He also has a name with foreign origins. He blurted that out by mistake two nights ago. And it could be anything, obviously…but the name “Jean-Luc” instantly popped into my brain.
I just have a feeling about it. Jean-Luc. He looks like a Jean-Luc.
Hi, this is Jean-Luc. He’s a carpenter.
Yes. That feels real. It feels like Dutch.
I don’t know where he lives, and that’s a bit scary. But it’s a city and it’s not Australia or New Zealand. (I couldn’t survive without asking him that.) So we’ll make it work. Whether it’s Manchester or Paris or Seattle. We will.
“So. Dutch and Aria.” Finally Richard turns in our direction. “You’re not giving away your identities yet.”
“Their names are way too embarrassing,” says Kirk, and there’s a roar of laughter.
“I know it seems weird,” I say with an abashed smile. “But we just want to prolong the magic. This has been so special….”
“Holiday flings always are,” says Anna, in that sweet, bitchy way she has, and I flinch, because why did she have to say that? This isn’t just a holiday fling.
I can see Dutch looking from her to me and realizing that I’m hurt. And before I can even draw breath, he’s stood up. He beckons to me to join him, and, feeling confused, I stand too. Everyone swivels to look up at us, and Richard tinkles his glass again.
“Pray silence for the bride and groom!” he announces in jocular tones—and I know he’s only playing around, but still a frisson passes through me. I glance hesitantly at Dutch—because this was his idea—and he draws breath.
“OK, you guys win,” he says in his easy way, looking around at the expectant faces. “You’ve got to me. I never thought about romance till I came on this course. I never thought about ‘love.’ But now it’s all I can think about…because I love this woman.” He turns to me. “Not just for the week. Not just as a holiday fling. But for keeps.”
I stare back at him, speechless, my eyes instantly full of tears. I never expected this. I never expected him to make a public declamation, or to be so forceful about it, or to gaze at me like he’s gazing at me now, his eyes warm and loving.
For keeps.
“Dutch…” I begin, then swallow hard, trying to get my thoughts together. I barely notice Scribe—or, rather, Felicity—creeping up toward me with a plaited garland of greenery. She pops it on top of my head with a mischievous smile, then retreats. And now I really do feel like a bride, standing in an olive grove in my white drifty dress with a wreath on my head. Oh God. I’m not sure I can cope.
“Dutch,” I start again, trying to ignore the tear which has edged onto my cheek. “I came on this course to learn about writing fictional love. Fantasy love. But I’ve found the real thing.” I squeeze his hands tight. “Right here. The real thing.” My voice has started to tremble, but I force myself to continue. “And I want to pledge to you, Dutch, that no matter what your real name is…no matter what you do…no matter where you live in the world…we’ll make this work.”
Dutch gazes at me wordlessly for a moment, then pulls me in for a kiss, and everyone erupts in whoops, cheers, and clapping. Richard is singing the bridal march, because he’s the type to milk a joke, and I’m sure Anna is sneering, but I’m not even going to glance in her direction. I’m in bliss. I’m in delicious, hazy, romantic bliss, and—
“Scusi.” Giuseppe has appeared out of nowhere, holding a pile of paper slips, and reluctantly I swivel my gaze toward him. “Taxi vouchers,” he announces to Dutch and me. He consults the slips, then holds out one to each of us. “BA flight to Heathrow. Yes? The taxi leave at eight A.M.”
He nods briskly, then moves to distribute vouchers among the other guests, while Dutch and I stare at each other, taking in this thunderbolt. Heathrow. Heathrow! I’m stunned. (In fact, I’m almost let down, because I’d imagined romantically battling the odds of a long-distance relationship.)
“Heathrow,” says Dutch. “Well, that makes things simpler. You live in London?”
“Shhh!” I bat my hands at him. “That’s…Not yet.”
The stars are in alignment, I’m thinking in giddy joy. That’s what this is. Of all the places in all the world Dutch could have come from…it’s London!
“I always assumed you did,” he adds, and I jolt in astonishment.
“How on earth did you assume that? I could have lived anywhere! I could have lived in…Seattle! Montreal! Jaipur!” I cast around for another random place. “Honolulu!”
Dutch stares at me blankly for a moment.
“You sound like a Londoner,” he says with a shrug. “Plus I was chatting to Nadia and she said over sixty percent of the class came from London.”
“Oh.”
