Chapter 10
10
KATE
Willem said he’d pick me up at the houseboat, so I’m waiting outside. There’s not much traffic on the road but as each car approaches, I tense with nerves.
I’m nervous. To see Willem.
Because despite assuring Margot that this isn’t a date, her words have stuck – that he and I have chemistry (or rather, frisson ) – and they’ve been on replay in my mind for the past hour.
I never had that sort of connection with Jon. We didn’t argue, we didn’t challenge each other’s thinking, we didn’t square off…
In contrast, there’s Willem.
I recall the flash in his eyes when he scolded us about our retribution plan. I mean, he was wrong, but at least he took a stance.
All Jon ever said was things like, ‘Oh, yes, I quite agree.’ Upon reflection, that made for a rather dull time. And I couldn’t say with any certainty what Jon stands for, what he believes.
Then again, I’m comparing him to an actual man; it’s likely that Jon’s entire personality is a construct the same way his fabricated life is.
It’s uncomfortable viewing the Kate–Jon dynamic from the outside, seeing it for what it really is – or was. How did I convince myself that what I wanted from a relationship was constant time apart and picture-perfect, film-montage-style dates?
I’ve been a fool.
‘ Hallo! ’ Willem’s voice draws me from my dark thoughts as he rides up on a bike, stopping next to me.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, surprised he’s not in a car. ‘You’re riding a bike.’ The moment the words are out of my mouth, I recognise how stupid they sounded.
He looks down, pretending to be shocked. ‘So I am!’ When he looks up, his eyes are creased at the corners.
‘Sorry, that was a silly thing to say. It’s just… How are we getting there exactly?’
‘You don’t have a bike?’ he asks.
‘Not on me,’ I retort.
‘I mean with your accommodation. Margot said your host left bikes for you to use.’
More surprises – that Willem expects me to ride through Amsterdam, something that terrifies me after spending the afternoon dodging speeding cyclists, and that he and Margot discussed this evening’s transportation without me knowing.
I haven’t responded, and Willem dismounts, rocking his bike onto the kickstand. He walks over to the houseboat, stopping next to the two bikes parked out front. I’ve passed them several times and it has never once occurred to me that they’re for us to use.
‘These are probably the ones. Do you have your keys?’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, delving into my handbag.
I hand over the keys and in no time at all, he has unlocked one of the bikes. He walks it over to me.
‘How tall are you?’ he asks, running his eyes from my head to my feet.
Heat floods my insides. I can’t remember the last time a man looked me up and down like that – especially one as good-looking as Willem.
‘Uh, five-eight,’ I reply.
He nods, then raises the seat a couple of inches.
‘Try this,’ he commands and without thinking, I comply, climbing on. Though I can’t quite reach the ground with my feet and the bike wobbles. I’m about to topple off it when Willem catches me around the waist one-handed, his other hand reaching for the handlebars. For a moment, I’m pressed against him and he smells so damned good, I have to stop myself from nuzzling his neck.
After a few long moments, he gently releases me. I ease off the seat and stand, straddling the bike frame.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says gruffly.
He reaches behind me and adjusts the seat again while I attempt to ignore each of the five times his hand bumps against the back of my legs. Is he doing that on purpose? I wonder, hoping like hell he is.
‘Try it now,’ he says, stepping back.
I look up at him and he’s watching me intently. Frisson . The word pops into my head and it instantly strikes me how right Margot was. There is frisson between us.
I climb back onto the bike seat, now able to reach the ground. Willem nods, satisfied. ‘Oh, you can ride a bike, yes?’
‘Well, technically ,’ I reply. ‘But it’s been a while.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says with a grin, ‘it’s like riding a bike.’
‘Ha-ha, hilarious,’ I say, sniggering despite myself. I couldn’t say if he deliberately made me laugh to dispel my rising anxiety, but it has helped.
He goes to his bike and climbs on.
‘Follow me,’ he says. ‘I will use hand signals to show which way we are going and if we come to an intersection, I’ll make sure you’re close behind me, so I don’t lose you. Okay?’
I nod. ‘Um, shouldn’t I be wearing a helmet?’ I ask.
‘Most people don’t but…’ He reaches behind him, retrieving a helmet from his left saddle bag. I take it from him and clip the strap under my chin. It’s a small thing, but it does make me feel more secure about riding through a bustling city. I only hope we’re not going far.
‘And don’t worry – it’s not far,’ he says, somehow reading my mind. ‘Only two and a half kilometres.’
‘Brilliant,’ I say brightly, trying not to let on that I’d much rather be travelling by car.
Willem sets off and I follow, a little wobbly at first, but within a couple of blocks, I get the hang of it – just like he said I would. Willem takes it slowly as we zigzag through the neighbourhood, riding along canals and crossing bridges.
