Читать книгу The Reunion - Литагент HarperCollins USD - Страница 13

I’ve only just got home when the doorbell rings. Out of the window, I see Olaf. My heart turns somersaults as if it’s been let loose in my rib cage. I press the button in the hall and hear the downstairs door spring open. Olaf’s heavy footsteps come upstairs and a moment later he is inside, holding takeaway Greek in a big box.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he says. ‘You like Greek food don’t you?’

I look at him, slack-jawed. ‘I was just making toasted sandwiches.’

‘Toasted sandwiches!’ Olaf says contemptuously, and comes further into my flat.

He sets out the trays of rice, salad, pita bread and souvlaki on the table and a greasy smell pervades the room. In the kitchen the toasted sandwiches are burning. I rush in and unplug the toaster from the wall.

‘Whoever eats Greek for lunch?’ I say, laughing.

‘Greeks,’ Olaf says. ‘Go and sit down, it’s getting cold.’

We eat together, facing each other at the table, the plastic trays between us.

‘I was sure you liked doing things spontaneously,’ Olaf says with his mouth full. ‘Nice food, eh?’

‘It’s delicious. Where does it come from?’ I take a piece of bread and scoop some tzatziki from the tray onto the edge of my plate.

‘Iridion, on the corner. More wine?’ Olaf raises the bottle of white wine he has opened and I nod. He fills our glasses and serves himself some more pita bread.

I push my plate away from me and take in his huge appetite with awe.

‘God, you eat a lot.’

‘Always have done,’ Olaf beams. ‘My mother messed me up totally. She always made my favourite dishes and then gave me two or three helpings. She was crazy about cooking.’

‘Was? Has she died?’ I collected the empty trays and put them into the cardboard box.

‘No, but she doesn’t cook much anymore. I’m an only child and my father died five years ago; she doesn’t feel like going to all that effort just for herself. She cooks once a week, freezes everything in portions and eats it every day. When I go home for dinner, she cooks for me, makes too much and freezes that too.’ Olaf scrapes his plate clean, gnaws at a bone and chucks it into the cardboard box. He burps loudly and slaps his full stomach.

‘Do you have to burp like that?’ I can’t stop myself saying.

‘In many cultures, it’s polite behaviour. If you don’t burp, they keep on serving you because they’re afraid that you haven’t had enough.’

‘In which cultures is that?’

‘In Asian countries, I think.’ Olaf pushes back his chair, and clears the table, takes everything into the kitchen. Then he pulls me from my chair. Holding me tightly in his arms he kisses me. Bits of rice and souvlaki get into my mouth and I swallow them. Kissing is actually really dirty, I think as his tongue wraps around mine. You have to really like someone to go through this.

He pulls back a little. ‘I have to get back to The Bank, I’ll over-run my lunch break. Are you doing anything tonight?’

‘I wanted to re-watch old episodes of As the World Turns, and I’ve got my book The Assertive Woman to finish,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘Shall we go out for dinner tonight?’

‘Great,’ I hear myself say. ‘But not too early.’

‘Okay, I’ll pick you up at eight. See you tonight.’ Olaf kisses me again and leaves. I look out of the window to see if he is looking up. We wave at each other and I turn away with a smile.

I’ve got a date. And I’ve still got the whole afternoon to play around with my hair and decide what to wear. I go to my wardrobe. In a dark, forgotten corner I find a single dress that approximates evening wear. It’s too long, too orange and too small.

I try it on against my better judgment. Orange is really out of fashion, although the bright colour does suit me. It would, if I could get the material over my hips. Did this ever fit me?

I pinch my side and give the bulging seams a disgusted look.

This is a harder blow than discovering that my desk had been nabbed. Much harder. Like watching a film on fast rewind, I see myself lying on the sofa with bags of liquorice and chocolate, chips and pistachios. I’m crazy about pistachios. Put a bag next to me and I’ll free them from their shells at the speed of light.

I peel the dress from my body and throw it out of sight. Hands on my hips, I stand in front of the wardrobe mirror.

‘Okay,’ I say aloud to the fat rolls which are trying to obscure my pants. ‘Enough is enough! No excuses!’

I consider this evening’s dinner with regret. ‘Salad is delicious, too,’ I say to my reflection. ‘A healthy salad and lean meat, and small amounts of everything. A bit of eating out can suit the dieter.’

But this still doesn’t solve the problem of my outfit. I try on everything in my wardrobe and throw it all on the bed with disgust. Too old, too boring, totally out of fashion, too small, too tight, really too tight.

Finally I pick up the telephone and call Jeanine on her mobile. She’s at work but is instantly all ears when I tell her about my date with Olaf van Oirschot.

She squeals. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. How did you swing that one?’

‘Tummy in, tits out,’ I say, collapsing into uncontrollable giggles.

‘Works every time,’ laughs Jeanine, and then more seriously: ‘What are you going to wear?’

‘That’s exactly the problem. I don’t have anything. I know that’s what all women say, but I really don’t have anything!’

‘I’ll come round to yours after work. Then we’ll have dinner, you’ll cook, and after that we’ll pop into town. It’s late night shopping so that’s perfect.’

‘But our date is tonight.’

There’s silence at the other end of the line.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘then I’d better take some time off now.’

I stare in amazement at the receiver. ‘I only need some suggestions over the phone.’

