. . . a bright idea
Forty-eight hours, a train ride and a brand-new city later, and Noah is still laughing at the events of the party. He won’t stop. Every time I try to put it behind me, he remembers again and erupts into his stupid chuckle.
‘It’s not funny!’ I say yet again. ‘In fact, I’m never going to live this down.’
‘Oh, for sure.’ He bows his head in solidarity. ‘But that doesn’t mean it can’t be funny as well.’
I scowl back at him, eyebrows knotted so tightly that I can feel the skin dip in the centre of my forehead.
I try to hold it in place, convey the message as long and as strongly as I can, and I do until a bike zips past me out of nowhere.
I don’t have time to see it coming – it rushes by so quickly that I practically jump out of my skin.
Before I know it, I’ve spun around, teetering on my heel as a second bike speeds directly towards me.
I have no choice but to accept my fate. This is how I go.
Face deep in the canal as a casualty of this city’s resolve to be eco-friendly.
At least, I would be done for if it wasn’t for Noah and his apparently lightning-fast instincts.
His hand clasps tightly around my upper arm before I can feel it coming and he pulls me firmly into his chest. I hit it at full force, head smacking into his pecs so hard that the knock sounds loud and clear.
But still he doesn’t recoil; he keeps me pressed against him, far too closely to ignore.
His eyes flick down towards me, watching me catch my breath while still captured in his arms. His warm breath tickles my face as he murmurs something, smiling, but I can’t hear anything past the squeeze of his biceps and the smell of his cologne.
‘Bloody bikes,’ I tut, peeling myself off him. ‘I’m never going to get used to them.’
He takes the message, letting go, and we enter Vondelpark. ‘You don’t really need to get used to them. We’re only here for what? Three more days?’
Noah has ‘been to Amsterdam too many times with his boys’ and was only using it as a pit stop on the way to Germany.
I, the person who crashed his trip two weeks ago, felt a little too fresh to the plan to object.
So we’re doing four measly days here, which honestly might be for the best given the way these cyclists are rooting for my demise.
‘Which means we need to find you some candidates quickly,’ he says. ‘You’re over two weeks in and you’ve only been on two dates. You’re breaking rule number five.’
‘I can’t do this again! I’m mortified!’ I groan, slumping against a nearby tree. ‘And now I have to sit down with my laptop and divulge what a bad date I am to the entire world.’
I sink further and further until I’m sitting on the grass, completely shrouded in the tree’s looming shade. Noah joins me instantly.
‘You could leave it out?’
I knock my head against the wood and consider it. It wouldn’t be fair.
‘No, I can’t. You’re right – it’s super-funny content,’ I sigh.
He leans on my body, using my weight to support his, before bringing his lips close to my ear and whispering.
‘Just imagine the views.’
I pray to God he doesn’t feel the shiver that runs through me. I fake a cough and use it as an excuse to shuffle away ever so slightly. He rests his hand on the grass and props himself up, none the wiser.
‘What about you, then?’ I ask, desperate for a distraction.
‘Huh?’ He looks confused.
‘Your dates. We’re finding your wife.’
He sits up straighter. ‘Calm down, Am. No one said anything about a wife,’ he says, panicked.
I turn my neck to take him in and I can’t help but smile sadistically at this new, flustered side of him.
‘Are you sweating?’ I ask.
‘No!’ he scoffs.
‘You’re too close to me to lie,’ I say, teasing him. ‘I can see all your little sweat beads.’
He rolls his eyes and huffs. ‘Really? Well can you see this?’ He sticks his middle finger up at me. I burst out laughing.
‘So you don’t just hate commitment, you’re scared of it,’ I say. ‘Why are you subjecting yourself to all of this, then? It can’t just be because of your friends and a wedding date.’
‘What is this, therapy?’ he asks. He keeps his tone light, but won’t dare look my way, his gaze fixed on the green expanse around us.
‘If I intend to help you find the one, I need to understand you,’ I say.
‘Well, there’s got to be a better way than digging into my psyche.’
He follows this up with a half-hearted attempt at a laugh, but it falls as flat as his now incredibly rigid spine. Through all the jokes and the banter, who knew it would be this that would close Noah all the way up?
‘Okay, let me dig into something else then . . . like your dating profile.’
His neck cranes towards me, his previously locked features unravelling to reveal confusion.
‘Bring out your phone and load one of your dating apps,’ I say as bossily as I can.