It’s such a beautiful city, particularly at this time of the evening with the lights from the tall, narrow houses reflecting on the canals and the streaks of pink in the dusk sky. A handful of boats move languidly through the waterways and people of all ages are sitting outside enjoying the early spring weather – some on benches by the canals, others in front of their homes.
It’s a different pace of life here from London – calmer, as if people are more present in their lives than Londoners. Sometimes, it strikes me how frantic my life is – with my daily commute into Central London and constantly navigating the hoards, even to do something as simple as food shopping. I do love living in London – and my job – but there are times when I long for something else – a quieter life, a slower pace. Somewhere I can exhale and just be .
Amsterdam feels like that, and I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.
‘We’re going onto a main street now,’ Willem calls over his shoulder. ‘Stay close.’
‘Okay!’ I call out.
We turn onto a busy bike path, and I narrowly avoid colliding with an oncoming cyclist who has overtaken someone. Right as I brace myself for impact, he slips back onto the correct side, his expression unfazed.
More cyclists fly straight at me, careening out of my path at the last second, and others zip past us, their handlebars only inches from mine. This is the bike path from hell. One wrong move and I’ll go arse over tit, land in the road, and get squashed by a lorry.
So much for Amsterdam’s Zen-like serenity. If I survive this bike ride, I’m buying a lottery ticket.
* * *
‘Well, that was horrible,’ I say as I dismount.
‘You did great,’ Willem replies with a laugh. He leads the way to a crowded row of parked bikes, beaming at me.
‘I did fine – not great,’ I retort. ‘And I’m this close’ – I hold up my thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart – ‘from dumping this bike in the canal and catching a cab back to the houseboat.’
‘They tend to frown on that – deliberately throwing your bike into the canal. Enough end up in there by accident.’
I peer into the murky water. ‘Really?’
‘Around twenty-five thousand a year.’
‘Twenty-five thousand ?’ I exclaim.
He nods.
‘Well, then what’s one more?’ I ask cheekily.
But he’s onto me, giving me a sly, narrow-eyed smile.
We slot our bikes into the haphazard row and lock them. ‘How will we remember where we parked?’ I ask, looking around for a landmark to help mark the spot.
‘Years of experience,’ he replies, that smile firmly in place. It’s sexy and I look away.
‘So, which way?’ I ask – an obvious question, but I’m distracting myself, ignoring that one look from Willem can turn my insides molten.
He jerks his head towards the right, and we head off. There are too many obstacles in this part of the city to walk side by side – people, bikes, tables and chairs outside restaurants, the occasional tram – so mostly, I trail behind him. Every so often, he glances over his shoulder.
‘Still here,’ I say after the tenth time, and he nods. God, I hope he didn’t catch me staring at his arse. Some men – like Jon – have a flat arse, but Willem’s fills out his jeans perfectly.
Eventually, he stops outside a corner bar called Bar Feijoa. ‘I thought we could have a drink here before dinner.’
I squint into the darkness. The bar is quiet at the moment, but it seems like the sort of place that ramps up at night. The sort of place I used to frequent in my late-teens and early-twenties – usually with Margot. There was a time when I did shots off the bar and kissed strangers and danced until I was a sweaty mess.
Then I discovered other ways to have fun, more adult ways.
Then you got boring, Kate .
The thought comes out of nowhere, an emotional slap to the face, and I swallow hard then step inside the bar, Willem close behind me. The bartender looks up from the cutting board where he’s slicing limes and grins.
‘Willem,’ he says, firing off a greeting in Dutch. There seems to be a chastising tone to his words, which is confirmed when Willem switches to English and apologises.
‘Yeah, I know. Sorry, but I’ve been busy with work. This is Kate.’
‘Hello,’ I say.
He reaches across the bar, presumably to shake my hand, and I place mine in his. Then he presses his lips to the back of my hand, eyeing me through his lashes.
‘Okay, okay,’ says Willem. ‘I didn’t bring her here for that.’
The bartender releases my hand, then raises both of his. ‘Can’t hurt to try,’ he says, and he and Willem exchange a loaded look.
‘And do you have a name?’ I ask him.
‘I do, m’lady,’ he says, a wide grin splitting his face. ‘I’m Kwame.’
‘Nice to meet you, Kwame. So, what’s your specialty?’ I ask.
‘You like cocktails?’
‘I do, but it’s been a while since I’ve had one.’
‘What do you like?’
It’s an innocent question, but my traitorous mind instantly conjures a less-than-innocent reply. I like tall, broad-shouldered, brooding Dutchmen with intense blue eyes and sardonic smiles.
‘Uh…’
He gives me a funny look. ‘Fruity drinks? Sour? Spicy?’
‘Whatever you’d like,’ I say, feeling foolish. It’s obvious my thoughts were written all over my face. I need to stop entertaining salacious ideas about Willem.
