“Pray silence for the bride and groom!” he announces in jocular tones—and I know he’s only playing around, but still a frisson passes through me. I glance hesitantly at Dutch—because this was his idea—and he draws breath.
“OK, you guys win,” he says in his easy way, looking around at the expectant faces. “You’ve got to me. I never thought about romance till I came on this course. I never thought about ‘love.’ But now it’s all I can think about…because I love this woman.” He turns to me. “Not just for the week. Not just as a holiday fling. But for keeps.”
I stare back at him, speechless, my eyes instantly full of tears. I never expected this. I never expected him to make a public declamation, or to be so forceful about it, or to gaze at me like he’s gazing at me now, his eyes warm and loving.
For keeps.
“Dutch…” I begin, then swallow hard, trying to get my thoughts together. I barely notice Scribe—or, rather, Felicity—creeping up toward me with a plaited garland of greenery. She pops it on top of my head with a mischievous smile, then retreats. And now I really do feel like a bride, standing in an olive grove in my white drifty dress with a wreath on my head. Oh God. I’m not sure I can cope.
“Dutch,” I start again, trying to ignore the tear which has edged onto my cheek. “I came on this course to learn about writing fictional love. Fantasy love. But I’ve found the real thing.” I squeeze his hands tight. “Right here. The real thing.” My voice has started to tremble, but I force myself to continue. “And I want to pledge to you, Dutch, that no matter what your real name is…no matter what you do…no matter where you live in the world…we’ll make this work.”
Dutch gazes at me wordlessly for a moment, then pulls me in for a kiss, and everyone erupts in whoops, cheers, and clapping. Richard is singing the bridal march, because he’s the type to milk a joke, and I’m sure Anna is sneering, but I’m not even going to glance in her direction. I’m in bliss. I’m in delicious, hazy, romantic bliss, and—
“Scusi.” Giuseppe has appeared out of nowhere, holding a pile of paper slips, and reluctantly I swivel my gaze toward him. “Taxi vouchers,” he announces to Dutch and me. He consults the slips, then holds out one to each of us. “BA flight to Heathrow. Yes? The taxi leave at eight A.M.”
He nods briskly, then moves to distribute vouchers among the other guests, while Dutch and I stare at each other, taking in this thunderbolt. Heathrow. Heathrow! I’m stunned. (In fact, I’m almost let down, because I’d imagined romantically battling the odds of a long-distance relationship.)
“Heathrow,” says Dutch. “Well, that makes things simpler. You live in London?”
“Shhh!” I bat my hands at him. “That’s…Not yet.”
The stars are in alignment, I’m thinking in giddy joy. That’s what this is. Of all the places in all the world Dutch could have come from…it’s London!
“I always assumed you did,” he adds, and I jolt in astonishment.
“How on earth did you assume that? I could have lived anywhere! I could have lived in…Seattle! Montreal! Jaipur!” I cast around for another random place. “Honolulu!”
Dutch stares at me blankly for a moment.
“You sound like a Londoner,” he says with a shrug. “Plus I was chatting to Nadia and she said over sixty percent of the class came from London.”
“Oh.”
“They have London-centric marketing,” he adds. “We were talking about how they could expand their targets regionally. It was interesting.”
OK, I feel we’re getting slightly off topic here. To recapture the mood, I reach up to kiss him again, then press my cheek against his strong, stubbly jaw.
“We’re meant to be,” I murmur in his ear. “That’s what this is. We’re meant to be.”
Seven
By the time we board our plane the next morning, I’m bursting with anticipation. I’m finally going to find out about Dutch! And Dutch will find out about me…and our happy life together will begin.
We’ve decided we won’t spill our details to each other on the plane. (At least, I decided.) Even though I’m dying with curiosity, the moment needs to be right. We’ve waited this long; we can wait a little longer.
