Your Perfect Year(53)
It was a strange feeling to enter his ex-wife’s room with Leopold. He hadn’t set foot in here for years; only Henriette Jansen entered, to vacuum and dust every few weeks.
Even though Jonathan had called it “the guest room” since the divorce and kept it ready, with made-up bed and clean towels in the en suite bathroom, for the eventuality of overnight guests, no one had ever actually come to stay.
It simply hadn’t happened. Since Jonathan had not only been born and bred in Hamburg, but had also never left the city for more than three weeks at a stretch, he had no friends or acquaintances in other cities or countries who could have or would have wanted to come stay with him.
And even if they did, his potential visitors would probably be in a situation similar to his own and would prefer to stay in a hotel rather than invade another person’s private space.
Any contact with the Italian side of Jonathan’s family had been cut off once and for all with the departure of his mother, or at least with his final postcard to her, so he could hardly expect visits from those quarters. Jonathan knew his mother had a sister in Italy; he had seen her a few times when he was a boy. But he couldn’t even recall her name with certainty—something like Gina or Nina.
In any case, Jonathan had no reason at all to enter Tina’s old room, as the rest of the house gave him more than enough space. So now, as he stood with Leopold surrounded by the colorful patchwork world of his ex-wife, he felt queasy. The whole room exuded her presence, as though her ghost still lingered within the four walls.
In contrast to the rest of the villa, Tina had not decorated her own personal space with cool practicality, but in a cheerful interpretation of the country-house style.
The double bed was covered with a colorful quilt and had a canopy of heavenly swags of lace; the rest of the furniture—the wardrobe, bookshelves, dressing table, and stool—had been refinished by Tina herself (in her phase of giving meaning to her life through DIY), so that the grain of the wood showed through the varnish. She had chosen a light-apricot pastel shade for the walls, with a flowered border all around and curtains to match.
All in all, the room was a young woman’s dream, as only found these days in romantic hotels, and the little dressing room to the left was the icing on the cake. With a pang of embarrassment, Jonathan remembered how, when Tina had presented her finished work, he had said something to the effect of “Are you reliving your teenage years?” Tina had burst into tears, and not even an invitation to dinner in her favorite four-star restaurant, or the expensive gold chain he bought her, had succeeded in cheering her up.
All his subsequent reassurances that the room was now “very beautiful” had been countered with “You don’t really mean that” and “You hurt my feelings.” It was true that, in the cold light of day, they hadn’t been well suited for each other. Strangely, when he showed Leopold Tina’s former refuge, Jonathan had to admit that the guest room was genuinely lovely and inviting. Not at all to his own taste—but cozy nevertheless.
“Oh,” Leopold said, “Laura Ashley is alive and well!”
“Who?”
“Laura Ashley,” Leopold repeated. “Don’t you know her?”
“Never heard of her. Who’s that?”
“I think she invented this style—inspired by the British landed gentry and the like.”
“You’re a font of knowledge, aren’t you?”
“Not what you expected of me, hey?” He grinned. “It may surprise you to hear it, but I wasn’t born in a dumpster.”
“Um, yes, of course.” Jonathan felt on the verge of turning red again, so accurately had Leopold hit the nail on the head for the second time in quick succession. “You can make yourself at home here,” he said in a clumsy attempt to change the subject.
“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”
“Yes, well . . .” Jonathan looked around hesitantly, then squared his shoulders. “Let me just show you the kitchen.”
They went back downstairs and crossed the hall to the spacious designer kitchen. Jonathan told his houseguest where to find the dishes, cutlery, and glasses, and a case of mineral water; he told him there were juices and milk in the fridge, along with butter, cheese, and deli meats. “Help yourself to what you like,” he said as he opened up the bread box on the counter.
“That really is very, very kind and generous of you!”
“Think nothing of it, my man,” Jonathan replied with a half smile. They caught each other’s eye and laughed.
The ice was broken.
A second later it froze over again.
“So.” Jonathan clapped his hands. “I’d say you have everything you need, so I’ll be off upstairs. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Leopold looked at him, taken aback. “You’re going to leave me here alone?”
“Yes, why not?” Jonathan paused. “Do you need anything else?”
“It’s not that. I just thought . . . Well, I assumed we’d spend the evening together.”
“We’d spend the evening together?” Jonathan echoed.
Leopold gave a little cough. “Now that you put it like that, it sounds strange. I mean, I thought we might cook something together and hang out. A guys’ night. I could really enjoy that. I’m so often . . .” The same look of embarrassment as he’d had by the coatrack crossed his face. He shook his head and dropped his eyes. “No, forget it,” he muttered. “It was pushy enough of me to invite myself here.” He turned toward the kitchen door. “I’ll go upstairs and take a shower, okay?”