Chapter 15
15
KATE
‘Hello, love,’ says Mum when she answers my call. ‘You all right?’
‘Hi, Mum. Yes, good thanks. How are you and Dad?’
‘Oh, you know, love – feeling my age, but otherwise can’t complain.’ It’s her typical response and it makes me smile. ‘As for your father… he’s the same as always.’
‘That’s good.’
‘He has gone on a bit of a fitness kick of late, however.’
‘So not the same then,’ I say with a laugh.
She chuckles. ‘I suppose not. He’s running , Kate.’
‘Running? Dad? ’
‘Yes. He’s joined the local park run group for over sixties.’
‘Oh, that’s… surprising.’ My dad has always made fun of runners. He can’t understand why you’d want to ruin a perfectly good walk by going faster.
‘It’s a bloody shock is what it is,’ says Mum. ‘But Charlie roped him in.’ Charlie is my dad’s best friend.
‘How long do you give it?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I don’t know, love. If I’ve learned anything after nearly forty years of marriage it’s that your father can still surprise me. He’ll probably train for a triathlon next.’
This makes me laugh out loud, which feels glorious. One of the many, many reasons I love my mum – she can always make me laugh.
‘Where are you, Kate?’ Mum asks. ‘It sounds busy.’
‘Er, Heathrow. I’m flying to Italy tonight – for the weekend.’
‘Oh, lovely. It’s on the bucket list, Italy, but your father would rather stick closer to home.’
I’ve known this about my parents my whole life – that Mum longs to travel and Dad is a homebody whose idea of a ‘grand adventure’ is a train ride into Birmingham to shop at the big M&S. I keep prodding him to take Mum on a proper holiday – somewhere romantic in Europe – but he always counters with, ‘Oh, Mum and I don’t go in for fancy holidays, love.’
If he ever listened , he’d realise that Mum would very much go in for fancy holidays.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, Mum, I got distracted.’
‘That’s all right, love. So, are you off on a mini break then? Oh, is Margot with you? Say hello from me.’
‘Margot’s not here. I’m going by myself.’
‘Oh,’ Mum exclaims. She’ll wonder why, so I’ll tell her before she asks.
‘It’s, um… a meeting. I’ve got a meeting with an artist.’ Not a complete lie.
‘That sounds interesting,’ says Mum, ‘but you’re not working too much, are you? I mean, having a meeting over the weekend and abroad…’
‘I promise I’m not working too much. In fact, Mina’s said she’s giving me some time off soon. Two weeks.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Will you be going somewhere nice? And I’m assuming it’s with Jon?’
The way Mum’s voice sours when she says Jon’s name speaks volumes. Well, she’s going to love what I’m about to say next.
‘Actually, that’s why I called, Mum – I’ve got news. Jon and I… we’re no longer engaged.’
There’s shocked silence on the other end of the call and I just know Mum is trying to find a diplomatic way to respond. She and Dad only met Jon once and it was a rather tense meal during which my parents exchanged a dozen loaded looks, interspersed with lengthy silences. Jon attempted to charm them but, in retrospect, my parents saw right through him.
And of course, Margot has shared what my parents truly think of Jon – that he’s pretentious, smug, and superior and they have no idea what I see in him. Saw , I remind myself yet again.
‘Oh, well, that’s a pity,’ Mum says eventually.
‘Mum, it’s okay. I know you didn’t like him.’
‘I wouldn’t say we didn’t like him, Kate – just that we didn’t think he was good for you.’
If she only knew .
‘Yes, well, it turns out you were right.’
‘Well – and I’m sure your father would agree – I’m just happy you realised before you married him.’
‘Me too, Mum.’
‘Oh, Kate,’ she says, suddenly emotional. ‘We love you so much and we’re so proud of you. We only want you to be happy, love.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
What goes unsaid is that my parents believe I can only truly be happy if I am loved up – with someone deserving, of course.
‘I should go. We’re about to board,’ I say. ‘Will you break the news to Dad for me?’ I ask, even though I already know she will – and happily.
‘Of course. And have a brilliant time in Italy.’
