SIMONE VAN DER VLUGT
THE REUNION

Translated from the Dutch by

Michele Hutchison

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

Epilogue

LITERARY CORNER

A MODERN INTELLECT

OVER AND OVER AGAIN

WELL OR BADLY WRITTEN

WHAT YOU READ

About The Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

She cycles the last part alone. She waves to her girlfriend and then turns to the road ahead. She sings softly to herself, her back straight, a carefree look in her eyes.

School’s out. It’s Friday afternoon. The weekend can begin.

She’s strapped her jacket onto the luggage rack behind her, over her black canvas school bag. She feels the heat of the sun on her bare arms.

It’s a glorious day, the beginning of a promising summer. The blue sky extends like a high, radiant dome above her.

At the traffic light, she brakes and dismounts. It’s a solitary light, a little outside of the city centre, where the bustle of school children on their bikes, mopeds and car traffic lessens.

She’s completely alone. No cars or buses go by. She looks from left to right, frustrated at the pointlessness of waiting.

A delivery van draws up behind her and stops, its engine throbbing.

Green.

The girl gets back on her bike and rides on. The van overtakes her and envelops her in a thick cloud of diesel smoke. She coughs, flaps her hand at the smoke and stops pedalling.

The van tears away, in the direction of the Dark Dunes. The girl thinks about her meeting. She’s having second thoughts now—perhaps she should have chosen a less isolated place.

1

I stand at the entrance to the beach, my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and look out to sea. It’s 6 May and way too cold for this time of year. Apart from a solitary beachcomber, the beach is deserted. The sea is the colour of lead. Snarling and foaming, it swallows up more and more sand.

A little further up, a young girl sits on a bench. She too looks out to sea, hunched up in her padded jacket. She’s wearing sturdy shoes that can withstand the wind and rain. A school bag lies at her feet. Not far from where she’s sitting, her bike leans against the barbed wire fence. It’s padlocked, even though she’s nearby.

I knew I would find her here.

She stares blindly out to sea. Even the wind, which tugs at her clothing, can’t get a grip on her. It catches her light brown hair whirling around her head, but not her attention.

Despite the fact that she doesn’t feel the cold, there’s a vulnerability about this girl that touches me.

I know her, yet I hesitate to speak to her because she doesn’t know me. But it’s extremely important that she gets to know me, that she listens to me, that I get through to her.

I walk towards the bench, my gaze fixed on the sea as if I’ve come here to enjoy the angry waves.

The girl looks the other way, her face expressionless. For a moment she seems to want to get up and leave, but then resigns herself to having her solitude invaded.

We sit next to each other on the bench, our hands in our pockets, and watch how air and water merge. I must say something. She’ll leave soon and we won’t have exchanged a word. But what do you say when every word counts?

As I take a deep breath and turn towards her, she looks over at me. Our eyes are the same colour. We probably have the same expression too.

She’s about fifteen. The age Isabel was when she was murdered.

Years ago I went to school in this area. Every day I rode ten kilometres there and back, sometimes with the sea wind behind me, but mostly straight into it.

The wind blew in from the sea, unhindered by anything on the flat polders, the drained fields reclaimed from the sea. It caught up with me on my bike. The daily struggle against it made my body strong. The distance between school and home, that no-man’s-land of meadows and salty wind, was like a buffer zone between the two worlds I inhabited.

I look at the sea, its waves casting up memory after memory. I should never have come back.

What brought me here? That short announcement in the newspaper.

Two weeks ago I was standing at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, leafing through the paper. It was eight o’clock. I was dressed and had eaten breakfast, but I didn’t have much time. A quick glance through the headlines was all I could manage.

I turned the page and a small notice in a side column caught my eye: HELDER HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

My old school, which, in the meantime, has amalgamated with some other schools in Den Helder.

I’m twenty-three. My school days are thankfully long over. I’m not even thinking of going.

The girl has left. I let her escape while I was deep in thought. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see her again.

The wind blows my hair into my face and every so often steals my breath. Yes, this is just how it used to be. I’d pedal into the wind with tears running down my cheeks. I’d put my hair up in a ponytail, otherwise it would get hopelessly knotted. When I washed it in the evening, it would smell of sea salt.

The scent of the beach is the same, of course. Its familiarity takes me by surprise, bringing back old memories and allowing me into the dark corners of my mind.

Why did I come back? What did I hope to achieve?

The only thing that might come of it is more clarity. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

As I stroll back to my car sand flurries around me and the wind pushes at my back, urging me to hurry. I’m not welcome here. I don’t belong here anymore.

But I’m not planning to return to Amsterdam yet. Even when it begins to pour, I don’t quicken my pace. My car stands alone in the large carpark. Normally it would be packed here, but summer has abandoned us temporarily. I think about the rows of cars parked here on hot days, glistening in the sun. It was good to live on the coast. You could ride right past the sweaty drivers stranded in traffic jams, throw your bike against the fence, pull your towel out from the luggage rack and look for a place to stretch out in the sun. In Zandvoort these days, you can’t find a spot anymore if you’re not on the beach by nine.

Heating on, radio on, a bag of liquorice on the seat next to me, I drive out of the abandoned carpark, past the woods, the Dark Dunes, towards the town centre.

Den Helder is not a comforting sight in the rain. Neither is Amsterdam, but at least Amsterdam doesn’t shut down in the winter. Den Helder looks like a city where the air-raid sirens have just gone off. I haven’t been back since my parents moved to Spain five years ago.

I love cities with a soul, with a historic centre. But the only thing old about Den Helder are the people who live there. All the young people go to Alkmaar and Amsterdam when they leave school. The only people left are sailors and tourists taking the boat to Texel.

I drive along the Middenweg towards my old school. When I reach it, the school grounds are almost empty. A small group of students are defying the drizzle to get a fix of nicotine that will help them through the day.

Once around the school and then along the same route I used to ride home, past the military camp towards the Lange Vliet. The cross wind can’t touch me now. In the corner of my eye I can see the bike path.

Isabel lived in the same village as me. We didn’t ride home together that day, but she must have taken the Lange Vliet route. I saw her ride out of the school grounds. I’d deliberately lingered before leaving. If I’d ridden after her, nothing might have happened.

I accelerate and drive at the speed limit along the Lange Vliet. At Juliana Village I take the first left onto the motorway. As I drive along the canal I change into fifth and turn up the radio.