He shakes his head at my candour, but follows nonetheless much to my surprise. He flicks through a few apps on his phone, eventually loading one up and cautiously brandishing the screen towards me.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’ He shrugs.
I reach over to take it, but he quickly snatches it out of my reach.
‘But you don’t get it for free. I want yours in return.’ He arches an eyebrow.
I feel a breath catch beneath my ribcage. ‘No.’
His brow creases. ‘Why?’
‘Because this was my thing, not yours!’ I pout.
I think to my dormant profile. To the pictures and prompts I haven’t touched since I made it just after Tom and I broke up.
I don’t even know if it’s still on there – for all I know, the app could have unloaded itself to save on storage.
I tap it out of curiosity, shocked as it fills the screen.
Noah catches the light and holds out his free hand.
‘Gimme.’
‘No!’ I say again.
‘Am!’
‘It’s embarrassing!’ I double down.
‘Well, then, I have to see.’ He’s teasing me. ‘An embarrassing profile won’t help you get dates and as your casual-dating guru, I—’
‘Don’t call yourself that.’
‘Fine, let’s start with mine.’ He holds his phone out towards me.
I take it from him cautiously as he nods in encouragement and watches as I start to scroll through the feed. It starts with a selfie, a photo of him dressed smartly at a restaurant, a group pic, then one of him with a dog.
‘Is that yours?’ I ask.
‘No, but it gets people asking.’ He admits this proudly. ‘He’s my friends’ dog. He’s a real girl-magnet.’
I go to chastise him, but he’s right – it’s what got me hooked.
‘Going around Europe for six months, come and join me,’ I read out loud. ‘Cheesy.’
‘But true! I thought I’d cut to the chase. Would you swipe right?’ he asks.
‘I guess.’ I shrug.
He raises an eyebrow, so I decide to be honest.
‘Your profile’s nothing special, but looks-wise you’re pulling ahead.’
His smile grows wider, stretching from ear to ear. ‘Amorie, did you forget about rules one and seven?’
‘I’m not flirting; it’s a fact. You are an objectively attractive man.’
He smiles harder. I slap him on the arm, so he stops.
‘Your turn,’ he says, his palm outstretched.
I wince as I hand it over and reveal the four-year-old club photo. His eyes scan over the HD candid of me with a drink in hand and cleavage pushed up to my chin.
‘Strong starter. Doesn’t feel very you though.’
‘In what way?’ I ask.
‘You don’t strike me as a club girl.’
His eyes flick from my phone to settle on my face, dutifully awaiting an answer to his assumption.
‘Yeah, I’m more of a pub-and-bar girl . . . but I’ll do the occasional club. Plus, I like that photo.’ I shrug.
‘You should, it certainly makes a point.’ His eyes linger. ‘I just feel like it doesn’t capture your essence. Your first photo should do that.’
He scrolls through the rest of the feed with an intense concentration, chewing on his lip as he seems to search for something specific. He lands on the final photo – a photo I forgot was even there, from a family barbecue – and cheers, flashing it back at me.
‘See, this one is you!’
I look at it closer, gritting my teeth. There I am, on a picnic blanket in jean shorts and a baggy T-shirt, clutching my knees and grinning at the camera widely.
It’s the kind of grin you do as a kid that’s all teeth and absolutely no eyes, except I’m not a kid.
It was taken last year, on a particularly sweaty summer day, and the sunlight has painted a shiny circle onto my forehead.
My hair was also a fair bit shorter at the time, curls resting fresh and bouncy ever so slightly above my shoulders.
‘Nope, delete that.’ I attempt to snatch my phone back.
I never wanted that photo near my profile to begin with.
Paige and I argued for hours because she said I ‘looked so darn cute’, and I stressed that ‘cute’ was not what I wanted in my mid-twenties.
Eventually I only gave in because Paige is so impossibly stubborn, but I shoved it right to the bottom of my shots in the hope that no one would pay attention at that point.
‘Absolutely not. In fact, I’m moving it first. Ooh, and then this one.’
His finger hovers over a jokily-posed restaurant shot. I cringe at the peace sign and pursed lips, and shake my head.
‘It’s good that you don’t take yourself too seriously!’ he says. ‘And then we can go with the club one, because . . . well . . . I’m sure you know, you look great. There, that’s better!’
I reach for my phone and scroll through the set of photos yet again. He smiles proudly and starts to stand, but I pull him back down. Thanks to his counter-attack, I almost forgot phase two of my plan. He’s not going anywhere yet; there’s still work to be done.