‘That’s never going to work. I need to see your wardrobe, perhaps there is something hidden in there. Otherwise we’ll go shopping, that’s always fun.’ She sounds so determined and delighted that I don’t protest.

‘You’re fab,’ I say.

‘I know. I’m just going to go and see if I can get the time off. If there’s a problem, I’ll call you.’

Half an hour later she rings at my door. ‘Let’s take a look at this wardrobe of yours!’ her voice resounds up the stairs.

Jeanine follows me inside, making a beeline for my bedroom. The sight of the mess on my bed stops her in her tracks.

‘Oh my God.’ She stares at the mountain of faded T-shirts, worn jeans and neat but boring suits. With thumb and forefinger, she lifts up a pair of shapeless leggings I’d bought at the height of my depression because they were so comfortable. Even getting to the shops at that time was an ordeal.

The situation isn’t that embarrassing until she pulls open my drawers and peers in at a pile of baggy knickers. Two white bras—or at least they started off white—nestle next to them. In the places where the fabric is worn, the underwire pokes out.

‘What’s that?’ Jeanine asks.

I explain that it’s my underwear.

Jeanine wrinkles her nose.

‘They,’ she exclaims, ‘are a disgrace. You were right, you desperately need help. Throw all this rubbish away, we’re going to buy you a whole new set of everything.’

‘Of everything? Have you any idea how much that will cost?’

‘Then you’ll be overdrawn for a little while. This can’t go on. What kind of nightwear have you got?’

My long T-shirt with The Bank’s logo comes to mind, but I daren’t mention it.

‘Oh, a pair of pyjamas,’ I say.

‘Pyjamas?’

‘Yes. Don’t you have any?’ I say in a defensive tone. ‘Or do you go to bed in a slip in the winter?’

‘It isn’t winter, it’s almost summer and anyway your bed is not outside. Of course I’ve got some flannel pyjamas, but I’ve also got a slip. It’s part of a woman’s basic kit. Come on, I’ve seen enough. We’re going shopping.’

Tingling with excitement, I sit next to Jeanine in the tram and let line 13 take me to the Dam. I have a date, I even have a friend to go clothes shopping with, I fit in.

We get out at the Nieuwezids Voorburgwal and allow ourselves to be drawn into the throng in the Kalverstraat.

I haven’t been here for ages. When did I lose interest in my appearance? How could it have happened? You feel so much better when you’re looking good. And there’s one thing I know for certain, I don’t look good in my boring work outfits. Who taught me that you mustn’t look good in the office? That you should wear a black skirt and a white blouse?

‘First, lingerie.’ Jeanine pulls me along.

We go into a lingerie shop, which is a first for me. As long as I can remember I’ve bought my underwear in Hema. We glide between rails full of sweet pastel-coloured satin on the one side and daring red and black knickers and bras on the other.

Jeanine picks up a hanger, which seems to me to hold only scraps of transparent lace, but on closer inspection they turn out to be a tiny pair of underpants and a matching bra.

‘This!’ she insists. ‘And this too!’ In a single move she draws a transparent pink slip from the rack. I look at it hesitantly.

‘Isn’t that a bit slutty?’ I ask.

‘Sexy is the word,’ Jeanine corrects me. ‘Just try it on. This is the kind of thing you have to see on.’ She pushes me towards the changing rooms and while I undress and slip the negligee over my head, she throws a couple more matching sets in. A while later she slides into the cubicle. ‘So? Does it fit?’

I look at myself in the mirror and see a pastel-coloured sex kitten.

‘I’m not sure, Jeanine. It’s not really me.’

‘You don’t have to dress as who you are but as who you want to be. It looks wonderful on you, Sabine. You have to take it.’

I can’t do much in the face of such persuasion. I take them to the checkout. As I’m putting in my PIN, I look anxiously at the total, but quickly press the Okay button and put my card away.

‘So,’ says Jeanine. ‘What’s next?’

We go from shop to shop and it’s a great success. The plastic bags cut into my hand as we hunt for shoes to match the clothes I’ve bought. If only I was tanned, but I’ve spent the whole month lying around getting pale in my flat. What possessed me? From now on I’m going to the Amsterdam forest or to the beach at Zandvoort every single afternoon.

Around six o’clock we collapse exhausted into the tram.

‘I’m going straight home, I’ve had it,’ says Jeanine as we stand in front of my door. ‘Thank God I don’t have to go out tonight.’

‘I’ve had it too,’ I moan.

‘Have a shower and massage your feet. And call me tomorrow, I want to know everything.’

We say goodbye and I climb the stairs to my apartment with a heavy tread. Exhausted from carrying all the bags, I open the door and kick it closed behind me, dropping all of my purchases onto the hall floor. I take off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa. Shop until you drop, the British say. Now I understand why.

I give my feet a strong massage and when I feel that I can walk again, I have a lukewarm shower. I feel much better afterwards. I clip the labels from the underwear sets, skirts and tops, and try everything on once again. It’s true; lingerie does make you feel special. Nobody knows that you are wearing it, except you. I strike a pose, hands on hips, toss my hair back and look into the mirror with the arrogant stare of a model.

A femme fatale, until I let my hands drop and my fat rolls remind me that one or two things need to happen. But the new skirt disguises them. In the end I’m pleased with the result.

I blow-dry my newly washed, fresh-smelling hair and put it up. I’m still doing my make-up when I hear a loud honking.