‘I will. I’ll bring back something Italian for you.’
‘As long as he’s handsome and has a full head of hair,’ she quips, and it takes me a moment to grasp what she’s said.
‘Mum,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I said something Italian – not an Italian.’
‘Oh, well. A woman can dream, can’t she?’
‘Who are you and what have you done with my mother?’ I deadpan.
Mum laughs heartily, a sound that warms my heart. ‘Bye, love. Speak soon.’ She hangs up before I reply, leaving me grinning.
Dad had better be careful – if he doesn’t ramp up the romance soon, Mum might take herself off to Italy. Though, he’s running now, which is as much of a shock as Mum joking about taking an Italian lover.
Maybe both of my parents are embarking on new horizons.
Next time I visit Rugby, I’ll be more forceful about encouraging them to take a romantic holiday together. Or I could book it for them. They’re both retired now – Mum from being a librarian and Dad from a career as a carpenter – so their schedule is wide open. And Dad can hardly say no if everything’s booked and paid for, can he? Especially if it’s my gift to them for their upcoming fortieth wedding anniversary.
It’s decided. I’m sending my parents on a romantic holiday.
* * *
‘ Hallo .’
I turn around with a start, spilling my coffee on the tabletop.
‘Sorry,’ says Willem.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, mopping up the spill with a napkin. ‘I was expecting you – I’m not sure how you managed to startle me.’
He sits opposite me, his broad shoulders shrugging. ‘How was your flight?’ he asks.
‘Uneventful.’
‘Those are always the best ones,’ he says, a cheeky twinkle in his eyes.
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ I say with a laugh.
He looks around. ‘Nice place,’ he comments.
I’ve been here before – I have international lounge access through work – but to me it’s simply another airport lounge that happens to be in Amsterdam.
‘Er, yes. They have a full bar, if you’d like something,’ I say, pointing over my shoulder.
‘Actually, I’d love a beer.’ He stands. ‘Can I get you anything?’ His eyes dip to my half-empty, now-cold coffee.
‘Sure, thanks. Gentleman’s choice,’ I add with a smile.
A funny look passes over his face, then he goes to the bar.
‘Gentleman’s choice?’ I say to myself. If I am going to make a play for Willem, I’ll need to brush up on my flirtation skills. I sound like the heroine from one of Mum’s old Mills & Boons, the ones Margot and I used to steal from her bedside table and read under the covers when we were eight and nine.
Willem returns with two pints of beer and hands one to me. I don’t generally drink beer, but when I do, it’s a half-pint not a full one.
‘Brewed by women,’ he says.
‘Oh, great.’
‘That’s the name of the brewery,’ he clarifies. ‘ Gebrouwen door Vrouwen . Excellent beer – this is their Tricky Tripel. Prost .’
‘ Prost .’ I clink my glass against his, then take a sip and it’s delicious. ‘Oh, that is good.’
‘And potent – nearly twice the alcohol as most beer.’
He sips, raising his brows at me over the rim of the glass. How is it possible to be drinking a cold beer and about to melt at the same time? And is he flirting? He did just hand me a pint of potent beer – does that mean something? Something more than ‘Hey, I thought you might be thirsty’? I suppose I am thirsty, but not for a beverage.
I look away, wishing I could fan myself without giving anything away. It’s suddenly very hot in here.
‘How was the rest of your week?’ I ask instead.
‘Busy. I’ve been back to see my client in Bruges – I only returned this morning.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise. You could have cancelled. It can be exhausting travelling for work.’
He shrugs again. ‘I’m used to it. It’s only three hours by train.’
‘So, your clients, are they companies, individuals…?’
‘Both – and everything in between. We’ve worked with multi-national companies, government agencies, celebrities…’
‘Wowser. Anyone I’d know?’ I ask, leaning close. I’m not really one to follow celebrity news, but it is rather intriguing.
‘Probably, but I wouldn’t be a very good security specialist if I told you now, would I?’
I lean back, laughing. ‘No, I suppose not.’ We exchange smiles. ‘You obviously enjoy what you do,’ I say.
