All my WhatsApp groups flood with notifications, and I feel a pang of longing. I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without chatting to anyone. But somehow I force myself to ignore the 657 messages beckoning me. I’ve promised I won’t look, because once I look, I’ll get sucked in. Instead, I turn to a new group, entitled Ava’s Emergency Hotline, which Nell set up for exactly this eventuality.
Hi, I type, and after only ten seconds, Nell starts typing a response. It’s almost as though she’s been waiting for me to make contact. A moment later it arrives:
He’s fine.
Then a photo of Harold pops onto my screen with a caption: See? He’s happy. Stop stressing. Go and write!!
A moment later Maud chimes in:
Ava! How’s the book?
Now Sarika is typing too:
How come you have your phone? Isn’t this against the rules?
They’re all online, I realize. This is perfect timing. Joyfully, I type:
Never mind the rules. Because, guess what, I’ve found a guy. I’ve found the perfect guy!!!
I send it off and watch the responses arrive, my mouth curving into a smile.
What??!?!?!
Wow.
That was quick!
Have you been to bed?
Spill!!!!
I can’t help laughing out loud, their excitement is so infectious.
Yes, we have been to bed, thank you for asking. And he’s amazing. He’s wonderful. He’s…
I’m running out of words, so I type sixteen heart emojis and send them. Immediately the answers bombard me.
Got it. :))
Good to know ?
More details!!! What’s his name????
I type my answer—Dutch—and wait for the barrage.
Dutch!
Dutch??
Is that a name?
Does that mean he is Dutch?
I’m about to type No when I realize I don’t know. Maybe he is Dutch but was brought up in the UK so he has a British accent. You can’t assume anything.
I’m not sure what nationality he is.
???
Well, where does he live???
Don’t know
What does he do??
Don’t know
You don’t know????
I heave a sigh of slight frustration and start typing again.
Everyone’s anonymous on this retreat. That’s the joy of it. It’s different. We’re communicating as humans. Not as lists of statistics. Details don’t matter. Nationalities don’t matter. Jobs don’t matter. CONNECTION matters.
As I finish typing, I feel quite inspired, and I wonder if what I’ve said will give my friends pause for thought. But at once the replies start popping into my phone again.
???
What’s his income bracket?
Not relevant, Sarika!!!
Yes it is, sorry to be so pragmatic
I’m guessing she doesn’t know
You can guess, surely?
Ava, sweetheart, not wanting to rain on your parade…but what DO you know about him??
As I’m reading the conversation, I realize I’m in the way of a bent old woman with a shopping trolley, and I skip aside apologetically, saying, “Scusi!”
The woman smiles and I smile back, taking in her ancient lined face and thinking both She looks so wise and Oops, I forgot to put on sunscreen. Then I turn my attention back to the conversation. I feel a bit surreal, standing in a remote Italian street, trying to explain this amazing development in my life to my friends, so far away. But after some thought I start typing again:
This is what I know. His hair is dark and thick. His eyes are gleaming. He just has to look at me to make me ripple inside. When he laughs he throws his head back. He’s confident, but he doesn’t brag. He values friendship. And he loves dogs.
I add another stream of heart emojis, eighteen this time, then press SEND.
There’s silence from the other end. Then the responses start piling in.
????
That’s it?
What’s his other name? Dutch what? I’m googling him.
That is so typical of Sarika. I quickly type:
Don’t know.
Then, after some hesitation, I come fully clean.
Actually, Dutch isn’t his real name. I don’t know his real name.
This time the replies come more swiftly than ever.
You don’t know his name???
Let me get this clear, you don’t know his name or his nationality or what he does or where he lives.
So it’s just sex.
I stare at the phone, feeling nettled at Maud’s comment. First of all, what’s that supposed to mean, “Just sex”? Sex with the right person is transcendental. It informs you about a person’s soul. Someone who is generous in bed is going to be generous in real life.
And, anyway, it’s not just sex. I know Dutch. I’ve built a pebble tower with him. I’ve seen him play football with kids. I’ve leaped off rocks with him. That’s what’s important. Not “What does he do?” but “Would you leap off a rock with him?”
Feeling a little tetchy, I type again:
It’s more than sex. I sense the core of him. He is a good person. He’s kind. He’s intrepid. He’s brave.
