Holly has stepped out of line briefly to find a cup of coffee, and as she walks back to the boat ramp where they’ve been told to wait, she can see River making conversation with the people in front of him.
“This guy has a good suggestion,” River says. He puts one hand on the small of Holly’s back as they wait in line to board the boat for a tour of Amsterdam’s canals on Saturday morning.
“Hi,” Holly says politely to the two men in spotless white Converse and fitted jeans. She sips her coffee, preparing to hear about whatever these guys have suggested to River that will now dominate her afternoon. Her talk with Eva the night before has given her a new perspective on this trip, and she’s feeling almost sanguine about the notion of saying yes to a helicopter tour of Sweden with the Royal Swedish Army, or scaling the Eiffel Tower to make a Youtube video of herself hanging off the top observation deck so that some kid can post the video and go viral. At this point, she’s resigned to hear whatever comes out of the mouths of these two clean-cut guys who’ve been talking to her boyfriend.
“We’re giving away our tickets,” says the shorter of the two guys, “to a really small, underground concert.” He’s got a British accent and a two-day beard that looks scruffy against the pink and green polo shirt he’s wearing. “They only have room for about fifty people, and you have to be open to hearing their new stuff—you aren’t allowed to shout out requests for their oldies.”
Holly snorts. “They’re so famous that I’d know their oldies?” She looks up at River with curiosity. “You’re into this?”
River’s eyes twinkle. “You know what I’m going to say,” he goads her, knocking her arm with his elbow playfully and accidentally sloshing her coffee around. “Oops, sorry.”
The guy who hasn’t spoken yet looks at Holly from under the brim of a black baseball hat with no logo that matches his black t-shirt. “You’ll know them.”
“Who is it?” Holly asks the next obvious question.
The guys look at River. “Not telling,” River says. “But you have to trust me on this one.”
Holly sighs. The boat is anchored and tied up at the dock, and the tour guides are starting to take tickets and assist people as they step into the vessel for a ride through the city. “Okay,” she says. “Why not?”
“Here you go,” says the guy with the black hat. He slides two tickets out of his wallet and hands them to River, who immediately puts them into his own wallet, being careful not to let Holly have a peek at them.
“Thanks—this is going to be amazing,” River says. “She’s going to love it.”
“Have fun. Wish we could’ve hung around another day to see it ourselves,” the short guy says wistfully, watching as River puts his wallet away.
As they board the boat, River is humming a familiar tune. Holly leans her shoulder into his. “Who is it? You can tell me. I already said yes,” she chides, rubbing her cheek against his upper arm the way Pucci rubs against her legs for attention.
“I could…but I won’t,” he says with mischief in his eyes. “Here, let me hold that.” River takes Holly’s coffee and helps her into the boat. They choose a bench right behind the boat’s captain. It’s a bright, sunny morning, and Holly digs through the purse she bought after hers was stolen in London, coming up with a pair of sunglasses.
“You’re mean,” she says, holding her hand out for her coffee. “It better not be something horrible. I’m not trying to spend my last night in Amsterdam listening to Shania Twain prepare for a comeback.”
“You don’t like Shania?” River asks, recoiling in mock horror. He sings a few words of “Man, I Feel Like a Woman” while Holly gags and makes faces.
“No! I do not like Shania Twain. Never have. But if she’s your cup of tea, then more power to you.”
River laughs.
“Sit back and enjoy the tour today,” the captain says into a handheld speaker, using lightly-accented English. “We’re taking a ride through the most beautiful part of Amsterdam. You’ll see historic buildings, charming bridges, and lots of people on bicycles.” Everyone on the boat chuckles. “Feel free to take as many pictures as you like, but please stay seated and keep all your belongings inside the boat.”
“Is it Vanilla Ice?” Holly asks when the captain clicks off the scratchy speaker and puts the boat in gear. The engine roars to life as he carefully backs the boat away from the dock.
“I don’t think Vanilla Ice needs a comeback, does he?” River turns his head to look at Holly. “I thought he had some remodeling show on HGTV or something?”
“You know way too much about Vanilla Ice for my comfort level,” Holly teases. “So who is it? Come on, come on, come on,” she says, bouncing around in her seat, “you can tell me!”
River shrugs and looks out at the water as the boat cuts through it, leaving a wake in its trail. “Eh. I’d rather wait and see your face when we get there.” He’s got something that Holly wants, and he’s clearly enjoying it, reveling in the fact that she’s acting like herself for the first time in days.