So my plan is this: We arrive at Heathrow, find a bar, sit and face each other, take a deep breath—and reveal everything. Meanwhile, just for fun, we’re going to write down a few guesses on the flight. Name, job, hobbies. That was my idea too. I was going to add “age,” and then I suddenly realized what a terrible idea that was and amended, “Everything except age.”
A few of us from the course are on the plane, all scattered around. Dutch has been seated four rows ahead of me, but that’s fine. We don’t need to sit together. We’ve got the rest of our lives to be together.
We’re both wearing normal clothes by now. I’m in a floaty dress and Dutch is in jeans, with a linen shirt he bought from the monastery gift shop. His outfit doesn’t give much away, although I’ve noticed a nice watch. He’s tanned and brawny and he’s wearing flip-flops. He looks just like a carpenter.
I write down carpenter and Jean-Luc and then lean back in my seat, trying to picture where he might live and work. I can definitely picture his workshop. And him in it, wearing a frayed gray undershirt. Maybe he saws a few planks and builds up a sweat, then heads outside with a cup of coffee and strips off his undershirt to do martial-arts training in the sunshine. Mmm.
This is such a delicious vision that I close my eyes to imagine it even more vividly, and then I guess I must have fallen into a doze, because it seems about five minutes later that we’re preparing for landing. The London sky is white and cloudy as we descend, and I feel a pang of longing for Italy—but it’s soon swamped by excitement. Not long now!
We’ve agreed to catch up with each other at the baggage carousel, and as I arrive there I see Eithne and Anna. (It still feels weird not to call them Beginner and Metaphor.)
“It was wonderful to meet you,” says Eithne, hugging each of us tightly before leaving.
Anna doesn’t hug us but says, “Good luck,” with one of those snarky smiles of hers, and I force myself to beam back pleasantly and say, “You too!”
Then finally our cases appear and we’re wheeling them toward the exit.
“Where shall we go?” I ask as we pass through the arrivals gate into the melee of drivers holding up signs. “One of the airport hotels, maybe? Sit at the bar? Order some wine?”
“Good idea.” He nods.
“So, did you make any guesses about me on the plane?” I can’t resist asking, and Dutch laughs.
“Actually, I did guess a few things. I mean, I’m sure I’m wrong,” he instantly backtracks. “It’s just speculation.”
“I like speculation,” I say. “Tell me.”
“OK.” Dutch pauses for a moment, grinning and shaking his head, as though embarrassed by his own thoughts, then blurts out, “I think you might be a perfumer.”
Wow. A perfumer! That’s actually pretty close to aromatherapist! Which I will be once I’ve done the course.
“Did I get that right?” he adds.
“That would be telling.” I smile at him. “All in good time. Why a perfumer?”
“I suppose when I think of you, it’s sitting with flowers all around you,” he says after a moment’s thought. “Wafting their scent round you. You’re so tranquil and serene. So…I don’t know. Unruffled.”
I gaze at him, enchanted. Unruffled! Serene! No one’s ever called me serene before.
“And you know what they say about dogs,” continues Dutch, warming to his theme. “They always suit their owners. So I’m thinking you have a whippet. Or maybe an Afghan hound. A beautiful, elegant dog with beautiful, elegant manners. Am I right?”
“Er…” I root in my bag for a lip balm, slightly dodging the question. I mean, Harold’s beautiful for a beagle.
And his manners are beautiful, too, in their own way, only you have to get to know him. Which I’m sure Dutch will.
“How about me?” says Dutch, as we step outside into the English air, which feels chilly after Italy. “Have you worked me out yet?”
“Oh, I think I’ve gleaned quite a lot, here and there,” I say teasingly, and he shoots me a rueful smile.
“I guess I’m an open book, right?”
“I’m pretty certain I know what you do for a living”—I nod—“and I have an idea about your name…” I break off as I hear my own name being called from a distance.
“Ava! Ava! Over here!”
Huh? What—
Oh my God! No way!
My heart lifts in disbelieving joy as I take in the familiar faces of Nell, Sarika, Maud, and the children. It’s the squad! And Harold! They came to meet me! We had a brief WhatsApp chat this morning—but they never told me they were planning this!
