rude not to agree to go for a drink with him. Feeling only slightly less self-conscious in her own clothes, Lisa joined him downstairs in the hotel bar. Scanning the room for him, she was surprised to feel a long forgotten shiver of expectation when she caught sight of his face. He smiled at her as though he had chosen her to be his companion, not as though she was a random nutter who had somehow picked up his bag. When he told her she looked much better in her own clothes, she coloured to match her pink jumper.
‘Pink suits you,’ he told her.
She went two shades short of cerise.
They ordered martinis and talked about work. He was American. In Europe to drum up funds for his new Internet venture. She told him about the disastrous meeting at H & P. He told her about the receptionist’s face when he arrived at his own hotel and opened his case to reveal a pile of women’s clothes when searching for his letter of reservation.
‘Is this your first time in Amsterdam?’ he asked.
Lisa had been laughing at his impression of the shocked matron at the hotel. Now she felt the cloud passing across her face. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘This isn’t my first time.’
‘Then you can show me around,’ he said.
And before she could explain that there were too many places in the town that she really didn’t want to have to go back to, Mark had spread his map out on the table.
‘I’m leaving for Switzerland tomorrow morning so I’ve got to get the best bits done tonight. Are you into art?’ he asked her. ‘Some of the museums are open late. We should see the Night Watch,’ he announced.
Lisa started to pull a face. ‘You know, that picture is …’
‘One of the great works of the seventeenth century.’
Lisa shrugged. That was true. It was one of her favourites. But it was also one of the great works of art she had seen with the BE. She remembered all too vividly standing in front of the painting with his arm slung round her shoulders in the way that she loved. He had kissed her in front of that picture. In fact, she didn’t think there was a single significant work of art in Amsterdam that he hadn’t kissed her in front of.
‘You don’t mind seeing it again?’ Mark asked. ‘If we hurry we’ll catch the museum before it closes, then we can go and get something to eat. If you want to.’
He fixed her with a grin that told her he wasn’t often refused.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood before the famous painting. They stood close together, whispering in the reverential quiet of the gallery. Mark drew Lisa’s attention to the little girl stepping through the soldiers.
She was suddenly aware of his hand on the small of her back.
‘Rembrandt had such an eye for light and shadow,’ she said, turning towards him to whisper in his ear. But her lips didn’t meet with Mark’s ear. They met with his own smiling mouth and brushed against his lips ever so slightly. Lisa pulled backwards and stumbled, which only had the effect of making Mark take her further into his arms.
‘Do you think we look as though we’ve known each other for a long time?’ he asked her as he held her close.
Lisa didn’t know what to say. Or where to look. His face was so close to hers that she could no longer focus on his individual features.
‘I think we look like we’re lovers,’ he told her.
She felt her most important organs melt.
Van Gogh didn’t stand a chance. The museum tour was over. Back in her hotel room, Lisa fumbled for a light switch.
‘Leave the light on,’ Mark breathed hotly. ‘I mean, I’ve already seen your knickers.’
Sex with her ex had become perfunctory. Always starting and finishing in exactly the same way. It worked perfectly, she had told herself. But there had been no surprises for a very long time.
Now, with Mark, Lisa felt a prickle creep up the back of her neck like ghostly fingers. She felt the hot seeping sensation as blood coloured her breasts blush pink with arousal. She felt the inside of her thighs become hypersensitive to his touch. His fingertips seemed so hot on her legs that she expected to see burn-marks wherever he laid them upon her. And meanwhile his tongue was in her mouth. His thigh was between hers, easing them apart. She wondered if she was getting giddy through lack of oxygen or the rising heat between their bodies. He took her hand and placed it on his penis. Carefully, he wrapped her fingers around the shaft and encouraged her to stroke the hard length of him.
She came before he did. She tightened her thighs round his waist, squeezing hard as he too reached a climax. She felt at once frightened and triumphant as she watched him come. The unfamiliar expression of a new lover … A new lover. She could hardly bear to think …
With his body still pinning hers to the soft white sheets, Lisa began to cry. The tears ran across her cheeks and down the side of her neck and on to his hand, still tangled in her soft brown hair.
Mark eased himself up on to his elbows and looked down at the tear-tracks glittering on her face.
‘Did we do something we shouldn’t have done?’ he asked.
She wasn’t sure. She wanted to say ‘no’ to reassure him and herself. At the same time she wanted to nod ‘yes’ and burst into disappointed tears. Lisa turned the bedside lamp off in an attempt to hide.
‘Do you wanna talk about it?’
This time she did nod. In the dark, she felt she could tell him almost everything. If he couldn’t clearly see her lips moving, perhaps he wouldn’t connect her so inextricably with the story she was about to tell. Perha
ps it didn’t matter anyway if he thought she was sad or a nutter. They would probably never see each other again.
‘The last time I came to this city,’ she began, ‘I was with someone I really loved.’
And out it spilled. And Mark listened. Never interrupting. He just stroked her hair and listened as she told him about the plans she had made for her and her beloved. The shock of the ending. The numbness that had been with her since. The red wine she could no longer drink, the curry she’d had to abandon, the television she couldn’t watch, the music to which she could no longer listen.
‘You’ve got to make new memories,’ he told her when she finished. ‘That’s the only way to save the things you love for yourself.’
‘I know that now,’ she told him. ‘And I feel like you’ve helped me save Amsterdam.’
‘I’ll make it my mission to help you save the world,’ he said.
Lisa knew that he would be gone when she woke up. Mark’s onward flight to Switzerland left Schiphol at 8 a.m. It was three minutes past now. Was he still taxi-ing down the runway? Hearing a plane pass high overhead Lisa pushed her hair back from her eyes and gazed up at the blank ceiling of her hotel room. There was still a faint scent of his aftershave about the pillows. When she put her hand to her chin, it felt sore where his stubble had rubbed at her pale skin as they kissed.
‘Idiotic,’ she told herself. Six months of careful, heart-healing celibacy blown on a mad night with a stranger. But there wasn’t time to think about it now. Lisa had another meeting at nine-thirty.
She opened her case. On top of her own clothes was a pair of crumpled stars-and-stripes boxer shorts and a note on hotel notepaper.
Lisa expected a ‘thanks for everything’ at most. A sweet gesture but no contact number. Instead she found not only a number but another hotel address.
‘Your mission,’ he had written, ‘should you choose to accept it. Next weekend. Save Paris.’
Girls' Night In Page 37