Oh. Oops. I was picturing Dutch and me last night. I should have said “sweetmeats.”
“Just a little slip,” I say easily. “If that’s all—”
“No, it’s not all,” says Metaphor. “I thought Clara and Chester grew up together in the village. Why are they suddenly strangers?”
“I wondered about that,” agrees Scribe.
“I have a question too,” puts in Austen in her mild way. “I thought Chester had blond hair and was slim built? But now he’s suddenly dark and muscular.”
Metaphor glances meaningfully at Dutch, then raises her eyebrows at Austen. Has she guessed? I push back my hair, feeling rattled. How did I forget Chester was blond?
“It’s…a work in progress,” I say, avoiding everyone’s eye. “Anyway, let’s hear from someone else.” I fold up my printout before anyone else can catch me out.
“It was very good, Aria,” adds Austen quickly. “Very…you know. Realistic.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her, as Farida says, “Who would like to read their work to us next?”
At once Dutch puts up his hand, and everyone goggles at him.
“Dutch!” Farida sounds fairly astonished herself.
“I know, right?” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Last person you expected. But I was inspired today.” He holds up a page covered in handwritten words, and Scribe, who is sitting next to him, exclaims, “Wow!”
“I’ve never been inspired to write before. But…” He shrugs, his face creasing into his infectious smile. “Somehow today the words flowed.”
“This is a special moment, then,” says Farida, her eyes gleaming softly.
“Well done, old bean!” exclaims Author-to-Be, clapping Dutch on the back.
“You see? Everyone can become a writer with the right inspiration.” Farida smiles around at us all. “This is very exciting, Dutch. We can’t wait to hear what you’ve written.”
Dutch glances down at his page, then adds, “I don’t have a plot or anything like that yet. I guess I was finding my voice. Like you told us yesterday?” He looks up at Farida. “You told us to be bold and honest. That’s what I went for. Bold and honest.”
“Bravo!” says Farida. “Indeed I did. Let’s hear this bold, honest voice, Dutch.”
There’s a moment of silence, then Dutch draws breath and begins: “They fucked.”
As his voice rings through the space, there’s a jolt of slight surprise.
“That is bold,” murmurs Booklover, next to me, as Dutch continues.
“It was incredible. She was hot. And she was loud. Louder than he’d expected. It was intense. Afterward, they drank wine and ate grissini. Then…”
He pauses, frowning at his own handwriting. There are prickles of interest around the room, and I feel a few glances coming my way.
“Grissini,” murmurs Metaphor. “Who’d’ve thought?”
I’m feeling a bit unreal here. I somehow want to signal to Dutch, but he’s drawing breath to read again.
“Her skin was beautiful, like—”
Dutch breaks off and says, “Sorry, I can’t read my own…Is that silk? Or…” He turns his head and scrutinizes my leg as though for a prompt, and his brow suddenly clears. “Oh, right, I remember—milk.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Dutch,” says Metaphor, raising her hand politely, “but since we’re on a pause: Is this fiction?”
Dutch looks caught out. “Of course,” he says after a moment. “Fiction. For sure.”
“What are your characters’ names?” inquires Metaphor with a sweet smile.
“Names?” Dutch looks flummoxed. He glances at me and away again. “I haven’t got to that.”
Oh God. Doesn’t he realize how obvious this is? I’m squirming on my chair, but Dutch turns the page and resumes confidently. “She had the longest orgasm, like a cry of abandon in the evening air.”
No. He did not just say that. My cheeks flame red. Does anyone think it’s me? As I glance around the room, I can tell: They all think it’s me. Frantically, I try to meet Dutch’s eye and convey the word “stop,” but he’s already reading again.
“And she was adventurous. More than he could have predicted. For example—”
“This is powerful stuff, Dutch,” Farida interrupts him hurriedly. “Is it all in…this vein?”
“Pretty much.” Dutch looks up, his face glowing. “Like I said, I was inspired. I see why you guys love writing now. It gives you such a buzz, doesn’t it? Writing this gave me—”
He breaks off again, as though he can’t even describe what it gave him.
