Love Your Life(23)

    Huh. Hilarious.

As I wander back to the monastery, I feel conflicted. Of course I’m curious. Of course I’ve speculated. Part of me is desperate to know his real name. And his age. And which big city he lives in. (Please, please, not Sydney.) But part of me doesn’t want to go there. Not yet. We’re in the most magical bubble, and I want to stay in it for as long as possible.

Should I at least find out one detail? His real name?

I pause at the entrance to the monastery, thinking this through.

The trouble is, if I know his name, I’ll google him. I won’t intend to…I won’t want to…but I will. Just like I quite often don’t want or intend to order a muffin with my coffee, but, oh, look, there it is on my plate, how did that happen?

I can already see myself making an excuse, getting my phone, feverishly waiting for the results to load….

And that would puncture the bliss.

Slowly, I open the heavy wooden door with my latchkey and step inside the thick stone walls. I hand my phone back at reception, then walk into the main cloister. I can see Farida talking to Giuseppe, who is the porter, driver, and general helper, but as she sees me, she nods to him and turns in my direction.

“Aria!” she greets me, her hair flowing immaculately down her back, her amber beads clicking together. “I’m just on my way to our first session. Are you ready?”

    “Yes!” I say, and fall into step with her, trying to drag my thoughts back to the main task.

“Are you finding the retreat helpful so far?” she asks as we walk.

Well, it’s helped me get laid.

“Yes,” I say earnestly. “Yes, very much so.”



* * *



—

That morning’s session is called “free writing.” We all have to work on anything we like, then share it with the class. Some people are writing in their rooms; others have found shady corners in the garden or courtyard.

Dutch announces he’ll write in his room, and I don’t really feel I can join him there. So I wander around until I find a secluded bench next to a huge rosemary bush. I sit on it with my feet up, my laptop balanced on my thighs, absently rubbing sprigs of rosemary between my fingers. I still feel exhilarated. And dreamy. All I can think about is sex. And last night. And Dutch.

But that’s OK. In fact, it’s good. It’s going to power my writing. Yes! I’m bubbling over with words and feelings to give to my lovers, Chester and Clara. I’m going to speed up their affair. I can see them now, tumbling on the ground, Chester tugging urgently at Clara’s bodice— Wait, do they need to get married first? I’m a bit hazy about Victorian standards. Maybe the hay-wagon driver could also happen to be a vicar and they get quickly married as they’re moving along?

Whatever. Don’t care. The crucial thing is, they have sex. Soon. I’ve never written about sex before, but somehow it’s bursting out of me today.

    He drove into her with a gasp, I type briskly, then cringe and delete it quickly. Maybe…He plunged into her.

No, this is too soon. I need to build up to the plunging.

As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…

Like a…?

My mind’s blank. What moans? Apart from a guy having sex?

OK, I’ll come back to it. I’ll pop back to that patch of 4G outside and google “things that moan.”

He transported her. He intoxicated her. The touch of his fingers set her on fire. The sound of his voice made her head spin. Everything else in life seemed irrelevant. Who cared what job he had or what his name was— Wait. This isn’t Clara I’m writing about. This is me.

Lifting my hands off the laptop, I breathe out and look up into the endless blue sky. He does transport me. And he does intoxicate me. The truth is, all I can think about is Dutch.



* * *



—

Even so, by the time we reconvene, I’ve managed to write a passage. In fact, I’m so engrossed that I’m late arriving and Dutch is already seated between Scribe and Author-to-Be This is absolutely typical, but never mind.

As Farida invites us to share our morning’s work, I feel suddenly intrepid. If I can leap off rocks, I can read my scene out loud.

    “I’ll go,” I say, raising my hand. “This morning I wrote a…” I clear my throat. “Well, actually, it’s my first ever sex scene.”

Scribe immediately whoops and a few people applaud, laughing.

“Good for you!” says Author-to-Be. “Read away!”

I hold up my printout and clear my throat. I’m quite pleased with the scene actually, because as well as the love aspect, I’ve got a bit of social commentary in there.

“So, this is from the novel I’m working on that I’ve told you about,” I begin. “Just to remind you, it’s set in Victorian England.” I hesitate, then start reading aloud: “?‘You are my wife,’ growled Chester. ‘And I claim my conjugal rights.’

“?‘This is an outdated practice,’ snapped Clara, the fire of feminism in her eyes. ‘I foresee that in future generations, women will be equal.’

“The sweat of shame passed over Chester’s brow.

“?‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will join the fight, Clara. In future years I will be a male suffragette.’