‘Mostly,’ he replies without further explanation. ‘And you? You enjoy your work?’
I nod, breaking into an involuntary grin. ‘I do. Mum says I was destined to become a project manager from when I was little. I was always the organiser – my classmates, my friends, even Mum and Dad. I ran the family calendar from when I was seven.’
Willem smiles.
‘And in primary school, I’d finish my work early and my teachers would give me administrative tasks. They probably weren’t supposed to do that, but it kept me engaged.’
‘And that’s what you studied at university?’
‘Yes. I finished my degree, then went straight on to earn a master’s in project and program management and innovation.’
I don’t mention that I was awarded an academic scholarship, nor that my parents secured a bursary to help fund my studies. I also lived at home to save money and had a part-time job in a local gift shop. All these factors contributed to me developing a strong work ethic and an appreciation of fiscal responsibility. I never took my education for granted and I was more likely to be found in the library on a Friday night than at the pub.
My so-called fiancé once told me how much he admired this about me – how hard I’ve had to work and what I’ve achieved. Ironic, really, when he hasn’t worked hard and he hasn’t achieved anything. Unless spending his inheritance and conning innocent women counts.
‘Anyway,’ I say, continuing before I give in to thoughts of Jon, ‘I’d say I’m most fulfilled when I’ve got oversight of the big picture and see how all the pieces fit together. I’m one of those strange people who genuinely loves a dynamic spreadsheet,’ I add with a dash of self-deprecation. Though from what I’ve seen of Willem so far, I’m not the only one who gravitates towards order.
‘What’s not to love?’ he asks, playing along with mock-seriousness.
‘Right? Dynamic spreadsheets can be very sexy.’
Oh my god, I did not say that.
‘I’m not sure I’ve heard of that sexual inclination before, not even in Amsterdam. And we’re very progressive here.’
His mouth twitches, making me wish I could rewind to the moment right before I referred to project management software as ‘sexy’.
Although, it’s better than saying he’s sexy, which he is – and which I’ve been trying to ignore since he showed up wearing worn-in jeans and a white, loose-weaved dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I take a mistimed sip of beer, and pro tip from me: it’s impossible to swallow and gasp at the same time. I cough and splutter, banging on my chest. Eventually, the beer goes down the right way, but not before the embarrassment kicks in.
‘Sorry,’ I say, peering at him, then immediately looking away. Concerned Willem may be the sexiest Willem yet.
‘Oh.’ The way he says it draws my gaze. ‘We’ve had a gate change.’ He’s looking up at the departure board. ‘And it’s down the other end of the concourse. We should go.’
He stands, downing half his beer in one go, but I won’t bother matching him. Even the little I’ve had has gone to my head and he’s got several stone on me. I take one more sip – it really is delicious – then stand and gather my belongings.
‘And I’ll take this,’ he says, indicating my luggage.
I’m used to wheeling my carry-on case around airports, but it doesn’t seem negotiable, and I can’t say I mind this small kindness. It’s another reminder that there are decent men out there and Willem is one of them.
He downs the rest of his beer, stifles a burp behind his hand, which is somehow endearing, then breaks into a smile. ‘Ready?’ he asks.
‘Ready.’
We depart the lounge, Willem indicating which way to go, and I fall into step beside him. As we make our way to the gate, half the people we pass do a double take when they see Willem and the other half outright stare. I glance up at him, and he seems oblivious to the attention – another tick in his ever-growing ‘plus’ column.
Sometimes when I was out with Jon, it was like he craved attention from others, especially attractive and well-dressed people. He’d raise his voice or gesture wildly – occasionally, he’d laugh loudly out of the blue. At the time, I thought it was an indication of his confidence. Now I recognise that he was starved for attention, a sign that he actually lacks confidence.
Whereas Willem exudes it, which is incredibly sexy. Pretty much everything about the man is sexy. And I’m about to spend the weekend with him. My eyes drop to the handle of my case, which is enveloped by Willem’s enormous hand. If only he knew what’s inside it.
