“Uh-huh.” I smile and nod.
My heart is thumping. But not for that reason anymore. It’s thumping because of where we are in the evening.
All afternoon I’ve been thinking with anticipation, Tonight…tonight…maybe tonight…And now here we are. The two of us. With an empty night in Italy ahead of us.
As I meet his eyes again, my chest feels constricted with lust. It’s almost painful, this desire of mine. Because we’re not done. We are so not done. I can still feel his mouth, his hands, his hair entwined in my fingers. My skin is longing for his. My everything is longing for his.
“No point joining the others,” says Dutch, as though reading my mind, and his fingers brush against mine.
“No.”
“My room’s at the end of the corridor,” he adds conversationally. “Kind of secluded.”
“Sounds great,” I say, trying to contain the tremor in my voice. “Can I…see it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Without any further words, we turn and walk along the corridor, our footsteps matching, our fingertips touching. My breaths are short. I’m nearly dying of need here. But somehow I manage to put one foot in front of the other like a normal person.
We get to a wooden studded door and Dutch produces an iron key. He gives me a long look which makes my stomach swoop, then reaches to unlock the door.
“Your personal question,” I say, remembering suddenly. “You still haven’t asked it.”
A trace of amusement appears on Dutch’s face. He surveys me for a moment before leaning forward to kiss me, long and hard, his hands gripping my hips. Then he bends in still farther, gently bites my neck, and whispers, “We’ll get to that.”
Five
Oh my God.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I’ve had barely any sleep. My skin prickles every time I think back over the night we’ve just had.
There’s a rustle of sheets and Dutch turns over, blinking as a ray of light catches his eyes. For a moment we look at each other. Then slowly his face creases into a smile and he murmurs, “Good morning.” He draws me in for a long, lingering kiss, then gets out of bed and pads to the bathroom.
As I flop back on my pillow, my head feels like a marshmallow. All sweetness. All bliss. Dreamy and soft. When Dutch reappears, freshly showered, I say impulsively, “I missed you!” and it’s true. I don’t want to be apart from him for a second. It’s not chemistry we have, it’s magnetism. It’s a pull. It’s a scientific force. It’s inescapable.
But does he feel like that too? Where are we with this? Where do we go from here? I sit up and wait till Dutch looks round from putting on his shirt.
“What now?” I say momentously—then remember that this is what Clara asks Chester as he gets on the hay wagon. For a ridiculous moment I imagine Dutch saying, “When next you see me, Aria, you will know that I am a man of my word!”
But instead he blinks and says, “Breakfast, I guess.”
“Right.” I nod.
I mean, that’s the obvious answer.
As we walk along, brushing shoulders, the morning sunshine dances on our heads and I feel lighter than I have for months. Years. We approach the courtyard and I suddenly realize we’ve been absent since yesterday lunch. It might seem conspicuous; people might ask questions….
But as we join the group around the big wooden table, no one bats an eyelid. It turns out quite a lot of people ducked out of yoga yesterday afternoon—and a few went out to supper at a local restaurant. (Verdict: not as good as the food here, don’t bother.)
So no one asks or guesses or hints at anything. And I’m glad. I don’t want any scrutiny. I want to be able to gaze at Dutch over my orange juice, undisturbed, thinking delicious, private thoughts.
Except I need to share this with the squad. (That still counts as private.) After breakfast I get my phone from reception, citing a family emergency, and head out to the corner of the street, where I’ve heard there’s a patch of good 4G. And after standing there for five seconds, my phone starts to come alive. It’s kind of magical, as though the world is talking to me again.
All my WhatsApp groups flood with notifications, and I feel a pang of longing. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without chatting to anyone. But somehow I force myself to ignore the 657 messages beckoning me. I’ve promised I won’t look, because once I look, I’ll get sucked in. Instead, I turn to a new group, entitled Ava’s Emergency Hotline, which Nell set up for exactly this eventuality.
Hi, I type, and after only ten seconds, Nell starts typing a response. It’s almost as though she’s been waiting for me to make contact. A moment later it arrives:
He’s fine.
Then a photo of Harold pops onto my screen with a caption: See? He’s happy. Stop stressing. Go and write!!
A moment later Maud chimes in:
Ava! How’s the book?
Now Sarika is typing too:
How come you have your phone? Isn’t this against the rules?
They’re all online, I realize. This is perfect timing. Joyfully, I type:
Never mind the rules. Because, guess what, I’ve found a guy. I’ve found the perfect guy!!!
I send it off and watch the responses arrive, my mouth curving into a smile.
What??!?!?!
Wow.
That was quick!
Have you been to bed?
Spill!!!!
I can’t help laughing out loud, their excitement is so infectious.
Yes, we have been to bed, thank you for asking. And he’s amazing. He’s wonderful. He’s…
I’m running out of words, so I type sixteen heart emojis and send them. Immediately the answers bombard me.
