You Again #2
‘Not always,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘but I do when it comes to food.’
‘How was the pizza?’
‘Wonderful. Yours?’
‘I went for the pasta carbonara.’
‘No!’
He laughed at her outrage. ‘Is that terrible?’
Embarrassed by her reaction, she laughed. ‘I’m sure it was delicious, but they’re famous for their pizzas. They do the best crusts. You missed out.’
‘Next time.’
His eyes met hers. Darkness was falling, but even in the half-light she noticed how strikingly blue they were.
‘I’m Sander.’ Taking a few steps towards her, he held out his hand in introduction.
‘Maggie.’ Smiling, she shook it. It felt curiously formal. Sweet, though. And his handshake was warm and friendly. ‘You have a cool name,’ she added.
‘Not really. I’m Dutch. It’s quite common in the Netherlands.’
So that explained the blue eyes and blond hair.
Memories of visiting Amsterdam when she was much younger and being amazed by how tall and blond and good-looking everyone was flicked through her mind.
As someone who’d been a gangly teenager, shooting up to five foot eleven by the time she was fourteen, it had been wonderful not to be the tallest for once.
To actually stand in a crowd and not be head and shoulders above everyone else.
To feel like she fitted in. Well, apart from the blond, good-looking bit.
‘So, you’re on holiday?’ she asked, snapping back.
‘Sort of. My son is taking a gap year to travel before he starts his university degree, so I thought why should all the teenagers have the fun? Why not do that myself?’
‘You’re on the gap year together?’
‘We’re close but not that close.’ He laughed. ‘He’s in Thailand and Indonesia, going to festivals and full moon parties. But I’ve been there and done that. I read The Beach.’
Maggie smiled at the reference. They must be the same age.
‘Every backpacker read that novel.’
‘It was our bible,’ he nodded. ‘Now I sit in restaurants and read books about history and order the wrong thing.’
He smiled then, a mischievous, teasing smile that would normally put someone at ease and make them laugh, but instead made Maggie immediately put up her defences and feel guarded.
She’d had this kind of connection with someone before.
Thought someone was nice and friendly and cute and funny.
Laughed at their jokes and felt flattered by their interest.
And they blew up her life.
‘And you?’
For a split second Maggie faltered as Sander threw back the question, not wanting to reveal her situation, to explain why she was there, before suddenly realizing she didn’t have to.
She could be anyone here. She didn’t have to be Maggie, the woman who lost everything, the fool who fell for a man who told her he loved her, the penniless loser living in a caravan.
She could rewrite her life. Escape from her reality, at least for a little while.
After all, she was never going to see him again.
‘I’ve taken the summer off to come to Europe and study art history.’
It just came out.
‘A sabbatical?’ Sander’s eyes widened and he looked at her, his expression one of genuine interest.
‘Yeah, sort of.’
A sabbatical. She liked that idea. She was taking a sabbatical from her life.
‘And what do you do?’
‘I’m an artist. Painter. Mixed media. Oils mostly.’
‘Fascinating.’
Fascinating. For so long she had been anything but that. But now in this warm evening breeze on the Amalfi Coast she was chatting to a handsome Dutchman who found her fascinating. It felt intoxicating.
‘I was in tech, but recently I needed a change so I sold my company. Now I have a bicycle shop and do guided tours.’
‘Wow, that’s so interesting.’
‘No, really, it’s not as interesting as what you’re doing.’
She felt a stab of guilt. He was being so nice.
‘Do you ride a bike?’
‘Yes, back in England, not here.’ Maggie gestured to the steep stone steps and he laughed.
‘Well, if you ever find yourself in Lisbon, you must come rent a bike from me. I’m by the seafront. Look for the yellow sign with the windmill.’ He smiled. ‘I’m joking about the windmill.’
‘Lisbon?’
‘I moved to Portugal. I needed a change.’ He didn’t go into details and she knew there was something more he wasn’t telling her, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. For a few moments she wanted to enjoy being in this make-believe bubble.
‘Do you want me to take your picture? It’s a good one.’ Changing the subject, he pointed to the view behind her.
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so, I look a mess.’
She gestured to her outfit, but he ignored her and, putting down his backpack, took out his phone.
‘No, seriously, I have a good eye. The sky is very pretty.’
Feeling self-conscious, she smoothed down her hair and leaned against the railing, trying not to think about her crumpled sundress and scruffy trainers. She felt slightly ridiculous as she smiled for the camera.
‘What’s your number? I’ll WhatsApp it to you.’
‘You could just AirDrop it.’
‘I could, but then I wouldn’t have your number.’
And now Sander was the one smiling and looking self-conscious.
‘It’s not just the sky. You look very pretty too.’
‘Sorry, I don’t give my number to strangers.’
Abruptly Maggie felt herself snap back, pulling her crossbody bag to herself, like a barrier. She’d done that before, remember? Given her number to a stranger and blown up her life.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—’ Seeing her body language, he quickly held up his hands as if in surrender, his smile apologetic; a man who’d attempted to flirt and misread the signals. ‘I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Oh God, he was just being nice and she’d gone and freaked out and now it was all so awkward. What happened to the make-believe bubble? To fun, fascinating Maggie on a sabbatical? Real life, Maggie. That’s what happened. Real life.
‘Well, nice to meet you.’
And now he was picking up his backpack and throwing it over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, I’ve got an early start; we’re driving to Sicily.’
‘Sounds amazing, I’m heading to Greece for a little bit, then back to Lisbon.’
‘Well, have fun.’
‘You too.’
They both turned to walk away, and she turned back.
‘I suppose you’re not really a stranger.’
He turned.
‘Seeing as I know your name and where you live and what you do for a living. And that you prefer pasta to pizza,’ she smiled.
It wasn’t real life that had brought her to her knees. It had been one man. And that wasn’t the same man standing in front of her.
‘0786 . . .’
It wasn’t the same man putting her number in his phone.
And as she walked away, down the steps, back towards the hotel, a few minutes later, she heard her phone ping. And, smiling, she reached for her phone in her bag, expecting to see the photo he’d just sent her.
Except it wasn’t a photo from Sander. It was a text from a number she didn’t recognize.
Hi Mags, it’s me, Theo. It’s been a long time. How are you, babe?