Love Your Life(30)

Dutch has a driver?

My brain seems to be short-circuiting. This is all wrong. Carpenters don’t have drivers. What’s going on?

I hurry forward, take Harold’s lead from Nell, and extricate it from the chauffeur’s legs.

“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly. “Are your legs all right? My dog’s just quite highly strung. He needs soothing.”

“Soothing!” expostulates the chauffeur. “I’ll soothe him all right!”

I bend down to hug my precious Harold and whisper in his ear how I’ve missed him so much but I have a new friend for him to meet. Then I rise again, turn to Dutch, and say in tremulous tones, “So, meet Harold!”

It takes me a moment to realize that Dutch isn’t even looking at Harold. He’s addressing the chauffeur in irritable tones. I’ve never even heard him sound irritable before.

“Geoff, what are you doing here?”

“They want you at the conference,” says the chauffeur. “And the dinner. Mr. Warwick, Sr., says you know about it. He told me to come and drive you straight to Ascot.”

Dutch closes his eyes as though trying to control himself. “I said I wasn’t doing the conference. I made it quite clear.”

“That’s what he said,” replies Geoff implacably. “They’re expecting you.”

“I need to make a call,” says Dutch to me, jabbing tensely at his phone. “Sorry. This is…This really wasn’t the plan….Dad.” He strides away out of earshot, and I stare after him, nonplussed.

    “I thought he was a carpenter,” says Maud, who has been watching, agog, with all the others.

“I thought he was too,” I say confusedly. “I…don’t know. I must have picked up the wrong vibes.”

“So, what does he do?” says Nell.

“What’s his name?” chimes in Sarika.

“Don’t know,” I admit.

“You still don’t know his bloody name?” Nell sounds incredulous. “Ava, what are you like? What’s his name?” she demands of Geoff. “Your boss there. What’s he called?”

“He’s called Mr. Warwick,” says Geoff stiffly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“My friend’s planning to spend the rest of her days with him and have his babies,” retorts Nell. “So it is my business.”

Geoff eyes me with a supremely dubious look but doesn’t reply. I’m not sure what to say, either, so we all stand there waiting for Dutch to return—and when he does, it’s with a thunderous frown on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says directly to me. “I’m so sorry. I have to go and do a work thing.”

“On a Saturday?” I can’t hide my dismay.

“It’s a weekend conference. It’s…” He exhales. “Sorry. But I’ll be back. As soon as I can. Tomorrow. And we’ll…take it from there.”

He looks so miserable and apologetic, my heart melts. I don’t know what went on during that phone call, but his brow has darkened and I know he doesn’t want to leave.

    “Don’t worry!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Go and do…whatever you have to do. And I’m sorry about Harold,” I add to Geoff, who just sniffs in reply.

“Nice to meet you.” Dutch lifts a hand in greeting to my friends. “And you, Harold. I hope to make better acquaintance with you another time. But I have to go.” Then he turns to me and for a moment we’re both silent, gazing into each other’s faces. “I guess the bubble had to burst sometime,” Dutch says at last.

“I guess so.”

“But this doesn’t change anything. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I swallow hard. “So much.”

“And we’re going to make this work.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, look at them!” I can hear Maud exclaiming to Nell. “They’re adorable!”

Dutch has taken hold of my hands and I’m not sure I can bear to let go—but Geoff is making impatient noises, so at last, feeling noble, I release him and say, “Go. Do your thing.”

I watch as Dutch follows Geoff to a nearby big black corporate-looking car and slides into the back. That is so not the car I was expecting him to have. Nor a driver who opens the door for him. Nor the Financial Times waiting for him on the backseat.

“Wait!” I say, as Geoff is preparing to shut the car door. “What is your thing? What do you do?”

“It’s a family company,” says Dutch, looking even more tense than before. “So…Anyway. That’s it.”

“But you talked about a workshop,” I say in confusion.

    “Yes. There’s a workshop in the design studio.”

“But what do you do?” I say in slight frustration. “What does the company do?”

“We make dollhouses.”

“What?” I stare at him, thinking I must have misheard.

“Dollhouses,” he repeats. “And dolls. We’ve been making them forever. People collect them all over the world….It’s a thing.”