‘Can I take you out to dinner this Saturday?’ Michael asks. ‘We haven’t seen each other since last week.’
I have to confess that when I saw Michael’s name appear on my phone, I nearly didn’t answer. I wanted to make the first move but didn’t know what I’d say. Typical Michael, he’s chosen his words perfectly: ‘last week’ to let me know he remembers what happened and ‘out to dinner’ to reassure me it’ll be on safe territory. He’s holding his hand out to me and all I have to do is take it. I want to but not yet. Fortunately, I have a genuine excuse.
‘That sounds really lovely,’ I say hoping he reads as much into my words. ‘But I have to work, I’m hosting one of the Around the World in 20 Artists’ weekends in Amsterdam.’
‘I thought you were doing the Barcelona one.’
‘Ah no, I’ve swapped with Charlie,’ I say. ‘He’s doing Barcelona and I’m doing Amsterdam. Van Gogh etc.’
This is the trip I thought about with Patty. I’ve swapped with Charlie because Barcelona is months away and I wanted us to have our girls’ trip before she moves in with Jack.
‘I could do tonight but it would be late, we’ve loads to do before we set off.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ says Michael, ‘I can’t. There’s a big match on and I have to make sure that the pitch is perfect, then there’s a welcome dinner for the visiting team.’
I’m relieved that we’ve both had the chance to turn each other down. We’ve spoken, we’re friends and we’ve agreed to get together when we’re less rushed. Result. I’m sure Patty is wrong about going with the flow. Things do have to happen in the right order to be perfect: Charlie and I finalise this proposal and send it off; we win the bid and take out the loan; Lorenzo turns out to be a damp squib and moves on quickly; the wedding business is a tremendous success and the loan is paid off in double-quick time; I move into my fabulous new home and then, when I’m sure everything is just as it should be, we make mad passionate love and live happily ever after. I’ve visualised it all happening just like this, so obviously it’s going to. We can’t just squeeze in a Thursday night and expect sparks to fly. That’s what went wrong last time.
I’ve no time to think about that now. Charlie and I continue to work on our bid all afternoon. The first draft proposal that we took to the bank was pretty spot on so all we need to do is tweak some of the wording, adjust the numbers to give us a little leeway when it comes to negotiating, and ensure that our vision is as magical as it can be.
‘We should add a personal statement from you and Peter about your time there,’ I say.
‘Oh my god, yes,’ agrees Josie. ‘I could do a compilation of your honeymoon photos and you add a voiceover saying how much you love the place. It would probably mean so much to them knowing that one of the bidders really cares about what happens to the resort.’
Josie and Charlie head off to put this together and I check everything is in place for the weekend. The five-minute video they come back with has me practically in tears. Against a backdrop of beautiful scenes from his stay on the island, Charlie simply says that the place means everything to him and Peter and that he wants to keep this paradise as perfect as it is so that other people can have the same fairy-tale memories.
‘I did it in one take,’ beams Charlie.
I could tell. His words are so heartfelt, it couldn’t be a script. With this alongside the ideas and the numbers, we have to be in with a chance.
‘Are we ready to send this?’ I ask and Charlie nods.
I compile all the pieces and we each check them one final time. Then, standing over the PC, the three of us count down, 3-2-1, and press the button. It’s done. I imagine our papers sprouting wings and flying across the ocean like they would in a Disney film. They flutter down and land neatly on a whitewashed desk in an office by the ocean. It sounds far more romantic than they get printed out in a grubby city centre admin cubicle and plonked into someone’s overcrowded in-tray.
* * *
The next day, our short journey to Amsterdam goes without a hitch and before long we’re leaving Schiphol and heading for the city centre. With all the travel club members safely unpacked and happy with the hotel, the first place we head to is the Van Gogh Museum. After all, it is an art tour.
‘Do you think when he was painting this pair of shoes he ever in his wildest dreams imagined people queuing up to see them?’ Patty asks contemplating one of the lesser-known works. ‘And why? I mean, you all have these blossoms and landscapes and flowers and then you have a pair of tatty black shoes – he could have at least picked a pair of nice ones.’
‘He’s an artist,’ I say. ‘He’s supposed to be unfathomable.’
‘He succeeded. So where are we going next little-miss-tour-guide?’
I’ve always held that most couples like different things, so an art weekend has to have more than art to it or at least half my guests would be bored.
‘Next up we have a cycle tour of the canals and flower markets,’ I tell her, consulting my varied itinerary.
‘On a bike?’
‘Obviously – you can ride one, can’t you?’
‘I suppose so – haven’t done it for years but I guess it’s like – well, riding a bike.’
