Four
By the next evening, my heart has hipped and hopped all over the place. I’m getting ready for supper, staring at myself in the tiny cracked mirror in my room (everything here is old and picturesque), unable to think about anything except: What are my chances?
I’m slightly wishing I looked more Italian right now. All the Italian staff at the retreat have such glossy dark hair and smooth olive skin, whereas my skin freckles in the sun. I’m what they call “fine-featured,” which can seem like an asset until you see a luscious nineteen-year-old girl with blunt bobbed hair and a snub nose and rounded, dimpled shoulders—
No. Stop it. I shake my head impatiently to clear my thoughts. Nell would say I’m being a moron. She would have no time for this. At the thought of Nell, I automatically think of Harold—and before I can stop myself, I’m summoning up the Harold folder on my computer.
Scrolling through photos of him calms my heart a little. Harold. Beloved Harold. Just seeing his bright, intelligent face makes me smile, although even the video of him trying to get into the laundry basket can’t fix all my problems. As I shut the folder down, I’m still twitchy and uncertain. It’s been that kind of day.
The morning session was a blur. While all the other participants discussed their writing goals and made studious notes on daily routines, I was focused on Dutch. He was sitting between Scribe and Booklover when I arrived (damn), but I took the chance to sit opposite him.
Our eyes met a few times. He smiled. I smiled back. When Farida mentioned confrontation in fiction, I made a jokey martial-arts gesture at him and he laughed. It was kind of a thing.
As we disbanded for lunch, I felt 100 percent hopeful. I also had a plan: Bag a seat next to him, pull out every flirtatious trick I had, and, if all else failed, ask blatantly, “How do you feel about holiday romances?” (If he looked appalled, I could pretend it was the plot of my next novel.)
But he didn’t turn up. He didn’t turn up!
How can you not turn up to lunch? Lunch is part of the package. It’s free. And delicious. Nothing made any sense.
Then it got worse: He didn’t turn up to the afternoon yoga session either. Farida even came up to me and asked, “Do you know where Dutch is?”
(Note: She asked me. This says people have noticed we have a connection. Although what good is a connection if he’s not here?)
At that stage I gave up. I thought, He’s left. He’s not interested. In writing or me. Then I cursed myself bitterly for having been distracted this morning, because, after all, this course wasn’t cheap. I decided to refocus, forget love, and do what I came here to do: Write. Not think about holiday romances. Write.
I sat on my bed, staring at my manuscript printout for a bit, wondering if Chester should get off the hay wagon or if maybe the hay wagon should catch on fire. Then I thought: What if Clara hides on the hay wagon and she gets burned to death? But that would be quite a short, sad book—
And then the miracle happened. I heard a voice through my bedroom window, which looks out onto one of the cloistered courtyards. It was Booklover, exclaiming, “Oh, Dutch! We thought you’d gone.”
Then I heard him replying, “No, I just took off for the afternoon. How was yoga?”
Then they had some conversation I couldn’t hear properly, and Booklover said, “See you at supper,” and he said, “Sure thing,” and my heart started pounding while my manuscript slithered to the floor.
And now hope is dancing unstoppably round my body. I close my laptop, spray on a final spritz of perfume, tug at my indigo pajamas, then head through the candlelit corridors and courtyards to the paved garden where supper is served. I can see Dutch already—and an empty chair beside him. I’m having that chair.
Picking up my pace, I reach it just before Austen and grab it with a viselike grip.
“Why don’t I go here?” I say in the most nonchalant tone I can muster, and quickly sit down before anyone can comment. I breathe in to compose myself, then turn to Dutch.
“Hi.” I smile.
“Hi.” He smiles back, and my insides crumple with desire.
