Love Your Life(26)

“This getting to know each other without names and postcodes and family background and all that crap…” I exhale. “It’s a luxury. We should enjoy it. Savor it.”

“Yes.” He finally comes alive. “I agree. Fully.”

“It’s real. What we have feels…” I hesitate, because is this too much, too soon? But I can’t stop myself. “You might just think this is a holiday fling.” My voice trembles a little. “But I think…I already feel like it’s…more.”

There’s an unbearable silence between us. I can hear a distant gale of laughter coming from the lunch table, but I’m rapt.

“I think it’s more too,” Dutch says at last in a low voice, and he squeezes my hands tight.

“Well…good.” A stupid smile spreads over my face. “I’m…I feel really…”

“Me too.”

He smiles back, and for a moment neither of us speaks. And I don’t exactly believe in auras, but we are in some kind of aura right now. I can feel it. All around us.

    “Anyway,” I say, coming to. “What I was going to say is, shall we not ask any more personal questions of each other? Shall we not try to find out…I don’t know, what our middle names are and where we live? Not till we leave here, anyway. Let’s stay in the bubble.”

“Sounds good.” Dutch nods. “I like the bubble. In fact, I love the bubble.”

“I love the bubble too.” I feel my face softening as he leans down to kiss me. “Oh, wait, though. There’s one thing I think we should know. Do you…have kids?”

The thought crossed my mind during the session, and now it won’t leave me alone. Not that it would be a problem, of course not, it’s just…

“Kids?” Dutch’s face starts in surprise. “No. Do you?”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “I…I have a dog, though.”

As I say the words, I feel myself tensing up with almighty nerves. Because Harold is my kids. If Dutch has some kind of, I don’t know, objection…or problem…

As I wait for his reply, I’m so fearful I can hardly breathe. Because it could all be over, right now. And then I would die. I would actually die.

He can’t have a problem, says an optimistic voice in my mind (Alice). He loves dogs!

You don’t know that, answers the Red Queen, who is always making trouble and scoring points. Maybe he only likes white shepherds.

“I love dogs,” says Dutch easily, and I nearly collapse.

    “Great!” I say, my relief tumbling out. “That’s…He’s called Harold. He’s…”

Shall I show him a photo? No. Too soon. Anyway, I’ve already divulged enough.

“I bet he’s a wonderful dog,” says Dutch.

“Oh, he is,” I say eagerly. “He is.”

Just the idea of Dutch meeting Harold floods me with emotion. My two centers of love, together.

Wait. Do I mean “love”? I’ve only just met Dutch. Am I using the word “love,” even in my thoughts?

“Shall we go?” Dutch tugs at my hand. “I have an appetite for grissini.” He winks at me. “And shall we not hide anymore? Because if you’re right, it’s no secret that we’ve hooked up. And it gives me a kick to be with the prettiest girl in the place.” He links his arm firmly through mine. “You know, you mentioned grissini in your piece too,” he adds as we cross the cloister. “So you needn’t be so high and mighty.” He winks at me again and I feel a flood of…what?

Come on. Be honest. There is only one word for what I’m feeling right now.

I love him. I don’t know anything about this guy. Not his age, not his job, not even his name. But I love him.



* * *



—

By Friday, we’re a couple. We’re the couple. We walk around hand in hand, and we sit next to each other in sessions. People leave two adjoining chairs for us at supper, as a matter of course. They say “Aria and Dutch” when they’re talking about evening plans.

I’ve never felt so heady and happy and intoxicated in my life. Dutch’s face when I wake up. His laugh. His strong hand in mine.

    On Friday afternoon, Giuseppe drives the whole group out of the monastery to a hillside olive grove, for a picnic. All the writing sessions are done, and Farida has explained that this is when we can relax, unmask, introduce ourselves, and say our good-byes.

As I get down from the minibus, I’m feeling huge pangs, because I’ve loved it here. The sunshine, the food, the writing, the people…I’ll even miss Metaphor. Nearby, Austen, Scribe, and Author-to-Be are already talking about booking next year, and I don’t blame them.

Giuseppe is unloading a massive hamper from the minibus, and some others are carrying blankets. I’m about to go and help when Author-to-Be comes up, brandishing a piece of paper at me. “Aria! Have you entered the competition?”

“Competition?” I blink at him.

“Guess the name. Two people have got you down as Clover.”

“Clover?” I take the paper from him and look down, starting to laugh. There are seven guesses against my name and all of them are wrong.