My phone notifies me of a message, and I fish it out of my tote as we walk. It’s from Margot:
Did you pack condoms?
Horrified, I look over at Willem, but his eyes are trained straight ahead. I slip the phone back into my tote. Margot may be right on the money, but I don’t want to admit to her that I’ve planned ahead, just in case.
Like it matters. She’ll either tease me relentlessly until something happens between me and Willem or tease me relentlessly because nothing ever eventuates. Either way, Margot is invested in me having rebound sex. With Willem.
‘Kate?’ Willem calls.
I stop, realising I’ve been so deep in thought, I strode past the gate. I backtrack and join him in the queue.
‘Sorry. I’m a little distracted.’
His concerned face makes another appearance. ‘I can imagine. It’s big.’
Please tell me he’s bragging about the size of his penis…
‘Uh…’
‘Remember, I’ve gone through it, so I know,’ he continues, cutting through the noise inside my head. He reaches out and runs his hand reassuringly down my arm. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be there with you.’
Jesus – this bloke is too good to be true – there’s got to be something wrong with him. Oh, that’s right. He’s the brother of my fiancé’s other fiancée and getting involved with him would make a messy situation even messier.
I wish my libido would get the memo.
* * *
‘It’s a nice-looking building,’ I say, regarding the modern, four-storey facade in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp.
Willem, who has been around the corner retrieving the key from a lockbox, joins me on the stoop and looks up. ‘It’s nice,’ he says, ‘but I prefer that.’ His gaze goes to the building next door, its crumbling stucco a dark salmon-pink.
‘Then why did you book us accommodation in a brand-new building?’ I ask with a laugh.
‘Because I thought you would prefer it,’ he replies matter-of-factly.
‘Oh.’
He unlocks the front door and motions for me to go first. I do, and an automated sensor floods the white marble lobby with bright light, making me blink. It’s stark, sleek, and so modern, we could be anywhere in the world.
For some reason, Willem believes this is my preference, but when I knew I was coming to Verona, a city that was founded two thousand years ago, I had something more traditional in mind.
‘It’s on the first floor,’ he says, stooping to pick up my case then jogging up the stairs, his case in the other hand. I follow, eyeing the lift longingly, bone-weary after a long evening of travel. I want a shower, then to climb into bed and pass out.
Not even the close proximity of a god-like travel companion will keep me awake.
Willem unlocks the large front door of the flat and swings it open, stepping aside so I can enter first. I quickly take in the large entry, the sleek, modern kitchen, the combined lounge and dining room, which is decorated in ‘IKEA chic’, and the bathroom that boasts a bidet (I still don’t know how you’re supposed to use those) and a ginormous shower.
Perfect for two people! shouts my inner voice.
Ignoring it, I walk further into the flat, scouting for the doors to the bedrooms but instead, come face to face – or is it face to bookcase? – with a divider that separates a super king bed from the rest of the flat.
‘ What? ’ growls Willem. I turn to face him, and he’s clearly confused. He spins around and strides the length of the flat, then returns seconds later. ‘It’s supposed to sleep four people. I thought that meant there were two bedrooms.’
There are patently not two bedrooms. Technically, there isn’t even one.
He takes his phone out of his pocket and jabs at the screen, his face contorted with frustration.
‘Fuck,’ he says, as he reads his phone screen. His head swivels to the sofa. ‘ That becomes a bed.’ He meets my eye, his countenance uneasy. ‘Sorry, Kate. I’ve completely messed up. I thought it would be simpler to rent an apartment… and that we’d have two bedrooms… I’ll go check into a hotel.’ He turns to leave.
‘Wait.’ I reach out and stop him, my hand landing on his forearm. ‘It’s past eleven, we both worked today, and we’ve been in transit for hours… We can stay here together. It’ll be fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ No. Not one of my imagined seduction scenarios began with an accommodation mix-up and a pissed-off travel companion.
And I could kid myself that sharing a flat was perfectly normal when there were going to be bedrooms , but now the only thing between us will be an IKEA bookcase – one with a clear view of the other side.
Oh, Margot is going to love this when I tell her.