Out of here. Back to Amsterdam.

I sing along at the top of my voice to the chart hits blaring out of the radio and fish one piece of liquorice after the other out of the bag next to me. Only when Alkmaar is behind me do I return to the present. I think about my work. The Bank. I have to go back on Monday. It’s Thursday today, I still have three days to myself. Even though I don’t want to go back to work, I think it will be good for me. I’ve been home alone for too long, watching unexpected and incomprehensible images passing like dreams before my eyes. I’m starting back on a trial basis—mornings only, to see how I feel.

That’s what the doctor ordered, after all.

2

There’s no cake to celebrate my return, no banners in the office. Not that I was expecting them. Well, maybe a little. As I stand in the doorway, breathing heavily after walking up the stairs, it takes a while for my colleagues to notice me. I take in all of the changes: my impounded desk, the relaxed way in which my replacement sits talking to my colleagues, the many new faces. It feels like I’m coming to be interviewed for my own job.

I could have taken the lift of course, but my doctor says I should take the stairs more often. He doesn’t know I work on the ninth floor.

Then I’m spotted and my workmates come over to greet me. I scan their faces, searching for the one person I can’t see.

‘Sabine! How you doing?’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

‘Brace yourself. It’s a mad house here.’

‘How are you? You look so well.’

I haven’t seen any of them all the time I’ve been off sick, except for Jeanine.

RenÉe comes up with a plastic cup of coffee in her hand. ‘Hello Sabine,’ she says. ‘Everything all right?’

I nod, still looking at my desk.

‘Let me introduce you to your replacement, Margot.’ She follows my gaze. ‘She’s been filling in for you all this time. She’ll stay on until you’re back full-time.’

I walk towards my old desk but RenÉe stops me. ‘There’s still a free desk at the back, Sabine. Margot’s been working here so long now, it would be silly to make her move.’

I decide that making a scene over something so trivial as a desk is not the best start to my first day back. My new desk is in the furthest corner of the office far away from the others. My eyes remain fixed on the desk I used to face.

‘Where’s Jeanine?’ I ask, but just then the printer begins to rattle.

It’s just a desk. Breathe in, breathe out.

Something has changed. The atmosphere is different. Any interest in my return has evaporated. I’d expected some catch up chats, particularly with Jeanine, but there is only empty space around me.

Everyone is busy again and I sit in my corner. I take a pile of letters from the mail tray and say to no one in particular, ‘Where is Jeanine? Is she on holiday?’

‘Jeanine left last month,’ RenÉe says, without looking up from her computer. ‘Zinzy has replaced her. You’ll meet her later in the week, she’s having a couple of days off.’

‘Jeanine’s left?’ I’m dumbfounded. ‘I had no idea.’

‘There are other changes you don’t know about,’ says RenÉe, her eyes still fixed on her computer.

‘Such as?’ I ask.

She turns towards me. ‘In January, Walter promoted me to head of the department.’

We stare at each other.

‘There’s no such position.’

‘Someone had to pick up the pieces.’

RenÉe turns back to her screen.

So much is going on in my head that I don’t know what to say. The morning stretches out endlessly before me. I resist the impulse to call Jeanine. Why didn’t she tell me she’d resigned?

I stare out of the window until I notice that RenÉe is watching me. She keeps on looking until I’m hunched over the mail.

Welcome back, Sabine.

The first time I came to The Bank’s head office, I was impressed. It has an imposing entrance in a beautiful park and, when I walked through the revolving doors into a world of space and marble, I felt myself shrivelling into insignificance.

But I liked it. The stylish suits and jackets around me turned out to be worn by very normal people. Remembering my mother’s advice that I would get more out of a few expensive good quality basics than a drawer full of bargains, I bought a new wardrobe. Tailored jackets, knee-length skirts and dark tights became my standard uniform. This was how I entered the imposing lobby every day—disguised.

Working for a multinational is not the sort of work I aspired to. I trained as a Dutch and French teacher, but it was difficult to find a school I wanted to teach at—and I gave up applying for jobs pretty quickly. During placement I’d taught classes full of rebellious teenagers and it had been dreadful.

Jeanine and I joined The Bank at the same time, when they had just set up a new trust fund. The job itself didn’t excite me. It had sounded great: administrator/office support, good communication skills and a broad knowledge of languages needed.

But I needn’t have taken out a student loan to say, ‘Please hold the line’, and replenish the supply of glue sticks. That’s probably what they meant by ‘flexibility’ in the job description.

But there was a good atmosphere in the office. Jeanine and I gossiped about the execs we were working for, we reorganised the filing system and picked up each other’s telephones when one of us wanted to nip out to the shops for half an hour.

I was independent and I had a job. My new life had begun.

After a while, we were really busy. The wave of business managers hired to work on the trust fund grew and we could barely keep up with the work. We needed more people, and fast.

Jeanine and I presided over the interviews and that’s how RenÉe came to work with us. She was good at her job, but the atmosphere changed almost immediately. She knew how things should be run. RenÉe felt that our department didn’t come up to scratch and nor did Jeanine or I. She had no truck with extended lunch breaks. Of course she was right, but we had no truck with the fact that she had a personal meeting with Walter behind closed doors to air her complaints. Walter was pleased with RenÉe, she was a worthy addition to the Trust.

‘And to think that we hired her ourselves,’ said Jeanine.

Walter felt that RenÉe should be in charge of hiring a fourth staff member. She had a good eye, according to him.

‘And we don’t?’ I said to Jeanine.

‘So it seems.’

RenÉe placed ads in the main newspapers and called the employment agencies. She got so involved with it that the bulk of her workload fell to Jeanine and me. She spent entire afternoons meeting more and less suitable people, but no one was taken on.

‘It’s so difficult to find good staff,’ she said, shaking her head as she came out of the meeting room after yet another interview. ‘Before you know it, you’re overrun with people who think that office support is nothing more than typing and faxing. Try and build a good, solid team from that.’

And so we struggled on, because the Trust was growing and work was piling up.

We worked overtime every day and often through our lunch breaks. I became exhausted. I could no longer sleep properly. I felt hounded. I lay with a pounding heart staring at the ceiling, and as soon as I closed my eyes, found myself overcome by a dizziness that spun me round in accelerating circles. I struggled on for a few months but a year after I began I collapsed. I can’t describe it any other way. A feeling of complete apathy set in, spread through me and made everything look grey.

