Home > Love Your Life(6)

Love Your Life(6)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

I’m blatantly gobbling him up with my eyes, I realize. But that’s OK, because you’re allowed to be observant if you’re a writer. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m making mental notes for a character in my book, and that’s why I’m gazing so intently at his thighs.

Kirk seems quite taken by one of the other new arrivals, I notice, and I swing round to survey her quickly. She’s pretty attractive, too, with tawny hair and white teeth and amazingly toned arms. The second guy is incredibly pumped up, with mammoth biceps—in fact, our whole group is suddenly about 50 percent more good-looking on average. Which maybe says something about martial arts versus writing.

The entire mood of the room has lifted, and we watch, rapt, as the newbies choose their names. The girl goes for Lyric, the super-muscled guy is Black Belt, and the dark-haired guy chooses Dutch.

“It was the name of my childhood dog,” he says as he introduces himself—and I melt. His voice is good. It’s deep and resonant and honest and ambitious but noble and humorous, too, with a hint of past sadness but rays of future sunshine and a thread of rare intelligence. And OK, I know I’ve only heard him utter eight words. But that’s enough. I can tell. I can feel it. I just know he has a big heart and integrity and honor. He would never photoshop in Brad Pitt’s eyes.

Plus he had a childhood dog. A dog, a dog! I feel almost giddy with hope. If he’s single…if only he’s single…and straight…and single…

“We try not to reveal details of our lives on this retreat,” says Farida with a gentle smile, and Dutch clicks his tongue.

“Right. You said. Sorry. Messed up already.”

A new appalling thought hits me. If we’re not talking about ourselves, how am I supposed to find out if he’s single?

He’s got to be. He’s giving off single vibes. Also: If he’s attached, where’s his partner?

“Now that everyone has been introduced,” Farida is saying, “we can carry on with our discussion. Maybe, Dutch, you could tell us what story means to you?” Dutch’s face jolts and he looks alarmed.

“Story,” he echoes, clearly playing for time.

“Story.” Farida nods. “We’re here to create story. That’s our task in this retreat.”

“Huh. Right. Story.” Dutch rubs the back of his neck. “OK,” he says at last. “Here’s the thing. I came here to learn how to kick the shit out of my opponent. Not this.”

“Of course,” says Farida softly. “But do your best.”

“I’m not a writer,” Dutch says at last. “I can’t tell stories. Not like you can. I don’t have your skills or talent. I’d like to learn, though.” As he looks around, his eye catches mine and my stomach twangs.

“I’m sure you will learn,” I say throatily, before I can stop myself.

At once I curse myself for being too uncool and eager, but Dutch seems disarmed.

“Thanks.” He squints to read my name badge. “Aria. Nice name. Thanks.”

Three

At break we mill around in the courtyard with glasses of homemade lemonade. I sip mine for a while, then let my eye catch Dutch’s, casually.

Super-casually.

Like, barely interested at all.

“Hi!” I say. “How did you find the writing exercise?”

We’ve all just written the first sentence of a book and handed them in to Farida. We’re going to discuss them later in the week. Mine’s quite dramatic; it goes: Emily’s bosom dripped with blood as she gazed at the love of her life.

I’m quite pleased with it, actually. I think it’s pretty riveting. Why is Emily’s bosom dripping with blood? Any reader would be dying to know. (The only thing is, I’m not sure myself; I must think about that before we get to the discussion.)

“I froze,” says Dutch regretfully. “Didn’t write a word. My brain…” He bangs his forehead with his fist. “Just won’t do it. I was never any good at this kind of thing. Give me a practical task. Or numbers. I’m good with numbers. But creative writing…” A tortured expression passes over his face.

“That’s OK,” I say encouragingly. “It’ll come.”

“It’s interesting, though,” he continues, as if determined to be positive. “I liked hearing what everyone else thought. Interesting crowd.” He spreads his arms to take in everyone wandering around the courtyard. “You know. It’s different. Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone. Try something new.”

“This courtyard is beautiful, isn’t it?” I can hear Scribe saying behind me.

“Oh, it’s stunning,” Metaphor replies in a loud, definitive voice, as though she’s the only person who can pronounce on what’s stunning or not and no one else had better even try. “The ancient, craggy stones, worn down by a thousand footsteps,” she continues in declamatory tones. “The echoing cloister, full of history. The scents of herbs, mingling with the cascading blooms of flowers all around us, while swallows speed through the cobalt sky, tumbling and shooting like endless darts of…” She hesitates for only a moment. “Quicksilver.”

