“Tell us about your fictional character,” says Farida encouragingly.
“He’s pissed off,” says Dutch, his voice resounding around the space. “Someone won’t leave him alone. And it’s becoming…intolerable.”
“Good!” says Farida. “Well, Dutch, the floor is yours.”
I’m intrigued as Dutch draws breath. And I can tell everyone else is too. It’s pretty impressive, to go from zero to improvisation in front of a class, in less than a day.
“I’ve had it,” Dutch says, glowering at an imaginary person in the wall. “I’ve just had it with you.” There’s a breathless silence—then he blinks. “That’s it,” he adds to Farida.
That’s his entire improvisation?
I hear a snort of laughter from someone, and I bite my lip to stop a giggle—but Farida doesn’t flicker. “Maybe you could elaborate?” she suggests. “Turn that very powerful and succinct opening into more of a monologue?”
“I’ll try,” says Dutch. He looks dubious but turns to address the wall again. “Just stop. I can’t take any more. You’re so…”
He seems to search fruitlessly for words, his expression more and more exasperated…until suddenly he executes a side kick. “You’re just—” He chops the air angrily with his hand, breathing hard. “You know? You should just…” Again he gropes vainly for words, then in frustration leaps in the air with a furious cry, one leg kicking out strongly in attack.
We all gasp in shock, and Beginner gives a little terrified cry.
“Awesome!” shouts Black Belt encouragingly as Dutch lands. “Nice technique, man.”
“Thanks,” says Dutch, panting slightly.
“Dutch!” Farida leaps up from her seat and puts a hand on his shoulder before he can perform any more maneuvers. “Dutch. That was very convincing. However, this is a writing group. Not a martial-arts group.”
“Right.” Dutch seems to come to. “Sorry. I lost it for a moment.”
“Please don’t worry,” Farida reassures him. “You found a form of expression, and that’s a start. Clearly you were expressing powerful emotions?”
“Yes,” says Dutch after a pause. “It was frustrating. I felt it.” He bangs his chest. “Just…couldn’t find the words.”
“Indeed.” Farida nods. “The plight of the writer in a nutshell. But, please, no more kickboxing. Although I do applaud your vivid portrayal of antagonism. We’re here to write romantic fiction.” She addresses the group. “And love is closer to hate than any other—”
“Romantic fiction?” Black Belt interrupts her, his face convulsed with horror. “Romantic? They said ‘Writing.’ They didn’t say anything about ‘romantic.’ ”
“Of course, you don’t have to write romantic fiction—” begins Farida, but Black Belt ignores her.
“I’m outta here. Sorry.” He gets to his feet. “This isn’t my bag. Jeez.”
“It’s not my bag either,” says Lyric, standing up and glaring around generally, as though it’s all our faults. “It’s super-weird and I want a refund.”
She’s going? Yesss!
Angels are singing hallelujah in my head. She’s leaving!
“Shame,” I say in the most regretful tone I can muster.
“You coming?” says Black Belt to Dutch, and Lyric turns to him expectantly too. The singing angels dwindle away inside my head, and my throat clenches in fear. He can’t leave. He mustn’t.
Don’t go, I silently beg him. Please don’t go.
I feel as if the whole retreat will be ruined if he goes. Or even my whole life. Which is ridiculous—I only just met him. But that’s how I feel.
“I think I’ll stay,” says Dutch at last, and I breathe out, trying not to give away how relieved I am.
* * *
—
Supper is around a long wooden table in a paved garden filled with massive terra-cotta pots of agapanthus and herbs and spiky cactuses. There are huge candles everywhere and painted pottery plates, and the waiters pour wine into short stubby glasses. Apparently the meditation group are having supper in a different courtyard. So that we don’t pollute their meditation, I guess.
I’m at the end of the table, sitting next to Metaphor and Scribe. I tried to sit next to Dutch, but somehow he got swept to the other end, which was incredibly frustrating.
“This place is so inspiring, don’t you think?” says Scribe, clinking her wineglass with mine. We’ve all changed into indigo linen kurta pajamas for the evening, and I must say, hers are very flattering. “My mind is absolutely humming with ideas for my book. Is yours?”
“Er…” I take a sip of wine, playing for time. The truth is, I haven’t given my book a thought. I’m obsessed with Dutch.