I pull the pile of mail towards me and open envelopes and remove elastic bands. After half an hour I’m already fed up.

What’s the time? Not yet nine o’clock? How am I going to make it through the day?

I glance across the office. Margot is a few metres away; her desk is against RenÉe’s so that they can talk to each other without me overhearing a thing.

The sales force go in and out with rough copies that need to be typed up, mail that needs to be sent by special delivery. RenÉe delegates like the captain of a ship. She gives the worst jobs to me. And there are quite a few of them. Cardboard boxes to be made up for the archive, coffee to prepare for the meeting room, visitors to collect in the lobby. And it’s still only mid-morning. When I pack up at twelve-thirty, I haven’t exchanged a friendly word with anybody and I’m shattered.

3

I arrive home exhausted. My face is drained, I have sweat patches under my arms and my two-room apartment is a tip. After the utilitarian neatness of the office, my scruffy furniture seems even more tightly crammed together.

I’ve never quite managed to turn this flat into a real home, or to put my own stamp on it. As a teenager I dreamed of the moment I’d live alone, and I knew exactly how I’d arrange things. I could picture it entirely.

No one warned me that my entire salary would go on mortgage repayments and the weekly shop. That I wouldn’t have enough money left to keep up with the latest trends. When I go into the kitchen I have stop myself from tearing the brown and orange 1970s tiles from the walls. I could invest in new tiles but not without upsetting the harmonious balance of the brown cabinets and the coffee-coloured lino. So I leave it as it is. My burn-out saps me dry. I lie down on the sofa like a squeezed-out lemon.

I lived at home for the first year of my studies. It wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to worry about washing and ironing. And in the evenings dinner was always ready on the table, meat and fresh vegetables, instead of the junk the other students were eating. Most of all, it was nice at home. I didn’t think about moving out until my parents decided to emigrate. I was nineteen when they told me about their plans, and I completely flipped out. Where on earth had they got the idea that I was a grown-up? That I could stand on my own two feet and didn’t need their help anymore? I wouldn’t be able to manage without them. Where would I go to at the weekend? Where would I belong? I sat next to my parents on the sofa, covered my face with my hands and burst into tears.

Afterwards I felt a bit ashamed that I’d made it so difficult for Mum and Dad. Robin told me later that they’d considered calling the whole thing off but that he’d convinced them not to let me rule their lives so much.

They gave me the money to buy a flat in Amsterdam and they left. They came back to visit me at the drop of a hat, but only at the beginning.

My answering machine is flashing. A message?

I press the play button, curious. The engaged tone—whoever called didn’t bother to leave a message. I press delete. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who hang up after the beep. I can spend the rest of the day wondering who called.

It can’t have been my mother because when she calls she talks until the whole tape is full. She spends most of the year with my father in their house in Spain. I hardly see them.

It was probably Robin, my brother. He rarely calls, only when it is absolutely necessary. If he gets the answering machine he seldom leaves a message.

In the kitchen, I flip down the breadboard, get the strawberries from the fridge, pull a couple of slices of brown bread from the bag and make my usual lunch. There’s nothing more delicious than fresh strawberries on bread. I’m addicted. I think they’ve even helped my depression. Strawberries in yoghurt, strawberries with cream, strawberries on rusk. Each year as the strawberries in the supermarket become more and more tasteless, I begin to worry. The season is over, and that means going cold turkey. Perhaps there are addictive substances in strawberries, like in chocolate. That’s something else I’m hooked on. In the winter I always eat a thick layer of Nutella on bread, and put on weight.

While I’m halving my strawberries, my thoughts turn to that missed call. Maybe it wasn’t Robin but Jeanine. But why would she call me? We haven’t been in contact for such a long time.

I stuff an enormous strawberry into my mouth, and gaze out of the kitchen window. Jeanine and I hit it off immediately but the bond didn’t stretch further than the office until just before I went off sick. She came by a couple of times in the beginning, but someone who lies listlessly on the sofa, staring into midair, is hardly good company. We drifted out of touch. Still, I was looking forward to seeing her again, and I didn’t blame her for not going to more trouble. I was hard work.

Jeanine opens the door and her head is covered in foil. ‘Sabine!’

We look at each other a little ill at ease. Just as I’m about to mumble an apology for my unexpected appearance, she opens the door wide. ‘I thought you were Mark. Come in!’

We kiss each other on the cheek.

‘Suits you,’ I say, looking at the foil in her hair.

‘I’m in the middle of dyeing it, that’s why I’m wearing this old housecoat. You can still see the stains from last time. I almost jumped out of my skin when the bell went.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have opened the door.’

‘I always want to know who’s standing at my door. Luckily it was you.’

I decide to take that as a compliment. ‘Who’s Mark?’ I ask as we make our way along the narrow hall to the living room.

‘A sexy thing I’ve been seeing for a couple of weeks. He’s seen me without make-up, he’s seen my dirty knickers in the laundry basket and he knows that I slurp when I eat, but I’d still rather he didn’t know I dyed my hair.’ Jeanine chuckles and drops down onto the sofa. Her housecoat falls open a little and reveals a faded pink T-shirt with holes in it.

If Mark’s not welcome tonight, perhaps I’m not either. I sink into a wicker chair with a white cushion; it’s more comfortable than I’d expected. We look at each other and smile uncertainly.

‘Do you want some coffee? Or is it time for something stronger?’ She glances at the clock. ‘Half-eight. Wine?’

‘I’ll start with a coffee,’ I say but as she’s walking to the kitchen I call after her, ‘and bring the wine out with it.’

I hear laughter from the kitchen. It was a good idea to visit Jeanine. A bit of a gossip and a bottle of wine, much better than an evening in my flat. This is the kind of life I’d imagined when I moved out of home.

‘Are you back at work?’ Jeanine is carrying two mugs of coffee. She puts them down, fetches two wine glasses from the cupboard and places them alongside.

‘Today was my first day back.’

‘And? How did it go?’

I take my coffee from the table and peer into the mug. ‘It was…’ I search for the right word. ‘I was happy when it was twelve-thirty.’

‘Awful then.’

‘You could say that.’