His voice does things to me. It stirs up reactions in all kinds of places. And it’s not just his voice—his whole presence is setting me alight. His eyes look as though they already know what I want. His body language is strong. His smile is irresistible. As he reaches for his napkin, his bare forearm brushes against mine and I feel a tingle throughout my body. No, more than a tingle. A craving.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, leaning over on the pretext of pouring him water—and for the first time I inhale his scent. Oh God. Yes. I want more of that too. Whatever combination of hormones and sweat and soap and cologne that is…it works.
A waiter has poured us both wine, and Dutch lifts his glass to toast mine, then turns to face me properly. His gaze is intent and focused, as though the rest of the table has disappeared and it’s just us two.
“So,” he says. “We can’t make small talk.”
“No.”
“I can’t ask you anything personal about yourself.”
“No.”
“The more I’m told I can’t do something, the more I want to do it.” His dark eyes are fixed fully on mine and I catch my breath, because I’m suddenly imagining what else he might want to do. And what else I might want to do.
Unhurriedly, his gaze unmoving, Dutch sips his wine.
“I’d like to know more about you.” He leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper. “We could break the rules.”
“Break the rules?” I echo, shocked. I feel as though I’m in a nineteenth-century novel and a gentleman has asked if he might write me illicit letters. Dutch laughs, seeming tickled by my reaction.
“OK, you don’t want to break the rules. How about we ask each other just one personal question?”
I nod. “Good idea. You start.”
“OK. Here’s my question.” He pauses, running a finger round the rim of his wineglass—then looks up. “Are you single?”
Something seems to flash through my body. Something joyous and strong and urgent all at once. He is interested.
“Yes,” I say, my voice barely working. “I’m…Yes.”
“Great.” His eyes crinkle at me. “That’s…Glad to hear it. Now you ask me a question.”
“OK.” My mouth flickers into a smile, because we’re playing a game now. “Let me think. Are you single?”
“Oh yes.” There’s an emphasis to his answer which in another conversation I would pick up on—but I’m out of questions.
“So now we know everything,” I say, and Dutch laughs.
“Everything for now. Maybe we ask each other one question every night. That could be our ration.”
“Sounds good.”
We’re interrupted as a waiter comes to give us plates of pasta, and I take the opportunity to gaze at Dutch surreptitiously again, at his strong jaw and dark lashes, and at his tiny endearing crow’s feet, which I didn’t notice before. I don’t know how old he is, I realize. I could ask him tomorrow night. That could be my question.
But, then, do I care how old he is? No. No! I don’t!
I feel suddenly exhilarated. I feel liberated! I don’t care about the facts or the details or what his profile might be on Match.com. He’s here and I’m here and that’s all that matters.
“Wait, I have another question,” I say, as Dutch turns back from passing the olive oil along. “I think it’s allowed….Where were you this afternoon?” I shoot him a mock-reproving look. “You ditched yoga!”
“Oh. Right.” He takes a forkful of pasta, looking amused. “I’m not a yoga fan, to be honest. I’m more of a—”
“Stop!” I raise a hand. “Don’t tell me! Too much personal information!”
“Jeez!” exclaims Dutch, looking for the first time genuinely frustrated. “Ho
w are we supposed to talk, even?”
“We’re not,” I point out. “We’re supposed to write.”
“Ah.” He nods. “Touché.”
“Or, in your case, kick the shit out of things,” I add, and Dutch laughs.
“Touché again.”
I take a mouthful of orecchiette, which is the local pasta. It’s served with greens and rosemary and tastes sublime. But while last night I couldn’t stop rejoicing over the food, tonight I can’t stop rejoicing over this delicious, tantalizing conversation. Or non-conversation.
Dutch is silent for a few moments, munching pasta, then says, “Actual fact, I hired a car and went exploring down the coast a little. There are some coves…nice villages….It was fun.” He swallows his mouthful, turns to me, and adds carelessly, “I was thinking of doing the same tomorrow. You want to come?”
* * *
—
As we bowl along the coastline the next afternoon, I feel giddy. How has life fallen so stunningly into place? How do I find myself being driven through gorgeous Italian scenery, the sun blazing down, the radio playing, next to the most perfect guy in the world?