“Absolutely,” says Scribe after a polite pause. “That’s just what I was going to say.”

I want to turn around and catch Scribe’s eye, but before I can, Black Belt approaches.

“Hi,” he greets Dutch. “Hot out here.”

He’s taken off his pajama top and I’m trying not to stare, but those muscles. I’ve never seen anyone that ripped in real life. Basically he looks like a less-green Hulk.

“It’s weird, huh?” He addresses Dutch. “This no-name shit. Did you write anything?”

“No.”

“Me either.

“You write anything?” He’s turned to Lyric, who is walking up to us, holding a glass of lemonade.

“A bit.” She shrugs. “Not really my thing. I thought it would be more interesting.”

She’s gazing at Dutch over her drink, I suddenly notice. In fact, she can’t take her eyes off him. Oh God. The horrible truth suddenly hits me: I have a rival. A rival with tawny hair and toned arms and slimmer legs than mine.

As I gaze anxiously at her, Lyric seems to become prettier before my eyes. Her hair is feathery and frames her face perfectly. She’s chewing her lips in an adorable way. She probably looks incredibly hot when she kickboxes. Of course she does.

“Are you into this?” she suddenly demands of Dutch, almost aggressively, and he flinches at her tone.

“Don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’m not,” says Black Belt flatly. “I think it was a mistake. Shall we take off?” He addresses Dutch directly. “We can still get a refund.”

What?

Panic shoots through me, but somehow I summon a relaxed smile. Relaxed-ish, maybe.

“Don’t leave!” I say lightheartedly, making sure I address all of them, not just Dutch. “Give it another chance. Come to the next session, see how it goes.”

Farida is banging the little gong that signals us to return to the group, and I can see Dutch is conflicted.

“I’ll try another session,” he says at last to the others. “I’m not bailing yet. We’ve got until tomorrow to decide.”

Black Belt rolls his eyes but drains his lemonade and dumps the glass on a nearby trestle table.

“If you say so,” says Lyric without enthusiasm. “But I think it’s pretty shit. I think we should go for the refund. We could go and have a drink now, in the town. Have some fun. Get on a flight tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to stay,” says Dutch, sounding defensive. “But I want to have another go. I like listening, even if I can’t write. Maybe I’ll pick up some tips.”

He turns and heads back toward the doorway leading to our meeting room. Lyric watches him for a moment, then clicks her tongue as though in frustration and follows him in, along with Black Belt.

She’s so after him.

As we take our seats, I sneak a few glances at her and she’s gazing at Dutch, an unmistakable look in her eye. It’s so blatant. So obvious. I mean, it’s inappropriate, if you ask me. This is a writing retreat.

“And now it’s time for the improvisation exercise that I mentioned earlier.” Farida’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t be scared! I know some of you are shy….” She pauses, and there’s a nervous laugh around the room. “But do your best. I want you to improvise a character in turmoil, thinking about his antagonist; his enemy. Any character. Any turmoil. Dig deep. Kirk!” She smiles as he leaps to his feet. “Go ahead.”

Kirk makes his way to the center of the room, looking supremely confident, and draws breath.

“Where do I even begin?” he demands emphatically. “Here I am, cast out from Zorgon, holding the secret of the Third Rock of Farra but unjustly banished from the Sixteen Planetary Nations. And, Emril, I blame you, you vile monster; you’ve always hated me, since we were kids…”

As Kirk carries on his tirade, I find my gaze drifting back to Lyric. She’s still staring at Dutch, her mouth half open. She’s fixated. It’s unhealthy! Plus, her kurta pajama top is hanging sexily off one shoulder. Don’t tell me that happened by accident.

“…so, Emril, Empress of the North, believe me. It’s on,” Kirk concludes menacingly, and we all applaud.

“Very good!” says Farida. “I really felt your anger there, Kirk, well done. Now, who’s next?” Her face jolts in surprise as Dutch raises his hand. “Dutch!” She sounds astonished and pleased. “You have a character you want to work on?”

“Yes,” says Dutch shortly. “I think I do.”

We all watch curiously as he comes to the center of the space, his brows knitted as though he’s deep in thought.

   
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