We drink our coffee in silence.

‘That’s why I left,’ Jeanine says after a while. ‘RenÉe was only taking on people she could manipulate. The atmosphere had changed so much. I told Walter that when I resigned. But you know what he’s like—crazy about our dictator. How did she act towards you?’

‘We hardly spoke to each other. Or to be exact, I hardly spoke to anybody. Most of the people were completely new to me and only about half of them took the trouble to introduce themselves. I had a lovely time opening the post and making cardboard boxes.’

‘You have to leave, as soon as possible.’

‘And then what?’

‘You’ll find something else. Just register with a temping agency.’

‘So I can be sent to Timbuktu to sort out files and spend whole days making lists. No thank you, those days are over! I’ll see how it goes. The first day is always the worst. I’ll keep an eye out for something else. By the way, I’ve no idea what you’re doing now!’

‘I’m working in a small solicitor’s office,’ says Jeanine. ‘The work is the same, but the atmosphere is great. I’ll keep an eye out for a job for you. I talk to so many people there.’ I look at her gratefully. ‘If you’d do that…’

‘Of course!’ She smiles. ‘Does Olaf still work at The Bank?’

‘Olaf ? Olaf who?’

‘He came to work in IT. He’s completely hot. The computers were working fine, it was the department that crashed.’ Jeanine laughs.

‘I haven’t met him yet,’ I say.

‘Then you’ll have to drop into IT,’ Jeanine advises. ‘Pull the plug out of your computer and call Olaf.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘RenÉe is crazy about him. Keep an eye on her when he comes in. You won’t be able to stop laughing!’ She jumps up and does an impression of RenÉe flirting, and it’s true, it’s very funny. ‘Have you finished your coffee? Let’s move on to the wine. You pour, I’m going to rinse my hair. Otherwise it will be orange tomorrow.’

While Jeanine is splashing around in the bathroom, I fill the wine glasses. I haven’t felt this happy for a long time. It was good to take the initiative. I should do that more often, not stand back and wait. Maybe RenÉe feels like going on a little cinema outing with me. The thought makes me smile.

Jeanine returns with wet, dark red hair. She’s changed into jeans and a white T-shirt and looks cheerful and lively. She’s back to her old self, apart from the hair colour.

‘Nice colour,’ I say. ‘Quite striking, after brown. I can’t believe you dare!’

‘It looks a bit darker because it’s wet. When my hair’s dry it should have a kind of a coppery shine. My own colour is so boring.’

Every day I spend ages blow-drying my hair, but I’m never happy with it. I once thought about getting it cut off, not too short, just a shoulder-length cut. A bit of colour and the metamorphosis would have been complete. But I’ve never got round to it.

Jeanine gives me the lowdown on all the new people. Her conclusion is that they’re alright, but that no one has realised just how manipulative RenÉe is.

‘She complained about you to the others,’ warns Jeanine. ‘Don’t wait until they come to you because they won’t. Go to them yourself and prove that you’re the opposite of what RenÉe has said.’

‘Has she really painted me so black?’ I say, dubious.

‘As far as she’s concerned, you’re only sick if you’re lying in Intensive Care or you’re in plaster,’ Jeanine says. ‘One time she said that you’re only as sick as you want to be, and that she always gets on with her work, however miserable she feels. And that’s true. She uses up a box of tissues in half an hour and the next day the whole department is sniffing and coughing. She thinks depression is something you just have to get over.’ Jeanine gets up.

I’ve slipped off my shoes. I sit with my legs curled to one side and pull my cold feet under my thighs.

While she is rummaging around in the kitchen cupboards, she carries on talking, a bit more loudly so that I can hear her. ‘I know so many people who’ve had a burn-out. My uncle had one, my father too and I’ve seen enough at work. That’s what it was, a burn-out, wasn’t it?’ She returns with a bowl of chips.

I nod. Burn-outs, depression and break-downs are pretty much the same kind of thing.

Jeanine fills her glass again and tucks her feet under her folded legs. ‘Once when I had flu and called in sick she sent a doctor round to check up on me. Usually they don’t come to visit you until the next day, or two days later, but a couple of hours after my phone call there was the knock at the door. A special request from my boss, that’s what the bloke said. I’ll give you one guess who lit a fire under Walter’s arse.’

‘What bastards,’ I say wholeheartedly and take a handful of chips. Somehow a chip catches in my windpipe and lodges there. I burst into a rally of coughs that bring tears to my eyes, but the chip stays wedged.

‘Have a sip of wine,’ Jeanine hands me my glass. I push her hand away—I’m still coughing so hard that I think I’m going to throw up.

‘Just have a sip!’ shouts Jeanine.

I gesture that I can’t.

It might not be a bad idea for her to hit me on the back, and to convey that to her, I hit myself on the back. It’s much too low but I can’t reach between my shoulderblades.

Jeanine gets up and whacks me on the spine, much too hard and much too low.

I raise my hand to tell her to stop but she thinks I’m encouraging her and hits me even harder. ‘Should I do the Heimlich manoeuvre? Get up!’ But then the chip dislodges and I begin to breathe again. I lie back against the sofa cushions panting, wipe the tears from my eyes and drink some wine.

‘Idiot,’ I say. ‘You nearly put me in a wheelchair.’

‘I saved you!’

‘You have to hit between the shoulderblades! God knows what would have happened if you’d tried the Heimlich manoeuvre!’ I shout back.

Jeanine stares at me speechless, I return the look and we both burst out laughing.

‘Where did I hit you?’ asks Jeanine, gasping with laughter. ‘There? And where should it have been? Oh, then it wasn’t far off?’ And we fall about laughing again.

‘What do you think? Have we drunk too much?’ I lisp.

‘No-oh,’ says Jeanine. ‘I can only see two of you, usually I see four.’

She giggles and I giggle back.

‘You’d better stay over,’ Jeanine says. ‘I can’t let you go out into the street like that. What time is it in fact? Oh my God, 2 a.m.’

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ I jump up. ‘I’ve got to work tomorrow!’

‘Call in sick,’ Jeanine laughs again. ‘RenÉe will totally understand.’

We pull bedding from the loft space and make a bed up for me on the sofa.

‘Good night,’ she says sleepily.

‘Good night,’ I mumble back, crawling under the covers. I lay my head on one of the sofa cushions and sink into an overwhelming softness.