We walk to the start of the tour and we’re all fitted out with bikes and helmets. Many of the group haven’t ridden a bike for years and there’s much laughing and squealing as we all start wobbling around the square. The bike-hire attendant watches Patty as she puzzles over the vehicle in front of her.
‘So how do I get on this?’ she asks.
‘You just need to put your leg over…’ starts the guide and I count to ten. One…two…
‘If I’m lucky,’ Patty guffaws, looking at the guests for some kind of applause. There is lots of giggling but I ignore her – I’ve heard it’s the best way to train naughty puppies, too.
We negotiate the crowds of expert cyclists swooping in all directions. Everyone looks so confident and fast over here. I’m terrified to take my hands off the handlebars, so I can’t signal where I’m going; to compensate, I stick close behind the guide – but this means having to cycle quickly to keep up. By the time the tour is over, I’m gasping for breath and my heart rate probably matches that of an Olympic athlete. I’m glad we chose to do it as I think we saw more of the city, but I’m equally glad when we get back to the beginning and dismount, giving back our trusty steeds.
‘Ooh – my second-best feature is glad to get off that thing,’ says Patty rubbing her butt in a very unseemly way. I don’t ask her what her best feature is.
‘Please tell me it’s something alcoholic next,’ she continues.
‘They probably serve alcohol on the canal boat,’ I tell the guests. ‘At least we’ll all get to sit down.’
‘I’m not sure I can,’ says Patty as we walk bandy-legged along the canal to the mooring of the glass-topped boat which will show us the rest of the city at a more sedate pace. We’re served a glass of chilled wine and we sit back watching the gabled buildings go by, only vaguely listening to the commentary being narrated over the tannoy. My customers are relaxing, taking in the views and chatting to each other, so Patty and I head for a quiet spot at the back of the boat.
‘I’d forgotten how beautiful this place was; why have we never been back here?’ I ask as we clink glasses.
Patty shrugs. ‘Lots of other places to visit I guess, but I’d come again,’ she says. ‘We could bring the guys – maybe when the canals have frozen over and it’s all romantic. We’d be all wrapped up wearing those big muffs and we’d get glasses of warm schnapps.’
I think she’s seen too much art this morning, as her fantasy is straight from a Hendrick Avercamp painting. It sounds wonderful, though.
‘Things will be really different soon. We’ll be doing all those things that couples do. Having dinner as foursomes and inviting each other to barbecues,’ Patty continues. ‘Do you think he’ll move in with you?’
I think about it, and although I’d love to be opening the door to someone when I come home at night, I’ve a few fears to conquer before then.
‘I’d quite like it to be all mine before I even think about it being ours,’ I reply cautiously. ‘But I don’t see myself moving again so who knows maybe if things go well.’
‘On your perfect night you mean?’ she smiles, mocking me only slightly. ‘Well, we’ll have to get you some underwear while we’re out here to make sure it is perfect. There are probably a few places that could fit you out with a sexy little number.’
‘My vision doesn’t involve looking like I stepped out of the red-light district, if it’s OK with you.’
We sit quietly but she’s put the thought in my head – what should I wear? In my dream I’m in a silk negligee like they had in 1950s films but:
a) Where the hell do you buy 1950s negligees?
b) Given the number of candles in my perfect seduction scene, I’d have to be bloody sure silk isn’t flammable.
But what do people wear in bed together these days? Before they get to the comfy PJ stage? By the time my ex left me, we were both wearing big woolly socks to bed. I’m sure there has to be a stage before you get to that. Patty had been on her own even longer than me when she met Jack, and despite not wanting her advice I am curious as to how she coped with the first time after all those years.
‘Did you get all dressed up for the first time with Jack?’ I venture. ‘You know, go for the sexy look.’
She laughs, ‘Err – I suppose you could say that.’
She takes a gulp of wine. ‘I was that nervous. After all, he’s a doctor, he sees hundreds of women and some of them on the cruise are pretty damned gorgeous. I didn’t know what he’d think of me. I mean I wanted to make an effort but I didn’t want to look like a reject from Bouncy Babes II. We stopped off at a port with a gorgeous market and I found this little lacy number. It was very tasteful and covered up the wobbly bits but still looked quite sexy in a demure kind of way.’
‘Don’t raise your eyebrows like that – I can do demure. I planned it all for our night off. We’d have dinner, then a romantic evening stroll and then back to my cabin. I’d disappear into the bathroom to change into something more comfortable and he’d pour the champagne. I imagined myself opening the door to reveal a vision of beauty and him being unable to resist. So I had this perfect night planned just like you.’
‘I’m guessing that’s not what happened.’
