‘Amsterdam.’
I can smell the tulips already. Joe Cain, I hope you’re ready.
I hug Nick tightly as I kiss him goodbye.
‘See you in another twelve years.’
‘It’s a date,’ he laughs.
Sarah puts her arm through mine as we walk back to the hotel. ‘Are you sad?’
‘Nope. I guess it would have been too good to be true if Nick had been “it”. Life’s never that easy. And anyway, I’ve got my credit cards to think of – they’re expecting a round-the-world trip. It would be terrible to disappoint them.’
‘You’re right. The Royal Society For the Prevention Of Cruelty to Credit Cards would have you shot. Still,’ she adds, ‘I’ll be sad to leave here – I was just getting used to having room service and a shagpile carpet.’
I have a flash of inspiration. ‘Come to Amsterdam with me,’ I beg.
‘I can’t. I don’t have a passport.’
My spirits crash, then I have an idea. ‘Then stay here. Sarah, I’ve paid for four days. Just because my mission has crashed and burned like a home-made rocket doesn’t mean you have to leave too. Stay another couple of days, relax, spoil yourself, drink all those posh coffees in the room. You deserve it.’
She thinks about it. ‘Are you sure? It would be amazing and I could just jump on the train home.’
‘I insist. But only on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ I could hear the joy bubbling in her voice.
‘You use the hotel stationery to send a letter to Bill and let him see that you’re living it up and moving on to better things. There’s nothing like rubbing salt in the wound. Or, as Carol would say, rubbing pepper in the cut.’
Her face creases with laughter. ‘So she still gets her sayings mixed up?’
I nod. ‘As sure as eggs are bacon and more often than always.’
She’s still laughing as I wave her goodbye. In my rear view mirror, I can see her waving back, looking radiantly happy and contented with life.
This definitely wasn’t such a waste of time after all.
Now, where are my clogs?
15
Together Again – Janet Jackson
I do a mental review of the situation as I attack the aeroplane breakfast roll with a chisel. One down, five to go.
There’s a tiny little bit of me that’s disappointed about Nick, but, to be honest, I’ve now got a desperate curiosity about all of the guys. Don’t get me wrong, the minute I meet ‘him’, then I’m going to seize the moment, but it would have been so pathetic to tell everyone who knew about this trip that I never got further than Scotland. Not exactly a grand voyage, is it? It would have been like Marco Polo stopping at the first ancient Little Chef for breakfast and deciding to just stay there.
The Schiphol Airport to Amsterdam city centre express train screeches into Centraal Station and I disembark with the hordes of tourists seeking either to experience the stunning views of the city’s beautiful architecture, or the stunning architecture of the city’s ladies.
I jump into a taxi.
‘Damstraat, alstublieft.’
Big mistake. The driver now thinks I can speak Dutch and launches into a fifteen minute dialogue as he drives. I just smile and nod my head in agreement when he pauses for breath. When he drops me at my destination, we’re already best friends forever. He probably thinks I’m a great listener.
I enter the hotel and approach the gent at reception, who’s engrossed in the morning newspaper behind the desk.
‘Excuse me, I’d like a room, please.’
He grunts and opens his registration book without even looking up.
‘Yes, I’d like a room with peeling paint, holes in the carpet, fungus in the bathroom and a grumpy old bastard knocking on the door every five minutes with cups of coffee that taste like diesel.’
René lifts his head. ‘Oh, mon dieu.’ He throws open his arms and reaches across the desk to envelop me in a bear hug ‘Carly! You have come back to us. We thought you were dead!’
‘Cheery as ever, René,’ I laugh and return his squeeze. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
After many more hugs, exclamations and chat, he shows me to my old room, still a resplendent dump. I don’t think it’s been decorated since I left it and I would swear they’re the same blankets on the bed.
I shake my head, laughing. ‘My God, René, how do you get away with charging people to live in this squalor?’
‘We charge for the friendly service and the wonderful staff,’ he answers with a wink, as he backs out of the room. He’s incorrigible. If he were forty years younger, I’d snap him up.
I throw open a window before my respiratory system collapses and then unpack, making sure that I line the drawer with a plastic bag before putting my clothes in it. I don’t want my sweaters being eaten before I get the chance to wear them.
When I join René back downstairs, he has a cup of diesel ready and waiting. I can’t stop grinning. I explain why I’m here, leaving out the fact that this is part of a master plan that will hopefully end in me wearing white satin and dancing up an aisle. I don’t want René joining the long list of people who think I’m bonkers.
I ask him if he knows where I can find Joe and he ponders for a moment, rubbing his chin. ‘Ma chère, it was so long ago. I’m an old man and the memory is not so good now.’
I’m surprised. The René I knew could remember the colour of a hooker’s bra from 1962.
‘You must know something, René. You’re the Buddha of all knowledge,’ I joke, rubbing his hugely expanded belly. ‘Anything that would make this easier. I don’t want to have to trawl the streets for days looking for him, only to find he fled the country two months after I left.’
‘Would that be so bad, my chérie?’ he asks.
I frown. Why’s René being so coy about this?
