Love Your Life Page 4

  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 No
rth, 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.

  “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.