I’m trying to take an intelligent interest in the beautiful, stark landscape around us, but my attention keeps being drawn back to Dutch. Because he just gets better and better.
He drives confidently. He doesn’t get stressed out by being lost. Five minutes ago, he asked an old guy for directions in a terrible mishmash of English and bad Italian. But his smile was so charming, the guy ended up summoning an English-speaking woman from inside his house, who drew us a map. And now here we are, at a tiny cliff-top car park, with nothing in view except olive groves, rocks, and the endless blue Mediterranean.
“What’s this place called?” I ask, so that I sound intelligent. (I don’t care what it’s called.)
“No idea,” says Dutch cheerfully. “But the woman knew where I meant. I came here yesterday. It’s fun.”
“I intended to learn Italian before I came out here,” I say regretfully. “But there isn’t time for everything….Do you speak any other languages?”
“I try,” says Dutch. “But they don’t stick.”
He sounds so unapologetic, I can’t help smiling. A lot of people would resort to bullshit at that point, but not him.
I follow him down a stony path to a little rocky cove with a pebbly beach and the clearest aquamarine water I’ve ever seen. There aren’t any sun beds or beach bars; it’s not that kind of place. The beachgoers are mostly older Italian women, sitting on towels with scarves protecting their hair, and clutches of shouting teenagers.
On either side of the cove are rocky cliffs, and there are teenagers at every level, climbing, sunbathing, smoking, and drinking beer. As I scan the scene, a girl in a red bikini hurls herself off a rocky outcrop, screeching and fist-pumping the air before plummeting into the sea. A moment later, she’s followed by a teenage boy, who jumps with flailing legs and lands with a massive splash.
They skirmish in the water for a moment, then he holds her bikini top up out of the water with a triumphant yell, while the girl laughs hysterically. His audience of teenagers on the rocks bursts into cheers, and Dutch gives me a wary glance.
“It wasn’t quite this wild yesterday,” he says. “We could find somewhere quieter.”
“No, I like it.” I smile at him. “It feels…you know. Real. Wow,” I add, watching another girl leaping off the rocky ledge. “That’s high.”
“It’s fun.”
“You did that?”
“Of course.” He laughs at my expression. “I mean, it’s safe. Water’s deep. You want to have a go?”
“Er…sure!” I say, before I can think whether this is a good idea or not. “Why not?”
We find an empty patch on the pebbly beach and I take off my caftan, sucking in my stomach as I do so. Although I’m careful not to look in his direction, I can sense Dutch checking me out in my swimsuit. It’s black and low cut and I know it’s a sexy number because Russell used to call it Instant—
No. I stop my own thoughts abruptly. I’m not thinking about Russell. Why would I recall an obnoxious ex-boyfriend at this moment?
I fold up my caftan, demurely looking away from Dutch as he strips off but also managing to sneak some glances at him. He’s in navy swim shorts and clearly visits the gym. His thighs are muscled, and he has a hairy chest. I like a hairy chest.
I feel a trickle of sweat on my forehead and wipe it away. It’s even more baking down here than it was on the cliff, and the splashing of the waves is unbelievably inviting.
“It’s hot,” I say, and Dutch nods.
“We should get in the water. You want to…?” He gestures at the rock-jumpers, and my stomach flickers with nerves. I’d be quite happy paddling. But I’m not admitting that, so I say, “Of course!” and Dutch grins.
“Cool. This way.”
He leads me to a tortuous path, looping back and forth up the side of the cliff. We clamber up craggy rocks, past caves, pausing once or twice to let rowdy groups of teenagers rush past us. As we finally emerge at the rocky ledge and look down at the white-flecked water below, I feel elation and terror, all at once.
“Ready?” Dutch gestures at the edge, and I laugh nervously.
