Your Perfect Year(7)

Hannah’s telephone rang, chasing away her thoughts of Simon. She jumped up from the bed and raced to the phone on its little table in the hall of her small two-room apartment in Lokstedt.

“Morning!” Lisa yelled into her ear as soon as Hannah picked up.

“Morning.” Hannah suppressed a yawn.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve been awake for hours,” she fibbed.

“Glad to hear it. I was beginning to worry—”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“So? Are you ready?”

“Am I ready? I can’t wait!”

“Shall we meet there at ten?”

“Let’s say nine thirty. I’m just about ready.”

“Good, then I’ll get a move on,” Lisa said. “Do you want me to pick anything up on my way?”

“If you’re there before me, could you collect the doughnuts and cookies we ordered from Wernicke’s?” The bakery was conveniently located across the street from Little Rascals.

“I certainly will,” Lisa said. “Anything else?”

Hannah thought for a moment. “No, I think we’ve got everything. Simon still has the crates of drinks, the helium tank for the balloons, and the paper plates in his car.”

“When’s he coming?”

“He said he’d be there around eleven.”

“Okay,” Lisa said. “See you soon!”

“See you.”

No sooner had Hannah hung up than she felt the return of that strange tingling from her dream. She smiled with relief as at last she knew what it was. Yes, she’d fallen in love during the night; that much was clear.

In love with the idea that from now on she was no longer a menial, underpaid employee, but Hannah Marx, proud co-owner of Little Rascals Events!





3

Jonathan

Monday, January 1, 8:18 a.m.

Jonathan looked around surreptitiously, his conscience nagging him. It was madness, of course, but he felt a strange prickling at the back of his neck as though someone were watching him.

But no one was there. Not a soul was out walking the banks of the Alster; only a few cars made their way slowly along the nearby street.

Jonathan was about to take another look at the diary when he caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was there! Down by the river, half-hidden behind the Alsterperle restaurant, he could just make out a shadowy figure. Without thinking, Jonathan sprinted toward it, the Filofax and the bag tucked securely under his arm.

He had not been mistaken—someone was standing right by the water’s edge, their back turned.

“Hello!” Jonathan called, slightly breathless.

Nothing happened. The figure remained motionless, looking out over the river, apparently deep in thought.

“Hey!” Jonathan called, louder this time, but there was still no reaction. He slowed his pace, near enough now to see that it was a tall, slim man.

To his astonishment, Jonathan saw that he was wearing nothing but jeans, sneakers, and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt. Not exactly appropriate clothing for a New Year’s walk by the river in below-freezing temperatures.

“Hello?” Jonathan said once more, approaching the stranger and gently tapping him on the shoulder.

The man jumped and turned. He was young—Jonathan estimated in his early or mid thirties—and stared at Jonathan in wide-eyed shock. The metal-framed glasses on his nose made his green eyes look slightly larger than life. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes,” Jonathan panted.

“What do you want?”

“Is this yours?” Jonathan held the bag and the diary out under the man’s nose. He suddenly felt stupid. What must he look like to this guy? A breathless jogger races up to him and shoves a mystery item at him—it must seem pretty bizarre.

As he expected, the man shook his head, slowly at first and then more decisively. “No,” he said, “it’s not mine.”

“Um, that’s a pity,” Jonathan replied. He felt obliged to explain. “I found it on my bike. I mean, the bag was hanging on the handlebar of my bike, and this diary was in it.” As if to prove it, he indicated the Filofax again. “And because there was no one in sight except you, I thought I’d ask if you’d maybe . . .” He ran out of words.

“Left it on the handlebar of your bicycle?” The young man finished Jonathan’s sentence with a smile.

“Um, yes, that.”

Another shake of the head, this time with visible amusement. “Sorry. I didn’t leave anything on your bike.” His smile spread to a broad grin.

Jonathan was suddenly reminded of Harry Potter. The glasses and the slightly tousled brown hair, combined with the man’s youthful face, made the comparison inevitable.

For a fraction of a second, Jonathan had a mental image of his father, Wolfgang. Until dementia had laid him low and sent him into a nursing home, he had never stopped talking about the biggest humiliation of his life—the time when, toward the end of the 1990s, he had contemptuously turned down publication of the German version of the adventures of the young Hogwarts pupil, despite all his editorial staff advocating strongly for the book. Wolfgang Grief had called the millionfold sales of Harry Potter “a sign of the cultural decline of the West!” and “a stain on civilized literature.”