Got it. :))
Good to know ?
More details!!! What’s his name????
I type my answer—Dutch—and wait for the barrage.
Dutch!
Dutch??
Is that a name?
Does that mean he is Dutch?
I’m about to type No when I realize I don’t know. Maybe he is Dutch but was brought up in the UK so he has a British accent. You can’t assume anything.
I’m not sure what nationality he is.
???
Well, where does he live???
Don’t know
What does he do??
Don’t know
You don’t know????
I heave a sigh of slight frustration and start typing again.
Everyone’s anonymous on this retreat. That’s the joy of it. It’s different. We’re communicating as humans. Not as lists of statistics. Details don’t matter. Nationalities don’t matter. Jobs don’t matter. CONNECTION matters.
As I finish typing, I feel quite inspired, and I wonder if what I’ve said will give my friends pause for thought. But at once the replies start popping into my phone again.
???
What’s his income bracket?
Not relevant, Sarika!!!
Yes it is, sorry to be so pragmatic
I’m guessing she doesn’t know
You can guess, surely?
Ava, sweetheart, not wanting to rain on your parade…but what DO you know about him??
As I’m reading the conversation, I realize I’m in the way of a bent old woman with a shopping trolley, and I skip aside apologetically, saying, “Scusi!”
The woman smiles and I smile back, taking in her ancient lined face and thinking both She looks so wise and Oops, I forgot to put on sunscreen. Then I turn my attention back to the conversation. I feel a bit surreal, standing in a remote Italian street, trying to explain this amazing development in my life to my friends, so far away. But after some thought I start typing again:
> This is what I know. His hair is dark and thick. His eyes are gleaming. He just has to look at me to make me ripple inside. When he laughs he throws his head back. He’s confident, but he doesn’t brag. He values friendship. And he loves dogs.
I add another stream of heart emojis, eighteen this time, then press SEND.
There’s silence from the other end. Then the responses start piling in.
????
That’s it?
What’s his other name? Dutch what? I’m googling him.
That is so typical of Sarika. I quickly type:
Don’t know.
Then, after some hesitation, I come fully clean.
Actually, Dutch isn’t his real name. I don’t know his real name.
This time the replies come more swiftly than ever.
You don’t know his name???
Let me get this clear, you don’t know his name or his nationality or what he does or where he lives.
So it’s just sex.
I stare at the phone, feeling nettled at Maud’s comment. First of all, what’s that supposed to mean, “Just sex”? Sex with the right person is transcendental. It informs you about a person’s soul. Someone who is generous in bed is going to be generous in real life.
And, anyway, it’s not just sex. I know Dutch. I’ve built a pebble tower with him. I’ve seen him play football with kids. I’ve leaped off rocks with him. That’s what’s important. Not “What does he do?” but “Would you leap off a rock with him?”
Feeling a little tetchy, I type again:
It’s more than sex. I sense the core of him. He is a good person. He’s kind. He’s intrepid. He’s brave.
I pause a few seconds, then add my clincher:
He saved me from a knife attack. He saved my life.
You can’t argue with that. He saved my life. He saved my life! But if I thought my friends might respond to the romance of this, I was wrong.
A knife attack????
What the FUCK is going on out there?
Ava, stay safe.
I think you should come home.
This guy might be an ax murderer!!
I know they’re half teasing, but I also know they’re half serious, and it’s unsettling me. I type again, my fingers a little jabby.
Stop it. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m happy.
Then I add:
I have to go. I’m on a writing retreat, in case you’d forgotten.
There’s a momentary pause, then the farewells come into my phone:
OK, we’ll talk soon xxxxx
Stay SAFE xoxox
Enjoy!! ;) ;)
And finally another photo of Harold appears, with a photoshopped speech bubble coming out of his mouth: “FIND OUT HIS NAME!!”
Huh. Hilarious.
As I wander back to the monastery, I feel conflicted. Of course I’m curious. Of course I’ve speculated. Part of me is desperate to know his real name. And his age. And which big city he lives in. (Please, please, not Sydney.)
But part of me doesn’t want to go there. Not yet. We’re in the most magical bubble, and I want to stay in it for as long as possible.
Should I at least find out one detail? His real name?
I pause at the entrance to the monastery, thinking this through.
The trouble is, if I know his name, I’ll google him. I won’t intend to…I won’t want to…but I will. Just like I quite often don’t want or intend to order a muffin with my coffee, but, oh, look, there it is on my plate, how did that happen?
I can already see myself making an excuse, getting my phone, feverishly waiting for the results to load….
And that would puncture the bliss.
Slowly, I open the heavy wooden door with my latchkey and step inside the thick stone walls. I hand my phone back at reception, then walk into the main cloister. I can see Farida talking to Giuseppe, who is the porter, driver, and general helper, but as she sees me, she nods to him and turns in my direction.