He’s so handsome. Self-deprecating, but confident too. And he’s good with his hands. A few moments ago, it transpired that the massive wooden pepper grinder didn’t work. Booklover wanted to tell a waiter, but Dutch said, “Let me try.” Now he’s taken the whole thing to bits and is staring at the mechanism intently, ignoring the conversation around him.
“During the break, I entirely replotted my story,” Scribe tells me. “And it’s only day one!”
“Great!” I applaud her, suddenly feeling guilty. I’ve neglected Chester and Clara (I’ve renamed her). I should focus on my task. Am I here to write a book or find a man?
Man! yells my brain before I can stop it, and I splutter my wine.
“I’m finding inspiration in everything,” Metaphor announces grandly. “Look at these dishes. Look at the sky. Look at the shadows in the garden.”
A waiter puts a bowl of bean broth flecked with green herbs in front of each of us, and Scribe says happily, “Mmm, yum.”
“I love the way the broad beans rest in their broth,” says Metaphor, “looking so contented. As though they’ve finally found home. La casa. A spiritual rest.”
They what? Broad beans have found spiritual rest? I catch Scribe’s eye and quell a giggle.
“I must write that down,” adds Metaphor. “I may use it.” She shoots each of us suspicious looks, as though we’re planning to pinch her idea.
“Good idea,” says Scribe blandly.
At the other end of the table, there’s a conversation going on about love and relationships, which I would far rather be part of, but I can only just hear it.
“Look at the story we studied today,” Booklover is saying, dipping her bread into artichoke dip. “If that’s not about trying again—”
“But they don’t try again,” Author-to-Be interrupts. “That’s it. Finito.”
“I think we have to believe they might reconcile,” chimes in Austen shyly. “Isn’t that what love is—forgiveness?”
“But there’s a limit.” Author-to-Be turns to Dutch. “What about you, Dutch? Are you a forgiving type? Do you believe in second chances?”
My heart leaps at the sound of his name, and I try my hardest to hear what he says above the sound of Metaphor, who’s now droning on about the Italian landscape.
Dutch raises his head from the pepper grinder and shrugs easily. “I don’t know about a forgiving type, but I try to be rational,” he says. “I look at the evidence. There’s a quote I like. ‘When the facts change, I change my mind.’ ”
“ ‘Look at the evidence!’ ” Author-to-Be gives a short laugh. “That’s romantic!”
“That’s just how I am—” Dutch breaks off, and his face suddenly lights up as though he’s spotted someone he knows. “Hey, beautiful.”
My throat seizes up. Beautiful? Who’s beautiful? Who just arrived? His wife? His Italian girlfriend? The waitress he’s somehow already started a relationship with, this afternoon, without my noticing?
Then I see a huge white dog padding through the garden, weaving its way between the giant terra-cotta pots. Dutch holds out his hand invitingly and the dog makes straight for him, as though it knows, out of all of us, Dutch is the guy to choose.
Scribe is saying something to me, but I can’t hear. I’m gripped by the sight of Dutch. He’s talking to the dog, coaxing it, stroking it, smiling down at it, ignoring everyone else. I know it when I see it: He doesn’t just like dogs, he loves dogs. As the dog puts a paw playfully up to him, Dutch throws back his head and laughs, in such a natural, engaging way that I feel another tug at my heart.
Now Metaphor’s trying to get my attention, but I’m deaf to anything but Dutch. And as I watch him…his strong, muscled arms…candlelight flickering on his face…his easy smile…I feel as if I’m floating. My heart is bursting with hope and exhilaration.
As though he’s reading my mind, Dutch lifts his head and looks at me for a few seconds. He smiles as though he’s trying to say something, and I find myself nodding and smiling back as though I understand, my heart going hippity-hop in my chest.
I feel about sixteen right now.
No. Younger. When did I have my first ever mammoth crush? That age.
Then a waiter comes up to take Dutch’s plate, he looks away, and the moment’s over. Reluctantly, I turn my attention to my neighbors and force myself to listen to what Metaphor’s saying about some Booker Prize winner. But all the while, my thoughts are turning over and over.
What if…? I mean, what if…? He’s handsome. Positive. Thoughtful. Good with his hands. And, oh my God, he loves dogs.
Four
By the next evening, my heart has hipped and hopped all over the place. I’m getting ready for supper, staring at myself in the tiny cracked mirror in my room (everything here is old and picturesque), unable to think about anything except: What are my chances?