4

People are talking about me. I can tell from the silence that descends when I enter the department with the letters book, from the quick glances people give me, and the guilty faces. I pull a requisitions form towards me and fill in scissors, hole punches and paperclips. I keep an eye on the clock. Do the hands sometimes stop?

A deep voice breaks the silence of the office. ‘Has somebody here got a problem?’

I swivel my chair and see a body that’s six feet four, a handsome face crowned with thick, blond hair, a broad smile.

‘If it isn’t Sabine!’ He perches on the edge of my desk. ‘I thought it was you yesterday. You don’t recognise me do you?’

‘Oh, yes, aren’t you…I mean…’

My colleagues are looking at me with a mixture of amazement and envy.

‘Olaf,’ he says. ‘Olaf van Oirschot, you know, Robin’s friend.’

The haze in my brain begins to clear. I take a deep breath of relief. Lanky Olaf, a friend of my brother’s. When we were both at secondary school, Robin hung out with a group of idiots who were more interested in practical jokes than their exam results.

‘Now you remember,’ he says, pleased.

I lean towards him to get a better look.

‘Weren’t you the one who pretended to be blind in that cafÉ?’

Olaf laughs, looks embarrassed. ‘What can I say? We were young. We’ve made up for it now.’

Close by, RenÉe has discovered something urgent in the overflowing in-tray, which she usually ignores. She turns to Olaf as if she’s only just noticed that he’s here, and says, ‘Oh, Olaf, I’ve got a bit of a problem with my computer. When I save something, I get all these strange messages. Would you mind taking a look?’ As she speaks she guides Olaf towards her desk.

Olaf turns back towards me, ‘See you later, Sabine.’

I try to concentrate on the order forms. It doesn’t work. The unexpected confrontation with a period of my past I’d long since put behind me has left me reeling. And apart from that, I can’t get over the fact that Olaf has become so good-looking.

When I finally leave at half-past twelve, we bump into each other in the lift.

‘Are you off to lunch too?’ Olaf asks.

‘No, I’m going home.’

‘Even better!’

‘I only work half days.’ I find myself compelled to explain.

‘So do I mainly, even though I’m here for the whole day,’ Olaf says.

Arms folded, he leans against the side with the mirrors and checks me out without any sign of embarrassment. The lift feels smaller by the second.

I lean against my side of the lift, my arms also folded but I can’t keep my eyes still. I laugh at Olaf’s joke, but my laugh sounds nervous to me. Don’t act like a teenager Sabine, I tell myself. This is Olaf, you know him.

But it doesn’t feel like that. Not now that he’s looking at me in that way. I try to think of something natural to say. ‘You haven’t worked here for that long have you? I mean, I haven’t seen you here before.’

‘A few months.’ His eyes wander shamelessly from my legs to my breasts. The appreciation in his expression flusters me.

‘I’ve been off sick for quite a while. A burn-out.’ I explain. Depression suddenly sounds so neurotic.

Olaf makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Were you out of circulation for long?’

‘Quite a while.’

‘And now you’re easing back into it.’

I nod. Then there’s a silence while we look at each other. Why do I find him so attractive? His features are too angular and irregular to really be called handsome. His blue eyes are too pale to contrast with his blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. His hair is thick but messy, the sort that never looks neat. He’s changed. And he seems just as surprised by my appearance, even though I don’t think I’ve changed much. I’ve still got my straight, light brown hair, I barely use any make-up, just a bit of kohl and mascara, and my taste in clothes isn’t really any different. But Olaf’s looking at me like I’m gorgeous, which is nonsense, of course. He’s probably winding me up.

‘What a coincidence, meeting again like this,’ Olaf says. ‘On the other hand, everyone seems to have moved to Amsterdam. Sooner or later you bump into everyone. Tell you what, do you really want to go home or shall we have lunch together?’

I look at him alarmed. Have lunch together? His eyes glued to my face while I lift my fork to my lips with trembling hands?

‘Sorry, I have to head off. Another time perhaps.’

The lift stops and the doors open. RenÉe and some other colleagues are getting out of the other lift.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Olaf says. ‘You have to eat, don’t you? We can do that just as easily together.’

RenÉe looks from me to Olaf with a glimmer of disbelief.

‘Why not then. I’d like to catch up,’ I say.

We walk into the canteen together as if we’d remained in touch all those years.

‘I’m going to go for the bread roll with a meat croquette,’ Olaf says. ‘You too?’

‘Alright.’ Over the past year I’ve put on five kilos from the Prozac and from comfort-eating chocolate. One croquette isn’t going to make a difference.

We pick a table near to where RenÉe and her cronies have set up. They arrange themselves so that they can keep an eye on me.

I try to relax and smile at Olaf.

‘Did you read about the school reunion?’ He spreads a layer of mustard onto his croquette.

I nod and cut my roll into smaller pieces. There’s no way I’m going to try to eat this whole thing with my hands.

‘Are you going to go?’ Olaf asks.

I think about the school grounds during the breaks, the little groups dotted around it, the wall I used to lean against, on my own.

‘No way.’ I take a bite.

Olaf laughs. ‘I don’t really feel like it either.’ He mashes his croquette onto his bread. ‘If I’d wanted to stay in touch with somebody I would have. But still, we haven’t seen each other for years and it is good to see you again.’

I still don’t quite feel comfortable with him. Each time he looks at me, I become even more conscious of my limp hair, my tired, pale face and the sweat patches on my jumper.

Just then Olaf attacks his sandwich like a buzzard after prey. He eats with perceptible and audible pleasure. I don’t usually like men who let you see exactly how they chew their food. But in this case I’m filled with relief and renewed confidence. Sweat patches might be nasty but lumps of croquette falling out of your mouth are worse.

Olaf doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by it. He picks up the pieces again with his fork and puts them back into his mouth. He hasn’t yet swallowed them when he begins to talk again. ‘If you change your mind, tell me. We could drive together. By the way, how is Robin these days?’

‘Good. He’s living in England.’ I’m relieved that we’ve dropped the subject of school.

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘He also works in IT,’ I say.

‘In what sort of company?’ Olaf asks.

‘Clothing,’ I say. ‘Men’s fashion.’

‘And he’s going to stay there? Or is it just temporary?’

