Your Perfect Year(115)

64

Jonathan—Sunday, May 20

“Don’t you think it’s a bit silly?”

“What’s silly about walking barefoot through a meadow of wildflowers? I think it’s lovely!” Hannah replied.

“Of course the idea in itself isn’t silly. But surely putting something like that down as a ‘date’ in a diary isn’t necessary? You can just do that kind of thing whenever you want to!”

“You think so?” She looked at him defiantly. “When was the last time you did it?”

“Um . . .” Jonathan was caught out.

“You see?” she said with a look of satisfaction. “It’s precisely because people never ‘just’ do it that I fixed a date for it.”

“Fair enough,” he murmured, a little ashamed, as he tramped barefoot through the grass beside Hannah. He hadn’t intended to complain. On the contrary! Jonathan was glad she had wanted to see him again. And her suggestion of arranging their next meeting according to the diary made perfect sense to him in principle.

It was just that going barefoot made him feel so . . . well, naked. Vulnerable. Unmanly.

“Don’t be such a wimp! Come on!” she called, laughing, as he picked his way carefully around a clump of nettles. “The first one down to the ice cream stand pays!” She shot off.

“The winner pays? What kind of logic is that?”

“Mine!” she shouted over her shoulder.

Oh, he liked her. He really did. So very much!

Hannah—Monday, June 4

“I’m sorry, but I can’t manage any more. Another tiny bite and I’ll burst.” Jonathan pushed his plate of half-eaten Lübeck nut torte aside with a pained expression.

“Bursting doesn’t count,” she replied. “The point was to eat until you feel sick.”

“I’ve been feeling sick since two pieces ago.”

“You should have said.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“But it’s your birthday, not mine.”

“How did you find out?” Jonathan asked.

The day before yesterday she had surprised him with a message inviting him to the Lütt Café on Monday afternoon for coffee and cake. That wasn’t in the diary for June 4, and Jonathan had objected that he couldn’t simply absent himself from the office during working hours on a weekday, but she had insisted. This was her plan for birthdays from now on.

“I called your office and asked,” she said.

Jonathan spluttered on the mouthful of tea he had just drunk. “You called my office?”

“Yes, why not?” She grinned at him. “Your nice assistant was really helpful.”

“Well, well.” He was also grinning in a mischievous way. “I’ll have to have a chat with our dear Frau Krug about data protection.”

“Don’t worry, she only told me the date, not the year.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She laughed. Bantering with Jonathan was such fun. Like mental ping-pong. Ping and pong, pong and ping. “Speaking of your office, that reminds me. Have you found Simon’s manuscript yet?”

He looked at her remorsefully. “I’m afraid not. I have no idea where Markus Bode put it before he left.”

“I meant what I said, that I could copy it for you. It really isn’t a problem.”

“I’ll take another look tomorrow, okay? If I don’t find it, then please do.”

Jonathan—Sunday, July 15

“The sun doesn’t affect me, actually,” Jonathan said. “Italian genes, you know.”

“Your back looks rather red, considering,” Hannah said from where she was sitting behind him. “Are you sure you don’t want me to rub some sunscreen on?”

“No, no need.” He felt it was not only his back that was red, but also his face. Which had nothing to do with the sun that had been beating down on them for the whole hour they’d spent exploring the canals of the Alster by boat. Nor was the blood shooting to his cheeks due to the strenuous rowing or the fact that the heat and the sweaty exertion had forced Jonathan to remove his T-shirt ten minutes ago (whereupon he had noticed with delight that Hannah had stared at his body briefly but with apparent interest). It was the prospect of Hannah considerately applying the lotion, thereby touching his bare skin, and then . . . Yes, then even Jonathan N. Grief couldn’t guarantee anything!

“Have you been given editorial notes on Simon’s novel yet?” Hannah said, breaking the almost-erotic moment.

Jonathan winced with guilt. “Not yet.”

Damn! She was asking about Simon’s manuscript again. Jonathan had finally been forced to tell her that he had found it and sent it directly to one of the editors, “because they can give a much better evaluation of it than I can.”

Now he was in a fix, since Hannah regularly asked him for a progress report. Which of course he could understand. She had a right to know whether or not the novel was any good. If only he had been honest with her and told her that he had read it and thought it was a fine thing for someone to sit down and write for their own personal satisfaction, but not everyone had the talent to write for the public. But he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Hannah.