Louisa
LOUISA LOUNGED ON the bed, with a blanket covering her bare feet, and the hotel phone pressed to her ear. She gazed out the window at yet another bleak day in Den Bosch. A thick fog that shifted like smoke obscured the view, but she could faintly discern a pigeon perched on the gutter across the street. The only month more depressing than November was December, when the hours of daylight shrank even more.
“I miss you too, Hendrik,” Louisa purred into the phone while she fingered the necklace around her neck, a present from her lover—a gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a piano. It was a decent piece of jewelry, but not expensive enough to raise Hendrik’s suspicion should he someday notice it.
“I ate my breakfast on the terrace,” she said. “Can you believe it? Sunshine! I saw a patch of turquoise on the horizon. The nurse said it was the Ionian Sea. Why don’t you come for the weekend? Take a break from dreary old Holland?”
She was counting on him to decline. If he said yes, she would be obliged to change his mind because she wasn’t in Italy. She was nowhere near the Ionian Sea. The hotel where she was hiding was only fifty miles from Amsterdam.
“Sorry, Louisa, but it’s a long drive to stay for a weekend.”
He was afraid of flying. She smiled, her spirits lifting at the game she played with Hendrik.
“In that case, come for a week or two, and bring the boys.” She knew she was pushing her luck, but she couldn’t seem to let well enough alone. Boredom was the worst part of this elaborate charade.
“I can’t take them out of school,” he said. “I have an idea. Send Katja to Amsterdam to look after Willem and Jurriaan. I could come for a long stay.”
Oops. Time to backpedal.
“Dear, I can’t spare Katja. She’s rescheduling my tour, taking phone calls, answering mail.”
“Can’t she work from here?”
“Not really. You know how slow the mail is. And the phone bill would go through the roof.”
“Don’t worry about the expense,” he interrupted.
“To be honest, Hendrik, I don’t know what Katja would get up to in Amsterdam if neither one of us were there to supervise.”
“I think she deserves more credit than that.”
“She’s only nineteen. Don’t you remember what that was like?”
Hendrik grunted.
He had probably been as serious and boring at Katja’s age as he was at forty-two. And as boring as she herself had been, when all she had dreamed of was playing the piano.
“We can talk on the phone every day,” Louisa said, to block any more talk of a trip to Catania.
“How did you sleep last night?” Hendrik asked.
“Better than the night before.” The noisy Brits had vacated the room above hers, and a quiet Belgian couple had moved in. She could hear their footsteps, but not their TV. Once, she’d heard their soft Flemish accents in the stairwell.
“Did you ask the doctor when you can play the piano again?” Hendrik asked.
“He said I need complete rest for the time being.” Sacrifices had to be made to ensure her anonymity. Giovanni was one of them, she thought, as she fingered the gold pendant.
“Be patient. A burnout can last for years if you don’t take care of yourself. Maybe I can bring the boys during the Christmas holidays.”
“Wonderful idea,” she said, and made a mental note. In December she could fake a setback, and the imaginary doctor would forbid all visitors. It wouldn’t be the first time she had missed spending Christmas with Hendrik and the boys.
She heard a tap at the door.
“Hendrik, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time?”
“Okay, dear.”
Louisa folded back the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Before going to the door, she reached for the bottle of perfume on her nightstand and sprayed herself. No one would ever say that she stank if she could help it.
She crossed the shabby carpet on her bare feet and tried not to think how many bare feet had trod the carpet before hers. Filthy. She could afford a better hotel, but this one suited her purpose. It wasn’t one of the luxury hotels in the city center, where she might run into someone she knew—as unlikely as that might be in a provincial city like Den Bosch. The hotel was smallish, with five floors, four rooms to a floor. It had a glass elevator that barely fit two people if they weren’t carrying any luggage. When the maid came to clean, Louisa went to Katja’s room, and vice versa. They took their meals in their rooms. They spoke only to each other unless a word with an outsider was absolutely necessary. They rarely left the hotel. If the desk clerk recognized Louisa, he pretended not to.
She drew back the bolt. Katja stood in the hall, looking miserable, her coppery hair in need of washing, her face puffy and pale. Even her freckles were pale. She was wearing the same shapeless dress for the third day in a row.
“Don’t just stand there,” Louisa said, stepping aside to let her stepsister pass.
She shut and bolted the door.