‘I hope it’s only temporary,’ I say. ‘If he emigrates as well…My parents already live in Spain, you know. Robin and I both lived and worked in Amsterdam but then his company decided to set up a new branch. Once it’s off the ground he’ll come back, I hope.’

‘The two of you were always close, I remember that.’ Olaf takes such a huge bite of his roll that I look away as a precaution. I only look at him again when it’s obvious that the mouthful has been safely disposed of. He wipes the remains from around his mouth and rinses the rest away with a gulp of coffee.

‘I’d better get back to the grind. That was really nice, let’s do it again soon.’

‘We’ll do that,’ I say, and I mean it, despite the croquette.

We carry our trays to the rack, shove them in, plate, cutlery and all, and walk to the lift together.

‘You’re going home now, right?’ Olaf says. ‘I’ll come down with you.’

He doesn’t have to do that; he could just take a different lift. There is a churning in my stomach. When we reach the bottom and the doors open, Olaf gets out with me.

I look at him a little uneasily. I know what’s coming, that testing the waters phase. Wanting to ask someone out, dodging around the subject, angling to see if the other person is interested. I need to smile and flirt a little to urge him to take that step, and I’m not very good at that.

‘See you tomorrow then. Enjoy your work!’ I pull my bag up higher onto my shoulder, raise my hand and walk into the lobby. I don’t look back but I’m almost certain that Olaf is looking at me, dumbfounded.

5

The May sunlight accompanies me to my bike. I have a car, a little Ford Ka, which I only use when it’s raining. In Amsterdam you can get around faster by bike, especially during the morning rush hour.

I’m glad I’m not driving. I need a dose of fresh air. My temples are throbbing.

I ride through the Rembrandt park where the trees are blooming a fresh spring green. People are walking their dogs, a couple of school kids with a bag of chips sit smoking on one of the benches and the ducks are noisy in the pond. I’m going so slowly that joggers overtake me.

I feel like a prisoner who’s just been released from her cell. A dog runs alongside me barking for a while but I’m not bothered, I love dogs. I wouldn’t mind having one myself. You give them food, a roof, a pat and they’re your friend for life. They carry on loving you, grateful for every friendly word, even if you hit them or tell them off.

I’ve heard that dog owners choose the breeds that most resemble themselves and this seems right to me. If reincarnation exists and I have to come back in the next life as a dog, I think I’d be a golden retriever. My brother Robin has something of a pit bull in him.

Inside and out, we’re not very much alike, my brother and me. He’s two heads taller, has builder’s arms, and darker, close-cropped hair. Add an extroverted, dominant personality and you’ve got someone you’d better not mess with. At least other people shouldn’t—he’s the kind of brother every girl dreams of and I miss him even more than my parents.

One sunny day in April when I was fourteen, I was riding home from school along the bulb fields, rows of daffodils nodding their yellow heads at me in the wind. I thought how happy mum would be if I surprised her with flowers, and before I knew it, I’d laid my bike down on the side of the road, glanced towards the little house next to the bulb field and jumped over the small ditch which separated the bike path from the field.

Doing something like that wasn’t really me. I was scared that a farmer would come charging after me, but I couldn’t see anyone around and I went deeper into the field. By the time I saw the owner walking towards me, it was too late—he’d gone round me and was blocking my escape route. I froze among the daffodils, stammered something about paying, but he grabbed me by the arm, dragged me towards the ditch and threw me in. Literally. I couldn’t sit down for days for the bruises. I climbed up the bank, crying, and rode home. My mother and Robin were in the garden when I arrived. It took them a while to get to the bottom of what had happened.

‘Well, dear, you shouldn’t go into farmers’ fields,’ my mother said. ‘Imagine if everyone decided to pick a bunch of daffodils.’

That was typical of my mother. Of course she was right, but the daffodils had been meant for her and I’d reckoned on some sympathy. My mother has always been quite rational. A row with a teacher? Then you’d probably done something you shouldn’t have. Knocked off your bike in the shopping centre? Well, dear, you shouldn’t have been riding in the shopping centre.

But Robin listened to my sobbed-out story with growing indignation. ‘But the bastard didn’t have to throw her in the ditch did he? Throw, mind you. What a hero, fighting a fourteen-year-old girl. Look at her; she can barely sit down. Where did it happen, Sabine?’

I told him and Robin stood up and put on his leather jacket.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked my mother.

‘I’m going to make it very clear that he should keep his hands to himself,’ Robin answered.

‘No, you’re not,’ my mother said.

But Robin was sixteen by then, and tall and strong for his age, as well as stubborn. We heard the splutter of his moped and he was off. That evening during dinner he told us what had happened. He’d gone to the farmyard and had seen a man in blue overalls with a wheelbarrow. He’d stopped him and asked whether he was the wanker who’d thrown his sister into the ditch that afternoon. The farmer had confirmed it and before he could finish his sentence, Robin had hit him and pushed him into the ditch.

The farmer didn’t make an official complaint, something my mother was afraid of for a long time, and I worshipped my brother even more than before.

I leave the park and ride along the tramway towards home. My neighbourhood isn’t particularly chic but I like it, the Turkish bakery on the corner and the greengrocers with its crates of cooking bananas in front of the door. They give colour to the neighbourhood, much more than the dirty windows and china knick-knacks of other inhabitants. Or maybe it is precisely this combination that makes the Amsterdam suburbs so special. I’ll never go back to Den Helder to live.

I’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of me, protected inside the walls of my nest. Or should I go out? A walk in the park? I could clean the windows, they look like they’re made of frosted glass now that the sun is shining. But then I’d first have to clear the window seat, go through the piles of paper that have built up there and dust the lamps and ornaments. And then fetch a bucket of hot water and window cleaner, clean away the dust and the muck with big sweeps and then have it all dry without leaving any streaks. After that there’d be the outside and that’s always a real nightmare, using a chamois leather on a stick to reach them and it never quite works. I once hired a window cleaner, he came four times and then disappeared without any decent explanation.

I take a deep breath, already tired from the thought of all that hassle. I could buy plants for inside the apartment. I have a balcony garden, but I always forget to water inside plants and they always die. A couple of fake ones might be a solution. These days you can get ones that look quite real. Should I go out and buy a couple?