“Aria!” she greets me, her hair flowing immaculately down her back, her amber beads clicking together. “I’m just on my way to our first session. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” I say, and fall into step with her, trying to drag my thoughts back to the main task.
“Are you finding the retreat helpful so far?” she asks as we walk.
Well, it’s helped me get laid.
“Yes,” I say earnestly. “Yes, very much so.”
* * *
—
That morning’s session is called “free writing.” We all have to work on anything we like, then share it with the class. Some people are writing in their rooms; others have found shady corners in the garden or courtyard.
Dutch announces he’ll write in his room, and I don’t really feel I can join him there. So I wander around until I find a secluded bench next to a huge rosemary bush. I sit on it with my feet up, my laptop balanced on my thighs, absently rubbing sprigs of rosemary between my fingers. I still feel exhilarated. And dreamy. All I can think about is sex. And last night. And Dutch.
But that’s OK. In fact, it’s good. It’s going to power my writing. Yes! I’m bubbling over with words and feelings to give to my lovers, Chester and Clara. I’m going to speed up their affair. I can see them now, tumbling on the ground, Chester tugging urgently at Clara’s bodice—
Wait, do they need to get married first? I’m a bit hazy about Victorian standards. Maybe the hay-wagon driver could also happen to be a vicar and they get quickly married as they’re moving along?
Whatever. Don’t care. The crucial thing is, they have sex. Soon. I’ve never written about sex before, but somehow it’s bursting out of me today.
He drove into her with a gasp, I type briskly, then cringe and delete it quickly. Maybe…He plunged into her.
No, this is too soon. I need to build up to the plunging.
As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…
Like a…?
My mind’s blank. What moans? Apart from a guy having sex?
OK, I’ll come back to it. I’ll pop back to that patch of 4G outside and google “things that moan.”
He transported her. He intoxicated her. The touch of his fingers set her on fire. The sound of his voice made her head spin. Everything else in life seemed irrelevant. Who cared what job he had or what his name was—
Wait. This isn’t Clara I’m writing about. This is me.
Lifting my hands off the laptop, I breathe out and look up into the endless blue sky. He does transport me. And he does intoxicate me. The truth is, all I can think about is Dutch.
* * *
—
Even so, by the time we reconvene, I’ve managed to write a passage. In fact, I’m so engrossed that I’m late arriving and Dutch is already seated between Scribe and Author-to-Be This is absolutely typical, but never mind.
As Farida invites us to share our morning’s work, I feel suddenly intrepid. If I can leap off rocks, I can read my scene out loud.
“I’ll go,” I say, raising my hand. “This morning I wrote a…” I clear my throat. “Well, actually, it’s my first ever sex scene.”
Scribe immediately whoops and a few people applaud, laughing.
“Good for you!” says Author-to-Be. “Read away!”
I hold up my printout and clear my throat. I’m quite pleased with the scene actually, because as well as the love aspect, I’ve got a bit of social commentary in there.
“So, this is from the novel I’m working on that I’ve told you about,” I begin. “Just to remind you, it’s set in Victorian England.” I hesitate, then start reading aloud:
“ ‘You are my wife,’ growled Chester. ‘And I claim my conjugal rights.’
>
“ ‘This is an outdated practice,’ snapped Clara, the fire of feminism in her eyes. ‘I foresee that in future generations, women will be equal.’
“The sweat of shame passed over Chester’s brow.
“ ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will join the fight, Clara. In future years I will be a male suffragette.’
“But then Chester could hold back his throbbing desire no longer.
“As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…” I hesitate “…a Heleioporus eyrie frog.”
“A what?” says Metaphor at once, raising her hand.
“It’s a frog,” I say defensively. “It moans.”
“Carry on, Aria,” says Farida softly. “Let’s keep all queries and comments till the end.”
“As his breeches descended, she knew his manhood.”
I wince inwardly, because I wasn’t wild about “manhood,” but what else could I say? I turn the page and feel myself getting into my stride.
“He was inventive. He was thoughtful. They carried on all night. As the moon shone down, they sat on the big stone windowsill, drinking wine and nibbling grissini, knowing that their hunger for each other was building again; knowing that it would be sated. They were practically strangers. They knew so little about each other. But their connection was so real. Later, as he slept, she gazed at his true, honest face. His thick dark hair. His powerful, muscular stature. She was mesmerized. Tantalized both by what she knew of him and what she didn’t know. He seemed to her like a wonderful new land, waiting to be discovered.”
I come to a halt, and there’s a round of applause.
“Well done,” says Farida, smiling at me encouragingly. “Writing about such intimate moments isn’t easy….Yes, Metaphor? Did you have another question?”
“Just a few.” Metaphor shoots me a snide look. “Grissini? In Victorian England?”
Love Your Life Page 7