years.
‘I’m going to go for the bread roll with a meat croquette,’ Olaf says. ‘You too?’
‘Alright.’ Over the past year I’ve put on five kilos from the Prozac and from comfort-eating chocolate. One croquette isn’t going to make a difference.
We pick a table near to where RenÉe and her cronies have set up. They arrange themselves so that they can keep an eye on me.
I try to relax and smile at Olaf.
‘Did you read about the school reunion?’ He spreads a layer of mustard onto his croquette.
I nod and cut my roll into smaller pieces. There’s no way I’m going to try to eat this whole thing with my hands.
‘Are you going to go?’ Olaf asks.
I think about the school grounds during the breaks, the little groups dotted around it, the wall I used to lean against, on my own.
‘No way.’ I take a bite.
Olaf laughs. ‘I don’t really feel like it either.’ He mashes his croquette onto his bread. ‘If I’d wanted to stay in touch with somebody I would have. But still, we haven’t seen each other for years and it is good to see you again.’
I still don’t quite feel comfortable with him. Each time he looks at me, I become even more conscious of my limp hair, my tired, pale face and the sweat patches on my jumper.
Just then Olaf attacks his sandwich like a buzzard after prey. He eats with perceptible and audible pleasure. I don’t usually like men who let you see exactly how they chew their food. But in this case I’m filled with relief and renewed confidence. Sweat patches might be nasty but lumps of croquette falling out of your mouth are worse.
Olaf doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by it. He picks up the pieces again with his fork and puts them back into his mouth. He hasn’t yet swallowed them when he begins to talk again. ‘If you change your mind, tell me. We could drive together. By the way, how is Robin these days?’
‘Good. He’s living in England.’ I’m relieved that we’ve dropped the subject of school.
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He also works in IT,’ I say.
‘In what sort of company?’ Olaf asks.
‘Clothing,’ I say. ‘Men’s fashion.’
‘And he’s going to stay there? Or is it just temporary?’
‘I hope it’s only temporary,’ I say. ‘If he emigrates as well…My parents already live in Spain, you know. Robin and I both lived and worked in Amsterdam but then his company decided to set up a new branch. Once it’s off the ground he’ll come back, I hope.’
‘The two of you were always close, I remember that.’ Olaf takes such a huge bite of his roll that I look away as a precaution. I only look at him again when it’s obvious that the mouthful has been safely disposed of. He wipes the remains from around his mouth and rinses the rest away with a gulp of coffee.
‘I’d better get back to the grind. That was really nice, let’s do it again soon.’
‘We’ll do that,’ I say, and I mean it, despite the croquette.
We carry our trays to the rack, shove them in, plate, cutlery and all, and walk to the lift together.
‘You’re going home now, right?’ Olaf says. ‘I’ll come down with you.’
He doesn’t have to do that; he could just take a different lift. There is a churning in my stomach. When we reach the bottom and the doors open, Olaf gets out with me.
I look at him a little uneasily. I know what’s coming, that testing the waters phase. Wanting to ask someone out, dodging around the subject, angling to see if the other person is interested. I need to smile and flirt a little to urge him to take that step, and I’m not very good at that.
‘See you tomorrow then. Enjoy your work!’ I pull my bag up higher onto my shoulder, raise my hand and walk into the lobby. I don’t look back but I’m almost certain that Olaf is looking at me, dumbfounded.
The May sunlight accompanies me to my bike. I have a car, a little Ford Ka, which I only use when it’s raining. In Amsterdam you can get around faster by bike, especially during the morning rush hour.
I’m glad I’m not driving. I need a dose of fresh air. My temples are throbbing.
I ride through the Rembrandt park where the trees are blooming a fresh spring green. People are walking their dogs, a couple of school kids with a bag of chips sit smoking on one of the benches and the ducks are noisy in the pond. I’m going so slowly that joggers overtake me.
I feel like a prisoner who’s just been released from her cell. A dog runs alongside me barking for a while but I’m not bothered, I love dogs. I wouldn’t mind having one myself. You give them food, a roof, a pat and they’re your friend for life. They carry on loving you, grateful for every friendly word, even if you hit them or tell them off.
I’ve heard that dog owners choose the breeds that most resemble themselves and this seems right to me. If reincarnation exists and I have to come back in the next life as a dog, I think I’d be a golden retriever. My brother Robin has something of a pit bull in him.
Inside and out, we’re not very much alike, my brother and me. He’s two heads taller, has builder’s arms, and darker, close-cropped hair. Add an extroverted, dominant personality and you’ve got someone you’d better not mess with. At least other people shouldn’t—he’s the kind of brother every girl dreams of and I miss him even more than my parents.
One sunny day in April when I was fourteen, I was riding home from school along the bulb fields, rows of daffodils nodding their yellow heads at me in the wind. I thought how happy mum would be if I surprised her with flowers, and before I knew it, I’d laid my bike down on the side of the road, glanced towards the little house next to the bulb field and jumped over the small ditch which separated the bike path from the field.
Doing something like that wasn’t really me. I was scared that a farmer would come charging after me, but I couldn’t see anyone around and I went deeper into the field. By the time I saw the owner walking towards me, it was too late—he’d gone round me and was blocking my escape route. I froze among the daffodils, stammered something about paying, but he grabbed me by the arm, dragged me towards the ditch and threw me in. Literally. I couldn’t sit down for days for the bruises. I climbed up the bank, crying, and rode home. My mother and Robin were in the garden when I arrived. It took them a while to get to the bottom of what had happened.
‘Well, dear, you shouldn’t go into farmers’ fields,’ my mother said. ‘Imagine if everyone decided to pick a bunch of daffodils.’
That was typical of my mother. Of course she was right, but the daffodils had been meant for her and I’d reckoned on some sympathy. My mother has always been quite rational. A row with a teacher? Then