The sun is shining on the dirty windows. A feeling of exhaustion overcomes me. I sit back down on the sofa and switch on the TV. There’s nothing much on until As the World Turns begins. It’s my favourite soap. I can count on my telly friends. They help me get through each day. It’s a comforting thought that there are others worse off than you. At least I’m not accidentally pregnant and I don’t have a life-threatening illness. In fact I don’t really have anything to complain about, that is if it’s a good thing not to have anyone to make you pregnant or to stand by you through your life-threatening illness.

Bart comes into my thoughts. What has triggered that? I haven’t thought about Bart for years. Maybe it’s because of running into Olaf today. Meeting someone from back then reminds me too much of before, the memories are unleashing.

I try to concentrate on As the World Turns, but Bart looks back at me from the screen and Isabel has taken over the role of Rose. I zap to another station but it’s useless. The memories won’t let up. I’m getting flashbacks of things I’d long since forgotten.

I switch off the TV, pull on a jacket, get my red handbag.

Plastic plants. Where can you find them?

Inside the Bijenkorf department store I melt into the masses of shoppers. Why do the shops get so full as soon as the sun comes out? Why are people inside when the weather is so nice? I guess they must all be fed up with their sofas, chairs, clothes, shoes, jumpers and trousers, because every floor is jam-packed. The escalator takes me up and I see what I’m looking for right away: white gypsophila that looks real, pink and white sweet peas in lovely stone pots. I pick up a basket from next to the checkout and fill it with unusual greed. Tomorrow I’m going to clean the windows, clear out the cupboards and chuck out all my useless junk.

The checkout girl rings up the plants with impossibly long fingernails and says tonelessly, ‘That’ll be fifty-five euros and ten cents, please.

‘How much?’ I ask, shocked.

‘Fifty-five euros, ten cents,’ she repeats.

‘So much?’

‘Yeah,’ she says.

Fifty-five euros for a few fake branches and a couple of pots.

‘Forget it.’ I put the sweet peas back into the basket. ‘I’ll put them back myself.’

I go downstairs and glance at a rack of skirts. A saleswoman comes towards me. She has short black hair, dark-blue eyes and for a heart-stopping moment I think it is Isabel come back from the dead.

I’m rushing towards the escalator. Get downstairs, down, away from here. Outside, fast. Back on the bike, around all the shoppers. Home, back to my nest. I ride as fast as I can and arrive home in a complete sweat. Bike back in the corridor, lock, upstairs. The door closes behind me with a reassuring click.

No messages on the answering machine.

No flowers.

Only memories.

6

Isabel Hartman went missing on a hot day in May, nine years ago. She was riding home from school but never got there. We were fifteen. I’d already lost her before that; when we were both in Year 7 our paths began to diverge. But she was a determining factor in my life. She still is—she’s beginning to dominate my thoughts again.

From the beginning of primary school Isabel was my best friend and we were inseparable. We spent hours in her bedroom. Isabel had a really cool table and chairs where we’d install ourselves with coke, nachos and dipping sauce. We’d listen to music and chat about everything we were interested in: friendship, love, her first bra, who in class had had her first period and who hadn’t.

I can still remember how it felt when we began to grow apart.

Isabel and I were both twelve and starting secondary school. We’d ride there together, and enter separate worlds. I would fade into the background and Isabel would blossom. The moment she rode in to the school grounds there was a clear change in her posture. She sat up straighter, stopped giggling, and would look around her with an almost queenly arrogance. Even the older boys looked at her.

Isabel began to dress differently. She was already a B cup when my hormones were still asleep and I still had a helmet brace. She had her long, dark hair cut off and started wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans; she had her nose and navel pierced.

One day she rode away from me the second we got into the school grounds, she locked her bike quite far from mine, and walked towards the others with a self-confidence which won her attention and respect.

I didn’t dare go after her. I could only look on at Isabel and the other girls from my class. They were all tall and slim and dressed alike in tight tops which showed off their bellies. Long hair, dyed blonde or red, floated around their heads or was casually tied up, with refined wisps, which framed their sun-tanned faces. They all smoked, and chatted in a language I didn’t speak.

I realised that I’d been missing something they’d all been aware of and that it was too late to change.

Isabel had epilepsy, but very few people knew. Her really bad fits were controlled by medicine, but sometimes she’d have blackouts or light fits. I could usually tell if one was coming. If she had time, she’d give me a sign, but mostly I’d see it in her blank expression or in the twitches in her hands.

When we were still riding to school and back together, sometimes we’d have to stop because a black-out was coming. I’d lay our bikes on the roadside and we’d sit down on the grass, if necessary in the pouring rain, in our waterproof jackets. After a bad attack, Isabel would be really tired and I’d push her home on her bike.

It was like this for a long time but our friendship would always end the moment we entered the school grounds.

On the day she disappeared we hadn’t been friends for two years. That’s why I was riding quite a way behind her when we left the school. She was with Miriam Visser who she was hanging out with a lot at the time, and I didn’t feel like latching on. They wouldn’t have appreciated it either. I needed to go the same way and slowed down so that I wouldn’t catch up with them. Isabel and Miriam were riding slowly, hands on each other’s arms. I can still see their straight backs and hear their carefree voices. It was nice weather; summer was in the air.

At a certain point, Miriam had to turn right and Isabel and I would usually carry straight on. Miriam did indeed turn right but so did Isabel. I followed them, I don’t know why because it wasn’t my usual route. I was probably thinking of going home through the dunes, something my parents had forbidden because the dunes were so isolated. But I did go that way quite often even so.

We rode behind each other to the Jan Verfailleweg which led to the dunes. Miriam lived in one of the side streets. She turned off and held up her hand to Isabel who continued alone. This surprised me. I’d been expecting Isabel to go to Miriam’s house.

I carried on behind Isabel, keeping a safe distance. She dismounted for a red light at an intersection. I stopped pedalling, hoping that the light would quickly turn green. It would be embarrassing to find ourselves next to each other and to have to find something to say. Then a small van stopped behind her shielding me as I drew closer. The light turned green and the van set off in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Isabel got back on her bike and went on her way. If I’d also gone straight I would have ended up right behind her and I didn’t want that. I turned right and took a slight detour to the dunes.

That was the last time I saw Isabel.