“Huh,” Holly huffs, leaning back into the hard bench seat. “I can wait. In fact, I don’t even care that much.” She tosses her brown hair over one shoulder and puts her coffee cup to her lips. “It’s whatever.”
“We’re passing under our first bridge here,” the captain says, his speaker crackling to life again. “And if you duck your heads, we might make it under this low clearance.” Everyone chuckles politely.
“It might be whatever,” River says to her, “but you’re going to be flying high. You’ve never had a night like this.”
Holly rolls her eyes. “You know,” she says, changing subjects. “Without our phones, we’re missing the chance to take photos of this trip. Neither of us even brought a point-and-shoot camera.”
“I’m missing nothing,” River says. “If I spent time behind the camera snapping photos of you in front of everything, I’d miss it all. I just want to remember it.”
“So we’re just going to go home and have no pictures of us in Europe?”
“We’ve got a least a few photos of us pretending to be the Lord and Lady of the manor in Fairford.”
“Oh. Right. Those pictures.” Holly rolls her eyes. “I’m buying a camera today, just FYI.”
“That’s cool.” River gives her an easy smile as she leans her head against him. They watch the buildings that run parallel to the canal as the boat glides by, and the slight breeze blows their hair. “Isn’t this just like heaven?” River asks without looking at her.
“I guess.” Holly frowns. “I mean, if heaven had a red light district and smelled like marijuana.” She gives him a puzzled look. “But Amsterdam is a cool place. I guess heaven could be worse.”
River’s body shakes as he laughs to himself. He starts to hum again, a tune that tickles at the back of Holly’s brain as she tries to place it. Instead of bugging him for hints that she knows he won’t give, she sits quietly for most of the tour, sipping her coffee and listening to the boat captain’s humorous tidbits on the history of the famous red lights of Amsterdam.
The concert starts late that night, and they don’t leave the houseboat until after ten o’clock. River’s convinced Holly to wear the black outfit he bought her at Harrod’s with the knee-high boots, though she’d rather be in jeans and comfortable shoes. “Trust me,” he’d said. “This is the kind of event where you should wear black.” So she’d showered and dressed, blowing her hair straight and zipping the black boots over her calves tiredly.
The crowd standing in line in front of the brick bar called Maloe Melo is all in black.
“You were right,” Holly says, looking up at River. “Everyone is in black.” He puts an arm around her shoulders. “Are we seeing Johnny Cash?”
“Johnny Cash is dead.”
“Metallica?”
“This is a pretty small space,” River says. He tries to look through the front window of the bar, but dark curtains cover the glass from floor to ceiling. “I doubt Metallica could jam in here without shattering some windows.”
The front door opens and the crowd starts to move forward. “Do you have the tickets?” Holly pokes River’s side.
“Yep.” He pulls his wallet out and slides the tickets from a fold behind his collection of euros, British pounds, and dollars.
The woman at the door is wearing a piercing through her septum that looks like it weighs five pounds. It’s dragging her nose down slightly with its heavy metal, and her eyes are ringed in smoky liner and shadow. “Tickets?” she asks them, holding out a hand that’s covered with a fingerless glove.
In exchange, she hands River a small program that looks like a pamphlet.
“Lemme see!” Holly stands on the toes of her boots as they enter the bar. She tries to catch a glimpse of the program over River’s shoulder, but he blocks her and she laughs, feeling excited for whatever is about to happen. It could be something lame, and Holly knows this is still a real possibility, but her chances of it being amazing are even better.
A group of middle-aged guys with thinning hair and clean shirts wedges in next to Holly and River. They’re speaking French and laughing loudly at each other’s jokes. Behind them, two women dressed much like the ticket-taker at the door are examining the glowing screens of their cell phones and speaking Dutch to one another whenever one of them comes up with something worth sharing. Holly turns to the stage and watches as the men who are working up there rearrange a microphone stand and drum kit.
It’s only when the larger of the two men moves to one side that she can see everything. There, on the front of the bass drum, is the name of the band.
“Shut up!” Holly says in a loud, disbelieving voice. She swats River’s arm. “No way…is this for real?” She looks at him, eyes wide as she waits for him to admit the whole thing is a ruse.
River lifts a shoulder and smiles at her. “It’s for real.”
Holly’s head whips back to the front of the room and she stares at the men as they put the finishing touches on the tiny stage. “We’re actually going to see The Cure?” she asks in an awed whisper.