“They have London-centric marketing,” he adds. “We were talking about how they could expand their targets regionally. It was interesting.”
OK, I feel we’re getting slightly off topic here. To recapture the mood, I reach up to kiss him again, then press my cheek against his strong, stubbly jaw.
“We’re meant to be,” I murmur in his ear. “That’s what this is. We’re meant to be.”
Seven
By the time we board our plane the next morning, I’m bursting with anticipation. I’m finally going to find out about Dutch! And Dutch will find out about me…and our happy life together will begin.
We’ve decided we won’t spill our details to each other on the plane. (At least, I decided.) Even though I’m dying with curiosity, the moment needs to be right. We’ve waited this long; we can wait a little longer.
So my plan is this: We arrive at Heathrow, find a bar, sit and face each other, take a deep breath—and reveal everything. Meanwhile, just for fun, we’re going to write down a few guesses on the flight. Name, job, hobbies. That was my idea too. I was going to add “age,” and then I suddenly realized what a terrible idea that was and amended, “Everything except age.”
A few of us from the course are on the plane, all scattered around. Dutch has been seated four rows ahead of me, but that’s fine. We don’t need to sit together. We’ve got the rest of our lives to be together.
We’re both wearing normal clothes by now. I’m in a floaty dress and Dutch is in jeans, with a linen shirt he bought from the monastery gift shop. His outfit doesn’t give much away, although I’ve noticed a nice watch. He’s tanned and brawny and he’s wearing flip-flops. He looks just like a carpenter.
I write down carpenter and Jean-Luc and then lean back in my seat, trying to picture where he might live and work. I can definitely picture his workshop. And him in it, wearing a frayed gray undershirt. Maybe he saws a few planks and builds up a sweat, then heads outside with a cup of coffee and strips off his undershirt to do martial-arts training in the sunshine. Mmm.
This is such a delicious vision that I close my eyes to imagine it even more vividly, and then I guess I must have fallen into a doze, because it seems about five minutes later that we’re preparing for landing. The London sky is white and cloudy as we descend, and I feel a pang of longing for Italy—but it’s soon swamped by excitement. Not long now!
We’ve agreed to catch up with each other at the baggage carousel, and as I arrive there I see Eithne and Anna. (It still feels weird not to call them Beginner and Metaphor.)
“It was wonderful to meet you,” says Eithne, hugging each of us tightly before leaving.
Anna doesn’t hug us but says, “Good luck,” with one of those snarky smiles of hers, and I force myself to beam back pleasantly and say, “You too!”
Then finally our cases appear and we’re wheeling them toward the exit.
“Where shall we go?” I ask as we pass through the arrivals gate into the melee of drivers holding up signs. “One of the airport hotels, maybe? Sit at the bar? Order some wine?”
“Good idea.” He nods.
“So, did you make any guesses about me on the plane?” I can’t resist asking, and Dutch laughs.
“Actually, I did guess a few things. I mean, I’m sure I’m wrong,” he instantly backtracks. “It’s just speculation.”
“I like speculation,” I say. “Tell me.”
“OK.” Dutch pauses for a moment, grinning and shaking his head, as though embarrassed by his own thoughts, then blurts out, “I think you might be a perfumer.”
Wow. A perfumer! That’s actually pretty close to aromatherapist! Which I will be once I’ve done the course.
“Did I get that right?” he adds.
“That would be telling.” I smile at him. “All in good time. Why a perfumer?”
“I suppose when I think of you, it’s sitting with flowers all around you,” he says after a moment’s thought. “Wafting their scent round you. You’re so tranquil and serene. So…I don’t know. Unruffled.”
I gaze at him, enchanted. Unruffled! Serene! No one’s ever called me serene before.
“And you know what they say about dogs,” continues Dutch, warming to his theme. “They always suit their owners. So I’m thinking you have a whippet. Or maybe an Afghan hound. A beautiful, elegant dog with beautiful, elegant manners. Am I right?”
“Er…” I root in my bag for a lip balm, slightly dodging the question. I mean, Harold’s beautiful for a beagle. And his manners are beautiful, too, in their own way, only you have to get to know him. Which I’m sure Dutch will.
“How about me?” says Dutch, as we step outside into the English air, which feels chilly after Italy. “Have you worked me out yet?”
“Oh, I think I’ve gleaned quite a lot, here and there,” I say teasingly, and he shoots me a rueful smile.
“I guess I’m an open book, right?”