Although I have an idea.
“Well, I suggest we leave it there for now,” says Farida pleasantly. “Thank you so much for sharing your…work.”
“Wait, I’m coming to a good bit,” says Dutch, and turns back to his text: “They did it on a chair with a high back. It was mind-blowing. She wrapped her legs around his—”
“Enough!” Farida cuts him off almost desperately and places a hand on his page for good measure. “Enough. Let’s move on now. Many congratulations to Dutch for…finding his bold new voice. Who would like to read next?”
She spreads her hands invitingly, but no one answers. Everyone’s looking at either me or Dutch or the high-backed chair I’m sitting on.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” says Kirk at last in a throaty voice. “But I’m happy to hear more from Dutch.”
Six
As the group finally disbands for lunch, I can’t look anyone in the eye. Not anyone. I wait until everyone else has wandered off, then grab Dutch and pull him into an alcove.
“What was that?” I demand. “Everyone knew it was us!”
“What?” Dutch looks blank.
“Your writing! The sex! It was obvious you were writing about…you know. Us. Last night. Grissini?” I add meaningfully.
“It was fiction,” says Dutch, looking a bit offended. “Everyone knew it was fiction.”
“No they didn’t! You can’t just change the names and it’s fiction. Anyway, you didn’t even bother to change the names,” I add, suddenly remembering. “You didn’t disguise it at all! Everyone was looking at us and basically picturing us doing it on the chair.”
“What? No they weren’t!” Dutch pauses, and I can see him belatedly processing the idea. “Oh. OK. Maybe a couple of people thought it was us.”
“Everyone thought it was us,” I contradict him firmly. “Everyone.”
“Well, then…they were jealous.” His eyes glint wickedly, and in spite of myself I smile. Then he pulls me closer and adds, “I wish we were doing it on the chair. I missed you this morning.”
“I missed you too,” I murmur. My indignation seems to have melted away. It’s the spell he puts on me. “ ‘Mind-blowing,’ huh?” I add teasingly. “Is that your five-star review?”
Dutch gives a low chuckle.
“Let’s grab lunch quickly,” he suggests. “And have a siesta.”
“Good idea.”
He’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin. As we gaze at each other I can see the thoughts playing in his eyes, and I shiver with anticipation.
“Shall we go?” he says, as Scribe crosses the courtyard, along with Beginner and Booklover.
“Yes. No. One more thing.” I wait until everyone’s out of earshot, then say a little tentatively, “I was going to ask you your name. As my personal question of the day.”
“Right.” I can see a slight wariness in his eyes. “OK.”
“I was going to.” I hold up a hand to stop him blurting it out. “I know it’s against the rules of the retreat, but I thought, if we were…you know, together, then…” I draw breath. “But then I changed my mind.”
“Oh, really?” He peers at me as though he can’t follow my thoughts, which to be fa
ir, he probably can’t. No one can follow my thoughts. Nell calls me Alice in Wonderland because I end up wandering down so many mental paths at once.
Which isn’t strictly speaking what Alice in Wonderland does, but—
Oh, OK. I’m wandering again. Focus, Ava.
“We’re in a bubble here.” I gaze at him, trying to convey the strength of what I’m saying. “And it’s kind of magical. At least, I think it is.”
This is Dutch’s cue to say, “So do I,” but he just carries on gazing at me, as though waiting for me to continue.
I suppose at least he didn’t say, “No it’s not.”
“This getting to know each other without names and postcodes and family background and all that crap…” I exhale. “It’s a luxury. We should enjoy it. Savor it.”
“Yes.” He finally comes alive. “I agree. Fully.”
“It’s real. What we have feels…” I hesitate, because is this too much, too soon? But I can’t stop myself. “You might just think this is a holiday fling.” My voice trembles a little. “But I think…I already feel like it’s…more.”