The only thing is, they seem to be involved in some sort of scuffle. Harold is snarling at a uniformed chauffeur and biting at his legs, while Bertie tries to haul him off. Oh God. Harold hates uniforms, and this one is particularly ridiculous. Who needs all that braid?
“Get that dog off me!” the chauffeur is exclaiming furiously.
“Take off your hat, then,” Bertie retorts insolently. “Harold doesn’t like your hat. It’s not his fault.”
“Children should be seen and not heard,” snaps the chauffeur, in livid tones. “Will you stop that dog?”
“Seen and not heard?” Nell instantly squares up to him. “You want to silence children? Maybe you want to silence women too. What’s your fucking problem? Ava! Is that your carpenter?” she adds more cheerily. “Bring him over!”
“Jean-Luc!” exclaims Maud, clapping her hands together in excitement. “He’s dreamy! Is he really called Jean-Luc?”
I glance at Dutch to see if he responds to the name Jean-Luc, but he’s gazing at the scene with a weird expression.
“Are they…with you?” he says disbelievingly.
“Yes,” I say joyfully. “They’re my friends. Come and meet them.”
As I utter the words, Harold starts to run round and round the chauffeur’s legs, binding them with his lead, barking uproariously. Bertie’s given him too much slack, I realize. But, then, he’s only a child.
“I’m calling the police,” yells the chauffeur. “You’re a disgrace!”
“Is that…your dog?” says Dutch, sounding a bit shell-shocked.
OK. So this isn’t the most ideal way for Harold to introduce himself. But Dutch is a dog person. He’ll understand.
“He hates uniforms,” I explain. “Harold!” I call out. “Darling! I’m back!”
At the sound of my voice, Harold turns, and an expression of utter joy comes over his face. He tries to gallop toward me, nearly pulling over the chauffeur before Nell grabs the lead.
“Mr. Warwick!” The chauffeur gazes desperately in Dutch’s direction, and I feel an almighty jolt of shock.
“Wait. Is he…with you?”
“That’s Geoff,” says Dutch shortly. “And yes.”
Dutch has a driver?
My brain seems to be short-circuiting. This is all wrong. Carpenters don’t have drivers. What’s going on?
I hurry forward, take Harold’s lead from Nell, and extricate it from the chauffeur’s legs.
“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly. “Are your legs all right? My dog’s just quite highly strung. He needs soothing.”
“Soothing!” expostulates the chauffeur. “I’ll soothe him all right!”
I bend down to hug my precious Harold and whisper in his ear how I’ve missed him so much but I have a new friend for him to meet. Then I rise again, turn to Dutch, and say in tremulous tones, “So, meet Harold!”
It takes me a moment to realize that Dutch isn’t even looking at Harold. He’s addressing the chauffeur in irritable tones. I’ve never even heard him sound irritable before.
“Geoff, what are you doing here?”
“They want you at the conference,” says the chauffeur. “And the dinner. Mr. Warwick, Sr., says you know about it. He told me to come and drive you straight to Ascot.”
Dutch closes his eyes as though trying to control himself. “I said I wasn’t doing the conference. I made it quite clear.”
“That’s what he said,” replies Geoff implacably. “They’re expecting you.”
“I need to make a call,” says Dutch to me, jabbing tensely at his phone. “Sorry. This is…This really wasn’t the plan….Dad.” He strides away out of earshot, and I stare after him, nonplussed.
“I thought he was a carpenter,” says Maud, who has been watching, agog, with all the others.
“I thought he was too,” I say confusedly. “I…don’t know. I must have picked up the wrong vibes.”
“So, what does he do?” says Nell.
“What’s his name?” chimes in Sarika.
“Don’t know,” I admit.
“You still don’t know his bloody name?” Nell sounds incredulous. “Ava, what are you like? What’s his name?” she demands of Geoff. “Your boss there. What’s he called?”