‘I’ll surprise you,’ says Kwame. ‘And what are you having, my man?’
‘Grolsch IPA.’
Kwame looks at me, rolling his eyes at Willem’s simple order as if we’re in cahoots, and I relax a little. I climb onto a barstool as he gets to work, and Willem slides onto the one next to me.
‘So, you haven’t ridden a bike for a while, and you haven’t had a cocktail for a while…’ he says, his low, rumbling voice reverberating through me. ‘What have you been doing, Kate?’
My heads snaps in his direction and he’s watching me closely, his eyes questioning, teasing. Only, this isn’t being teased. This is being judged, as if I am somehow lesser than my younger self simply because my priorities have changed.
‘I’ve been working,’ I reply evenly. ‘I have an incredible job – I love what I do.’
‘That’s great but what’s the saying? All work and no play makes?—’
‘Oh, I play. I play hard , don’t you worry,’ I retort with a snorting laugh.
I have no idea what I meant by that. It’s also largely a lie. Unless I count shopping for homewares online, or trawling real estate sites for country cottages, or the odd weekend away with Margot.
What about visits to Mum and Dad in the Midlands? Those can be enjoyable. Mum and I go to the garden centre, have a coffee and buy some paperbacks. And Dad and I walk their Border Collie, Steel, through the nearby forest.
Oh god, have I forgotten how to have fun – actual, proper fun?
Willem’s staring at me, his mouth twitching, but I won’t look away first. I made that ridiculous statement; I’m standing by it.
‘Right,’ he says eventually.
His stern gaze lands on the bar and he picks up a cocktail napkin and starts folding it into triangles, precisely creasing the edges. I observe the methodical movements of his hands, then tear my eyes away.
I don’t know where to look and I don’t know what to say. Where is that bloody cocktail?
‘Here you are, m’lady, a Paloma,’ says Kwame, placing a highball in front of me. The cocktail is a pale pink and garnished with a dried grapefruit slice. I take a sip and it’s delicious.
‘You like it?’ he asks.
‘It’s lovely, thank you.’
He beams at me and I take another sip right as Willem holds up his beer. ‘ Prost ,’ he says.
‘Oh, sorry. Jumped the gun there. Prost .’
I tap the rim of my glass against his and he gives me a tight-lipped smile, then downs a mouthful of beer.
Kwame resumes his preparations, and Willem and I stare straight ahead, drinking in silence. There’s a mirror across from us and I catch his eye in the reflection, but he looks away a second later.
Right when there was an ease developing between us, we’ve ended up in a cul de sac of miscommunication, resulting in stung feelings. Namely mine.
But does it matter? Willem’s not my friend. He’s not even my ally in all this. His stance is clear: pursuing justice and making Jon pay for what he’s done is a mistake – a folly , even.
I can’t believe I shaved my legs for this – what an idiot! This is so far from being a date, I could have worn a dressing gown and fluffy slippers, and one of those gloopy facial masks that come in a foil packet.
Willem’s only here with me now because Margot strong-armed him into spending the evening with me. If I didn’t need his help navigating back to the houseboat, I would finish this cocktail, try and find my loaner bike amongst the thousands lining the nearby roads, then return to our accommodation and order takeaway.
Or forget about the bike and catch a cab, like I said before.
‘So, do you want to hear where we’re going for dinner?’
I meet his eyes in the mirror, then turn towards him. ‘Do you really want to go to dinner with me?’ I ask.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Because…’ I don’t finish answering. Maybe Willem’s experience of this evening is vastly different to mine. Maybe to him, this is normal, friendly conversation.
‘Because we keep bumping heads?’ he asks, his expression softening.
‘I was going to say “locking horns” but yes.’
‘Look, the way I see it is this: I showed up at your apartment unexpectedly and dropped a bomb. Then I asked you for a huge favour and you agreed. We may… lock horns but I like you, Kate. I can tell you’re a good person; you have integrity and you’re kind. And I’m grateful that you came here and helped me – helped Ady . The least I can do is buy you dinner.’
I gulp. Willem’s words are not only thoughtful, but for the first time in I can’t say how long, I feel seen – by someone other than my immediate family.
So, how can I say no to dinner now?
‘Okay. So, where are we going?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see,’ he says with a grin.
‘You just offered to tell me maybe ten seconds ago.’
‘And now I’ve decided it will be a surprise.’
‘Oh, great. I love surprises. Like when a strange man shows up at my door to give me bad news.’
‘Strange?’ he asks, giving me a side eye.
‘Not like that – strange as in not known to me – a stranger .’
‘Ahh.’
‘Although, from what I can tell so far, you’re also a little odd.’
His eyes widen and he starts laughing.
I make a show of sipping my drink and ignoring him as he chuckles beside me.