There’s an unbearable silence between us. I can hear a distant gale of laughter coming from the lunch table, but I’m rapt.
“I think it’s more too,” Dutch says at last in a low voice, and he squeezes my hands tight.
“Well…good.” A stupid smile spreads over my face. “I’m…I feel really…”
“Me too.”
He smiles back, and for a moment neither of us speaks. And I don’t exactly believe in auras, but we are in some kind of aura right now. I can feel it. All around us.
“Anyway,” I say, coming to. “What I was going to say is, shall we not ask any more personal questions of each other? Shall we not try to find out…I don’t know, what our middle names are and where we live? Not till we leave here, anyway. Let’s stay in the bubble.”
“Sounds good.” Dutch nods. “I like the bubble. In fact, I love the bubble.”
“I love the bubble too.” I feel my face softening as he leans down to kiss me. “Oh, wait, though. There’s one thing I think we should know. Do you…have kids?”
The thought crossed my mind during the session, and now it won’t leave me alone. Not that it would be a problem, of course not, it’s just…
“Kids?” Dutch’s face starts in surprise. “No. Do you?”
“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “I…I have a dog, though.”
As I say the words, I feel myself tensing up with almighty nerves. Because Harold is my kids. If Dutch has some kind of, I don’t know, objection…or problem…
As I wait for his reply, I’m so fearful I can hardly breathe. Because it could all be over, right now. And then I would die. I would actually die.
He can’t have a problem, says an optimistic voice in my mind (Alice). He loves dogs!
You don’t know that, answers the Red Queen, who is always making trouble and scoring points. Maybe he only likes white shepherds.
“I love dogs,” says Dutch easily, and I nearly collapse.
“Great!” I say, my relief tumbling out. “That’s…He’s called Harold. He’s…”
Shall I show him a photo? No. Too soon. Anyway, I’ve already divulged enough.
“I bet he’s a wonderful dog,” says Dutch.
“Oh, he is,” I say eagerly. “He is.”
Just the idea of Dutch meeting Harold floods me with emotion. My two centers of love, together.
Wait. Do I mean “love”? I’ve only just met Dutch. Am I using the word “love,” even in my thoughts?
“Shall we go?” Dutch tugs at my hand. “I have an appetite for grissini.” He winks at me. “And shall we not hide anymore? Because if you’re right, it’s no secret that we’ve hooked up. And it gives me a kick to be with the prettiest girl in the place.” He links his arm firmly through mine. “You know, you mentioned grissini in your piece too,” he adds as we cross the cloister. “So you needn’t be so high and mighty.” He winks at me again and I feel a flood of…what?
Come on. Be honest. There is only one word for what I’m feeling right now.
I love him. I don’t know anything about this guy. Not his age, not his job, not even his name. But I love him.
* * *
—
By Friday, we’re a couple. We’re the couple. We walk around hand in hand, and we sit next to each other in sessions. People leave two adjoining chairs for us at supper, as a matter of course. They say “Aria and Dutch” when they’re talking about evening plans.
I’ve never felt so heady and happy and intoxicated in my life. Dutch’s face when I wake up. His laugh. His strong hand in mine.
On Friday afternoon, Giuseppe drives the whole group out of the monastery to a hillside olive grove, for a picnic. All the writing sessions are done, and Farida has explained that this is when we can relax, unmask, introduce ourselves, and say our good-byes.
As I get down from the minibus, I’m feeling huge pangs, because I’ve loved it here. The sunshine, the food, the writing, the people…I’ll even miss Metaphor. Nearby, Austen, Scribe, and Author-to-Be are already talking about booking next year, and I don’t blame them.
Giuseppe is unloading a massive hamper from the minibus, and some others are carrying blankets. I’m about to go and help when Author-to-Be comes up, brandishing a piece of paper at me. “Aria! Have you entered the competition?”
“Competition?” I blink at him.
“Guess the name. Two people have got you down as Clover.”
“Clover?” I take the paper from him and look down, starting to laugh. There are seven guesses against my name and all of them are wrong.