“He’s called Mr. Warwick,” says Geoff stiffly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“My friend’s planning to spend the rest of her days with him and have his babies,” retorts Nell. “So it is my business.”
Geoff eyes me with a supremely dubious look but doesn’t reply. I’m not sure what to say, either, so we all stand there waiting for Dutch to return—and when he does, it’s with a thunderous frown on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says directly to me. “I’m so sorry. I have to go and do a work thing.”
“On a Saturday?” I can’t hide my dismay.
“It’s a weekend conference. It’s…” He exhales. “Sorry. But I’ll be back. As soon as I can. Tomorrow. And we’ll…take it from there.”
He looks so miserable and apologetic, my heart melts. I don’t know what went on during that phone call, but his brow has darkened and I know he doesn’t want to leave.
“Don’t worry!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Go and do…whatever you have to do. And I’m sorry about Harold,” I add to Geoff, who just sniffs in reply.
“Nice to meet you.” Dutch lifts a hand in greeting to my friends. “And you, Harold. I hope to make better acquaintance with you another time. But I have to go.” Then he turns to me and for a moment we’re both silent, gazing into each other’s faces. “I guess the bubble had to burst sometime,” Dutch says at last.
“I guess so.”
“But this doesn’t change anything. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I swallow hard. “So much.”
“And we’re going to make this work.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, look at them!” I can hear Maud exclaiming to Nell. “They’re adorable!”
Dutch has taken hold of my hands and I’m not sure I can bear to let go—but Geoff is making impatient noises, so at last, feeling noble, I release him and say, “Go. Do your thing.”
I watch as Dutch follows Geoff to a nearby big black corporate-looking car and slides into the back. That is so not the car I was expecting him to have. Nor a driver who opens the door for him. Nor the Financial Times waiting for him on the backseat.
“Wait!” I say, as Geoff is preparing to shut the car door. “What is your thing? What do you do?”
“It’s a family company,” says Dutch, looking even more tense than before. “So…Anyway. That’s it.”
“But you talked about a workshop,” I say in confusion.
“Yes. There’s a workshop in the design studio.”
“But what do you do?” I say in slight frustration. “Wh
at does the company do?”
“We make dollhouses.”
“What?” I stare at him, thinking I must have misheard.
“Dollhouses,” he repeats. “And dolls. We’ve been making them forever. People collect them all over the world….It’s a thing.”
He’s in dollhouses? I didn’t see that coming either.
“Right,” I say, trying to think of something to say about dollhouses. “Well…that’s super-cool! I’ll see you soon.”
“Can’t wait. It’s been amazing.” He meets my eyes again. “Truly.”
“I’ll miss you!” I say impulsively.
“Me too.” He nods, then turns away. “OK, Geoff.”
Geoff closes the door and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine fires up and the car is moving away when I realize the most dreadful, horrendous thing. I pelt after the car, Harold barking madly, and bang on the glass till the car comes to a halt and the window winds down again.
“You haven’t got my number!” I blurt out.
“Shit.”
“I know!” We stare at each other, both wide-eyed at the enormity of what nearly just happened—then I whip my phone out. “Type it in here,” I say breathlessly. “Oh, and one last thing. What’s your name? I’m Ava. Who are you?”
“Oh, right.” Light dawns on his face. “I never told you.” He finishes typing in his number, then looks up. “I’m Matt. Short for Matthias.”
“Matt!” I smile, because Matt is a good name, even if it isn’t Jean-Luc. I save his contact under Dutch/Matt, ping him a text, and breath out in relief. “Hi, Matt. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Ava.” His eyes crinkle. “Nice to meet you. Good save.”
He closes the window again and I watch the car move off, my mind turning over this new information. Matt. Matthias. Dollhouses. (Dollhouses?) Matt Warwick. Matt. Meet my boyfriend, Matt. Hi, this is Matt. Have you met Matt?
It feels right. It feels familiar. I think I knew he was called Matt all along.
Love Your Life Page 9