I pause a few seconds, then add my clincher:
He saved me from a knife attack. He saved my life.
You can’t argue with that. He saved my life. He saved my life! But if I thought my friends might respond to the romance of this, I was wrong.
A knife attack????
What the FUCK is going on out there?
Ava, stay safe.
I think you should come home.
This guy might be an ax murderer!!
I know they’re half teasing, but I also know they’re half serious, and it’s unsettling me. I type again, my fingers a little jabby.
Stop it. It’s fine. It’s all good. I’m happy.
Then I add:
I have to go. I’m on a writing retreat, in case you’d forgotten.
There’s a momentary pause, then the farewells come into my phone:
OK, we’ll talk soon xxxxx
Stay SAFE xoxox
Enjoy!! ;) ;)
And finally another photo of Harold appears, with a photoshopped speech bubble coming out of his mouth: “FIND OUT HIS NAME!!”
Huh. Hilarious.
As I wander back to the monastery, I feel conflicted. Of course I’m curious. Of course I’ve speculated. Part of me is desperate to know his real name. And his age. And which big city he lives in. (Please, please, not Sydney.)
But part of me doesn’t want to go there. Not yet. We’re in the most magical bubble, and I want to stay in it for as long as possible.
Should I at least find out one detail? His real name?
I pause at the entrance to the monastery, thinking this through.
The trouble is, if I know his name, I’ll google him. I won’t intend to…I won’t want to…but I will. Just like I quite often don’t want or intend to order a muffin with my coffee, but, oh, look, there it is on my plate, how did that happen?
I can already see myself making an excuse, getting my phone, feverishly waiting for the results to load….
And that would puncture the bliss.
Slowly, I open the heavy wooden door with my latchkey and step inside the thick stone walls. I hand my phone back at reception, then walk into the main cloister. I can see Farida talking to Giuseppe, who is the porter, driver, and general helper, but as she sees me, she nods to him and turns in my direction.
“Aria!” she greets me, her hair flowing immaculately down her back, her amber beads clicking together. “I’m just on my way to our first session. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” I say, and fall into step with her, trying to drag my thoughts back to the main task.
“Are you finding the retreat helpful so far?” she asks as we walk.
Well, it’s helped me get laid.
“Yes,” I say earnestly. “Yes, very much so.”
* * *
—
That morning’s session is called “free writing.” We all have to work on anything we like, then share it with the class. Some people are writing in their rooms; others have found shady corners in the garden or courtyard.
Dutch announces he’ll write in his room, and I don’t really feel I can join him there. So I wander around until I find a secluded bench next to a huge rosemary bush. I sit on it with my feet up, my laptop balanced on my thighs, absently rubbing sprigs of rosemary between my fingers. I still feel exhilarated. And dreamy. All I can think about is sex. And last night. And Dutch.
But that’s OK. In fact, it’s good. It’s going to power my writing. Yes! I’m bubbling over with words and feelings to give to my lovers, Chester and Clara. I’m going to speed up their affair. I can see them now, tumbling on the ground, Chester tugging urgently at Clara’s bodice—
Wait, do they need to get married first? I’m a bit hazy about Victorian standards. Maybe the hay-wagon driver could also happen to be a vicar and they get quickly married as they’re moving along?
Whatever. Don’t care. The crucial thing is, they have sex. Soon. I’ve never written about sex before, but somehow it’s bursting out of me today.
He drove into her with a gasp, I type briskly, then cringe and delete it quickly. Maybe…He plunged into her.
No, this is too soon. I need to build up to the plunging.
As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…
Like a…?
My mind’s blank. What moans? Apart from a guy having sex?
OK, I’ll come back to it. I’ll pop back to that patch of 4G outside and google “things that moan.”
He transported her. He intoxicated her. The touch of his fingers set her on fire. The sound of his voice made her head spin. Everything else in life seemed irrelevant. Who cared what job he had or what his name was—
Wait. This isn’t Clara I’m writing about. This is me.
Lifting my hands off the laptop, I breathe out and look up into the endless blue sky. He does transport me. And he does intoxicate me. The truth is, all I can think about is Dutch.
* * *
—
Even so, by the time we reconvene, I’ve managed to write a passage. In fact, I’m so engrossed that I’m late arriving and Dutch is already seated between Scribe and Author-to-Be This is absolutely typical, but never mind.