After a bit of thought, I fill in my own guesses. It’s so random and silly, but I do feel like Author-to-Be might be Derek, and Kirk might be Sean.
“Well done.” Author-to-Be takes back the paper. “Now let’s get some drinks poured and we can have the big reveal!”
“Actually…” I put a hand on his arm. “Dutch and I aren’t revealing our names yet. We want to leave it until we absolutely have to.”
This was my idea. We’re not leaving till tomorrow morning. We’re in paradise right now. Once we reveal our names, the whole cascade of information will come out…and what’s the benefit? Why burst our precious bubble any earlier than we have to?
“Fair enough.” Author-to-Be twinkles at me. “I’m not above a bit of role play myself.”
I stare at him in indignation. Role play? This isn’t role play—it’s real, connected love! I’m about to tell him so, but he’s already heading over to where the group is sitting on amazing embroidered blankets (available for sale at the gift shop).
I gaze at the scene for a moment, wanting it to last forever. There’s prosecco going round and plates of cured meats and Farida is laughing at something and the sunlight is dappled through the olive trees and it’s just idyllic.
Dutch is chatting to Giuseppe as they carry the last hamper together. He winks at me, then comes to join me, and we find a place on one of the rugs together. I sip my prosecco while Beginner proposes a toast to Farida, whereupon Farida makes a nice speech about what a particularly charming and talented group we are. (I’m sure she says that every week.)
Then Author-to-Be tinkles a fork in his glass. “Attention! Time for the big identity reveal! I will now read out all the names that you think I might be. Derek. Keith. James. Simon. Desmond. Raymond. John. Robert. And the truth is…” He pauses for effect. “I’m Richard! And I’m a geography teacher from Norwich.”
Everyone bursts into applause and whooping, while Richard beams around, then says, “Next up…Scribe!” He passes the paper along to her while Kirk calls out, “Wait! Scribe, can I change my mind? I think you’re called Margot.”
Scribe isn’t called Margot but Felicity, and she’s a s
tay-at-home housewife. Metaphor is called Anna and works in London in HR. Kirk is called Aaron and is doing a postdoctorate in computer science. Beginner is called Eithne and has eleven grandchildren! It’s actually really fun, hearing everyone reveal their true identities, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if we should join in….But, then, don’t the best things come to those who wait?
And anyway, the truth is, I have a fair idea about Dutch already. I’m pretty intuitive. Not psychic, exactly, but…I pick things up. I have sensitive radar. He’s good with his hands and lit up when I mentioned furniture at the beach. He loves design and he once let a comment slip about being in “the workshop,” so, putting that all together, I think he’s a carpenter. He probably makes beautiful marquetry or something like that, and I think he might work with his dad.
He also has a name with foreign origins. He blurted that out by mistake two nights ago. And it could be anything, obviously…but the name “Jean-Luc” instantly popped into my brain.
I just have a feeling about it. Jean-Luc. He looks like a Jean-Luc.
Hi, this is Jean-Luc. He’s a carpenter.
Yes. That feels real. It feels like Dutch.
I don’t know where he lives, and that’s a bit scary. But it’s a city and it’s not Australia or New Zealand. (I couldn’t survive without asking him that.) So we’ll make it work. Whether it’s Manchester or Paris or Seattle. We will.
“So. Dutch and Aria.” Finally Richard turns in our direction. “You’re not giving away your identities yet.”
“Their names are way too embarrassing,” says Kirk, and there’s a roar of laughter.
“I know it seems weird,” I say with an abashed smile. “But we just want to prolong the magic. This has been so special….”
“Holiday flings always are,” says Anna, in that sweet, bitchy way she has, and I flinch, because why did she have to say that? This isn’t just a holiday fling.
I can see Dutch looking from her to me and realizing that I’m hurt. And before I can even draw breath, he’s stood up. He beckons to me to join him, and, feeling confused, I stand too. Everyone swivels to look up at us, and Richard tinkles his glass again.
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