There’s a guy of about twenty standing behind us, not hiding his impatience, and I step aside. We both watch as he takes a good run-up, leaps off the cliff, and plummets into the blueness below.
“Long way down,” I say, trying to sound conversational rather than petrified.
“That’s what makes it fun,” says Dutch with enthusiasm.
“Definitely!” I nod several times, then add casually, “I mean, there’s a line between ‘fun’ and ‘terrifying.’ ”
Dutch laughs. “Yup.” Then his expression suddenly changes to one of concern. “Wait. Are we over that line for you? Sorry. I dragged you up here. I don’t know where your limits are.”
I can sense him suddenly thinking, I don’t know this person at all; why am I encouraging her to jump off a cliff?
“You want to go down a level?” he adds, standing aside to let a group of three teenagers jump off. “We can do that.”
For an instant I’m tempted. But then I recall what he said the other day: “Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone.”
“I don’t know,” I say, staring at the glittering sea, feeling a stab of frustration at myself. “I don’t not want to do it. I think I’m finding out where my limits are.”
“OK,” says Dutch cautiously. “Well, where are you right now?”
“I want to do it,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. “It’s just…how many feet is that?”
“Don’t get hung up on those kinds of thoughts,” says Dutch reassuringly. “Just think about the excitement. The rush.”
“Uh-huh.” I nod. His words are helping. Although I’m still not moving toward the edge.
“I saw two little kids in a playground once,” Dutch continues. “One was psyching himself up to go on the monkey bars and his friend was trying to help him. He said, ‘You learn by scaredness.’ I’ve never forgotten it.”
“You learn by scaredness,” I repeat slowly. “I like that. So what do you learn, jumping into the sea?”
“You learn you can do it.” He smiles at me, a broad, infectious smile. “Shall we do it together?”
“OK.” I nod. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
I may die, I think calmly as we step forward. This is possible. On the plus side, it’s a good way to go. Girl perishes jumping into sea with handsome guy. That would do.
Dutch takes my hand, and I want to say, “No, I’ve changed my mind!” but somehow my mouth doesn’t move. I’m not really going to do this, I think crazily, as his grip on mine tightens. Surely. I’m not going to…
“One, two, three…”
And we’re over.
As I fall, the air is sucked from my body. I don’t know what to feel. I can’t feel. My brain has been emptied. Gravity is the only force in my life right now. I look over at Dutch’s smiling, encouraging face, feel him squeeze my hand briefly, then let go, as we land in the sea.
The water crashes against my body with more force than I predicted. My legs have been flung akimbo and I’m descending through the cold sea, unable to stop. Down…still down. I need to float up. Why aren’t I floating up? My lung capacity is too small for this….I am going to die, I knew it….Wait, I’m rising again….
And then suddenly I’ve surfaced, spluttering and gasping and spitting out salty water. There’s hair all over my face and my swimsuit is wedged halfway up my bum and my heart is nearly exploding with triumph. My chest is pumping, my blood feels on fire, my mouth won’t stop grinning….That was awesome!
Dutch is about ten feet away, already swimming toward me with an exultant expression.
“You did it!” He high-fives me and I whoop. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Yes! Incredible!”
Nearby, another teenage boy crashes into the sea, and the wash of waves surges toward us. It’s quite hard work, treading water like this. Not that I’ll admit it, because I like to think I’m pretty fit.
“I have an admission,” I say, above the sound of splashing and cheering. “I was shit scared.”
“You’re kidding,” says Dutch teasingly.
“I thought I hid it,” I say mock-indignantly, and he laughs.
“No chance. Are you OK?” he adds, as a wave catches me in the face.
“Fine,” I say spluttering a little. “Thanks.”
Another swell pushes us together, and suddenly our chests are meeting. Underwater, my legs are bumping against his with the ebb and flow of the waves. Instinctively, Dutch grabs my waist—then at once lets go, looking alarmed, and says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“No.”
“That wasn’t—” He cuts himself off.
Love Your Life Page 5