‘Too right it didn’t. The night before I was hosting a Spice Girls tribute. You remember what I used to do – tell the audience I was auditioning for some new members as they’d all gone off and done their own thing? It was bloody hilarious – I had about twenty Baby Spices and no Sporties. I was in my Ginger get-up and the one who won the Posh competition turned out to be a bloke. He was the worst dancer you have ever seen but the crowd loved him.
‘Jack couldn’t stop laughing when I told him about it. We were sort of on a high because of it and then one thing led to another and before long we’d both broken our leave of absence, so to speak.’
‘So for your first time in several years you were wearing a Union Jack Ginger Spice outfit?’
She nods matter-of-factly. ‘And he could certainly tell what I wanted, what I really, really wanted.’
It could only happen to Patty but it’s a relief to hear she was nervous, too.
‘That’s why I think the lesson is not to take it all too seriously,’ she concludes. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll lend you a ginger wig if you like.’
I laugh and picture Michael’s puzzled face as he turns up to my new place and finds me in that get-up. Somehow I don’t think that’ll do the trick twice.
The boat trip comes to a stop, so I gather up my customers and we head into one of the canal-side restaurants for dinner.
‘So will you be singing for us tonight?’ one of the customers asks Patty. She shakes her head.
‘Alas, I’ve given my farewell performance,’ she replies to the dismayed crowd.
The dinner is very jovial, with Patty recounting her days on the cruise. Then, as we’re getting ready to leave and the plates are cleared away, it starts pouring with rain outside.
‘Stay for a schnapps,’ says the waiter. ‘It’s just a cloudburst, it’ll soon pass.’
The customers are happy to stay inside, so we take up the offer but inevitably one schnapps leads to another. If you had your wits about you, you’d know the moment you’d had too many glasses of schnapps: it’s the moment when it starts tasting OK. Your first always burns the back of your throat and you vow to have no more. The second feels strangely warming, and by the third you’re finding out the name on the bottle and planning to buy some when you hit duty free. If you do this, it’ll lie gathering dust in your drinks cabinet until one very dark day when you have absolutely nothing left to drink and the world is about to end, then you’ll get it out.
We have to get out of here before any more is consumed, so I tell the waiter we’ll just have to brave the weather. I pay our bill and when he brings me the receipt, our lovely waiter also supplies us with several cheap, plastic pacamacs. They’re the thinnest pale pink plastic ponchos you have ever seen, but we all pull them over our heads and step out into the rain. Patty looks across at me and bursts into laughter. ‘You look like a giant condom!’
We all turn and catch a glimpse of ourselves in the windows – yep, that just about describes it. The Mercury Travel Club stands giggling at its glamorous reflection. I take a picture for our end-of-year calendar. Thunder roars above our heads and the downpour gets heavier.
‘Come on,’ I yell through the din, ‘we have to get into a bar or something.’
We peak from under our hoods and spot a Heineken sign hanging above a pub-like door. Heads down we hold hands, and screaming through the puddles make a dash for it. Pushing the door open, we get inside and panting pull our hoods down.
‘Have we died and come to heaven?’ says Patty looking round at the wall-to-wall room of gorgeous Dutchmen.
We walk to the bar.
I’ve read the Dutch are the tallest people in the world and it certainly seems that way. In our sensible city-walking pumps – now soaking wet and squelching with every step – my middle-aged customers and I are at eye level with a room full of broad muscular chests and solid pecs. It would be so tempting to have a quick squeeze just to check they’re as firm as they look. Patty is obviously thinking the same, as I see her tentatively lifting her hand in that direction. I grab it, preventing an international incident. I may have been out of circulation for a few years but these guys are gorgeous and I can still appreciate a work of art when I see it. Isn’t that what this weekend is about?
As we get to the bar, the entertainment starts and a drag queen gets up on the stage singing ‘What’s Love Got to do With It?’ Patty sips the frothy beer we’ve ordered and I can see she’s just chomping at the bit.
One of the customers nudges her: ‘You should show them how it’s done.’
I have to be ready to grab her if any song she knows is played but I’m too slow and it’s too late. The opening bars have everyone dancing and Patty, thrusting her beer at me, leaps on to the stage pulling up the hood of her plastic mac. Sensibly the drag queen steps to one side and lets her get on with it. The Mercury Travel Club push through the crowd to get to the front of the stage for this, Patty’s European comeback.
The locals are in stitches as the little fifty-year-old English woman in the bad plastic mac does the robotic moves made famous by the one and only Kylie Minogue. She blasts out the words of the song, ‘Can’t Get You Outta My Head’.
I don’t think anyone ever will.