We say goodbye and I climb the stairs to my apartment with a heavy tread. Exhausted from carrying all the bags, I open the door and kick it closed behind me, dropping all of my purchases onto the hall floor. I take off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa. Shop until you drop, the British say. Now I understand why.
I give my feet a strong massage and when I feel that I can walk again, I have a lukewarm shower. I feel much better afterwards. I clip the labels from the underwear sets, skirts and tops, and try everything on once again. It’s true; lingerie does make you feel special. Nobody knows that you are wearing it, except you. I strike a pose, hands on hips, toss my hair back and look into the mirror with the arrogant stare of a model.
A femme fatale, until I let my hands drop and my fat rolls remind me that one or two things need to happen. But the new skirt disguises them. In the end I’m pleased with the result.
I blow-dry my newly washed, fresh-smelling hair and put it up. I’m still doing my make-up when I hear a loud honking.
Olaf is in a black Peugeot, the windows wound down, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His fingers drum on the roof of the car, marking time to Robbie Williams’ latest single. He hasn’t bothered to dress up, he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
My own metamorphosis suddenly seems rather over the top. Isn’t that pink a bit too sweet? These strappy high-heeled shoes might be great, but my top is tight around my breasts and the straps keep falling down.
I give myself a last once over in the mirror, apply a coat of mascara and put on a pair of crystal earrings. My hair looks good. Nice to have it all out of my face. It’s a shame that I’m so pale but the self-tanner I used made one of my legs look like a carrot, so I didn’t dare try it on my face. I didn’t do the other leg either, so I’m now walking round with one orangey leg. In the restaurant my legs will be under the table though, and in the car I’ll cross my white leg over the orange one.
The horn echoes against the walls of the houses. Olaf spots me and sticks his head out of the window. ‘Are you ready?’ he shouts.
I’m outside in the blink of an eye, but he still finds an opportunity to blow his horn again.
I stalk across the road. Olaf is blocking the narrow street without bothering to leave any room. I pull open the door and snap, ‘Drive.’
‘Yes, miss! You look as pretty as a picture.’
I turn away and remain silent.
‘What’s the matter? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when you take a lady out?’ Olaf is genuinely surprised.
‘When you take a lady out you shouldn’t honk in the street like a crazy person!’ I regret my remark instantly. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s picked up his granny from the retirement home. And he does have that feeling; I can see it in the way he is looking at me. Worse, he hasn’t driven off, but remains blocking the street.
‘You could have rung my bell,’ I suggest, more gently.
‘But then I’d have had to double park,’ he defends himself. ‘Have you seen those wheel clamps in the street?’
‘Then call me on my mobile. Why don’t you drive off? There are five cars behind us!’ I look over my shoulder. One of the drivers gets out, another begins to toot his horn.
‘Oy, don’t do that! You should call me on my mobile!’ shouts Olaf out of the window. He puts his foot down and the car roars out of the street.
I can’t help it, I have to laugh. ‘You feel at home in Amsterdam, don’t you? No one would think you were actually a beachcomber from Den Helder.’
‘In Den Helder, they might call me a beachcomber, here I’m an Amsterdammer. Do you know what they call people from Tilburg by the way?’
‘No idea.’
‘Pot-pissers. It comes from when Tilburg was the centre of the textile industry. In order to make felt you needed urine, amongst other things. In Tilburg it was collected from the inhabitants, they were paid to fill a pot. Gross, eh?’
‘Hilarious,’ I say.
This makes him laugh. ‘You’re a dry one.’
‘I’m just happy I’m not from Tilburg. I know exactly what nickname you’d have given me then. That’s what you used to do.’
‘Me?’
‘Don’t you remember what you used to call me?’
‘Sabine, perhaps?’
‘No. Little Miss Shy.’
Olaf slaps his chest. ‘That’s true! God, you’ve got the memory of an elephant. You were a real Little Miss Shy.’
We turn onto the Nassaukade and into a traffic jam. Olaf looks in his rear view mirror but there are cars behind us and we can’t turn round.
‘Shit.’ Olaf turns the wheel to the left and mounts the tram lane. A tram behind us complains with a loud tinkling noise. Olaf gestures that he’ll get out of the way soon and drives on. The Marriott Hotel comes into view.
I straighten up. I’m not dressed for that place.
But we drive on past the Marriott and turn left onto the Leidseplein. The Amsterdam American Hotel then. Damn, if I’d known that. I pull down the sun visor and inspect my make-up. I’ll pass.
Olaf turns into a side street and parks illegally.
‘What on earth are you doing? They’ll tow you away.’
‘No, they won’t.’ Olaf brings out a card and puts it on the dashboard.
‘Since when have you been an invalid?’
‘I always get a terrible stitch in my side when I have to walk too far,’ Olaf explains. ‘A friend of mine couldn’t bear it and sorted out this card for me.’
Shaking my head, I throw the card back onto the dashboard and climb out. ‘Hasn’t the Amsterdam American Hotel got a carpark?’
‘Probably.’ Olaf locks the car. ‘But only for guests.’
I go to cross the tram rails but Olaf turns around and gestures for me to follow him.
I spot a garish pancake stall with a terrace full of plastic chairs.
‘Where would you like to sit? There, in the corner? Then we can watch everyone go by.’ Olaf springs onto the terrace and pulls out a bright red plastic chair. His eyes question me, the chair dangling awkwardly in his hands.
His eyes are shining and I find myself moved. On second thoughts, the pancake place seems much nicer than the Marriott or the American. You don’t have to worry what you are wearing at least.
A