When she turns back to River, he’s watching her with twinkling eyes. “Yes, my little closet Goth girl, we are. Are you happy?”
Holly has no words. Is she happy? Of course she’s happy. One of her favorite bands in the world is about to come on stage in a tiny club in Amsterdam and sing new songs. Remembering the program, she reaches out and slides it from River’s hand. Inside, it lists the songs they’re going to perform, and there’s a web address for concertgoers to visit and share their thoughts on the new music.
“I can’t even,” Holly says, shaking her head slowly as she processes everything. But she doesn’t have time to think about it too much, because the lights dim and a hush runs through the crowd. The band members walk single file through a door behind the tiny stage. Holly hands the program back to River and watches as the drummer takes his spot, followed by the keyboardist, guitarist, and bass guitarist, and then—finally—Robert Smith.
He’s wearing a long, black shirt over black jeans and heavy boots, his trademark mane of hair teased into a rat’s nest around his heavily made-up face. He looks out at the small crowd through the tangle of hair over his eyes, his lips red and smeared as he smiles shyly.
“Thanks for coming,” he says into the microphone, his British accent evident in even the simplest words. Without further ado, the band launches into the opening song of the set. The sounds of the instruments fill the small room completely, and Holly is totally lost in the music. The entire concert is a blur to her, and she alternates between listening with rapt attention, looking up at River with a happy smile, and swaying along to these new songs. At the end of the set, they play a couple of old favorites, much to the delight of the mostly middle-aged crowd.
When it’s all over, the street outside is quiet and nearly deserted. Holly and River catch a cab back to their houseboat, cuddling in the backseat while Holly happily recounts her favorite songs. She’s lost in that after-concert haze that happens when you see your favorite band—the one where you relive it all and marvel about the fact that you’ve just been in the same room as one of your favorite performers—and her giddiness overlaps with tiredness, making her overly chatty.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Holly says, sitting up and pulling her shoulder out from under River’s arm. “Now I get it!”
“You get what?” River’s head is leaned back against the bench seat, his eyes at half-mast.
“All the things you were saying earlier today: ‘A night like this’ and ‘just like heaven’—you’re sneaky,” she says, leaning back and folding herself under his arm again. He’d been slyly referencing titles of songs by The Cure.
“Don’t forget ‘high’—I slid that one in, too.” River’s head tips in her direction as they round a corner too quickly. “But I’m glad you had fun.”
“It was amazing,” Holly confirms, resting her own head on the back of the seat and looking at River so that their eyes and lips are just inches apart. “The best thing I’ve said yes to in a long time.”
The tall, narrow houses along the streets are dark and quiet, and the streetlights flicker across Holly’s bare knees as they drive towards the train station. There’s still a short ferry ride to get across the water, and a five minute walk to their houseboat that will take all the energy Holly has left.
“Hey,” River says in a voice that’s barely audible. “You know what the best thing I’ve said yes to is?” Holly’s eyes crinkle at the corners as her lips pull into a dreamy smile. “A fishing trip to some hot, unpaved island off the coast of Florida. And you.”
River scoots his head closer and kisses her. Holly’s heart races; this is the feeling she’s used to having in his presence. A warm happiness spreads from her chest to all the extremities of her body as River’s lips part suggestively.
“We’re here,” the cab driver says in English, halting at the curb. River pays the driver and they rush through the train station, huddling together near the window on the ferry to continue their kiss. There are only a handful of other people at this hour, so Holly and River carry on as if they’re the only people there.
It feels like the perfect evening to Holly. Her arms are around the thick, strong torso of a beautiful man who cares about her; a cool breeze is whipping through the front of the ferry, tickling her bare thighs under the black miniskirt and keeping her awake; and she’s just been within spitting distance of one of her favorite bands. Can it get any better than this?
The low horn of the ferry blows into the dark night as they glide to the dock. Holly presses her cheek against River’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. There’ve been a few moments on the trip so far that leave something to be desired, but this moment is close to perfect. And yet, even though most of this major European city is asleep and it feels like the stars and the water and the cobbled streets belong entirely to them, and even though they’ll be traveling to Paris in the morning (Paris! Holly thinks, the very word filling her with excitement), something still feels off.
The thought sobers Holly. What’s not right? What could possibly put a damper on the way she’s feeling in this moment? As the deckhand ties the boat to the dock and opens the gate for passengers to disembark, the silly grin she’s been wearing all evening melts away, leaving behind the simple truth that’s been nagging at her for days: something is happening at home. And whatever it is, it isn’t good.