My memories of the time are a little foggy. It is strange how unimportant details remain razor sharp in your mind, while everything of significance is lost. For example, I can’t remember anything else special about that day, just that I rode behind Isabel and Miriam and how trustingly they rested their hands on each other’s arm. I can’t even remember the moment I learned that Isabel was missing. I only know what my mother told me about it later. Our parents had known each other earlier when we were still best friends, but that had petered out too, with our friendship. That evening, Isabel’s mother had telephoned mine when Isabel didn’t come home. My mother came upstairs to my room where I was busy doing my homework and asked me if I knew where Isabel was. I said I didn’t. That didn’t surprise her—Isabel hadn’t been round for ages.

Isabel’s parents had called the police right away. A fifteen-year-old girl who had stayed out all night? She was probably at a friend’s house, the duty officer had said. Isabel’s father spent the whole night combing the village and neighbouring areas while her mother called everyone who knew her daughter.

When she hadn’t turned up after two days, the police got involved. The officers interviewed everyone within her circle of friends, but because I wasn’t part of that anymore they didn’t ask me anything. I couldn’t really have told them that much, only that I was the last person to have seen her, not Miriam Visser. But what difference did it make? Since I’d turned off early, I couldn’t be sure that she’d ridden home through the dunes.

With the help of the army, helicopters, tracker dogs and infrared scanners, the whole area was searched. Isabel’s mother and her neighbours stuck up missing posters in bus shelters, public places and in house windows.

They found no trace of Isabel.

At school it was obviously the subject of conversation. Everyone had something to say about it, but I can’t remember much. Robin once reminded me about the wild rumours that were being spread: she had been kidnapped, raped, murdered, perhaps all three. And if it could happen to her it could happen to anybody. Nobody thought that Isabel might have run away. She had nothing to run away from, after all. She was the most popular girl in the school.

Teachers who Isabel had recently had problems with were treated with suspicion. As were boys she’d dumped. The depths of the North Holland canals were searched and an aeroplane combed the beach. Police motorbike officers drove along all of the walking paths in the dune area from Huisduinen to Callantsoog.

Isabel’s parents were filmed for programs like Missing and The Five O’Clock Show. After each broadcast, the tip-offs would come pouring in and people from all over the country volunteered for a large scale search because the police were not prepared to provide the necessary manpower. The search took place. Part of the army joined in. Psychics tried to help. But Isabel was not found.

I must have really retreated into my own world since I can remember so little. Finally the excitement died down. Worries about forthcoming reports, having to retake classes, the next school year and all those other cares gained the upper hand. Life went on. That’s to say, it should have gone on, but I still wonder what happened to Isabel.

Not long ago, her case was reopened in Missing. I was surfing the channels and got a shock when Isabel’s smiling face and short dark hair appeared on the screen. Spell-bound, I watched the reconstruction of the day she disappeared. All possible gruesome scenarios were played out while Isabel’s face smiled down at me from a box in the top right of the screen.

‘There must be people who know something more about the disappearance of Isabel Hartman,’ the presenter said earnestly. ‘If you’d like to come forward, please call our team. The number is about to come up on your screens. If you know something, please don’t hesitate. Pick up the phone and get in touch with us. There’s a reward of two thousand euros for any tip which leads to the case being solved.’

The reconstruction has triggered something and I’m getting a headache. I try to dredge something from the depths of my memory; something that I’m not entirely sure is there. I don’t know what it is, but I do know all of a sudden that Isabel is not alive.

7

That evening, I sit down at my computer with a bottle of wine, go to the chat room and pour my heart out to friends I’ve never met and probably never will.

The bell makes me jump. It’s nine o’clock. I get up, a little woozy from the wine and press the button that opens the door downstairs.

‘It’s me,’ Jeanine shouts.

She comes up and looks around. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Chatting. I’ll just shut down.’ I log off.

Jeanine goes through to the kitchen and stops. ‘How long has that lot taken you?’ she calls out, pointing to the bench top covered in empty bottles.

‘Oh, I’m not sure exactly.’

‘Not very long, I think.’ She studies my face. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I just like a glass of wine.’

‘If you drink that much, you don’t ‘just’ like a glass of wine, you need alcohol. And if you need alcohol you’ve got a problem.’

I’m uneasy under Jeanine’s sharp gaze.

‘Perhaps you’d be better off finding out why you feel so miserable, instead of kidding yourself that you just like a glass.’

Her expression is so worried that my irritation melts away. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me in that way, apart from my psychologist, but she was paid for it. We sit down at the kitchen table and I stare at its wooden top.

‘This is not just because of RenÉe, is it? This is still something to do with your depression,’ Jeanine says.

I nod.

‘But you did see a psychologist, didn’t you? Didn’t that help?’

‘After a while she couldn’t see how she could help me any more. Things were going better, but she had the feeling that she couldn’t get to the heart of the problem.’

I fiddle with the fruit in the fruit bowl. It is a pretty ceramic bowl that I bought in Spain and paid too much for. I laugh and tell her that.

‘Sabine…’ Jeanine says.

I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl and try to decide whether to go on. Then I look up and ask, ‘Do you ever feel that there’s something in your memory that you can no longer get to?’

‘Sometimes,’ Jeanine says. ‘When I’ve forgotten someone’s name. It will be on the tip of my tongue and then just when I want to say it, it will disappear.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ I take a banana and gesture towards her with it. ‘That is exactly what it is like.’

‘What’s it got to do with then?’ Jeanine asks. ‘Or have you forgotten that too?’

I snap off the top of the banana and slowly peel it. There it is again, that spark, the memory that surfaces. I sit frozen, stare at a framed print on the wall and then it has gone again. I eat the banana, frustrated.

Jeanine hasn’t noticed a thing. ‘I’ve forgotten so much of the past,’ she says.

‘I have told you about Isabel haven’t I?’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘I get the impression that I might know what happened to her.’

Jeanine stares at me. ‘But they never found her, did they? How can you know what happened to her?’

‘That’s just it,’ I sigh. ‘That is what I am trying to remember.’

That night I sleep badly again. I wake up with a mind full of confusing dreams, dreams about the past, about school. When I’m fully awake, I can’t remember any of the details. The only thing that remains is Bart’s smiling face, close to mine, and the deep sound of his voice in my ears. Bart, my first real love, the first and the only boy I’ve slept with. I haven’t seen him since school. I can’t remember ever having dreamt about him before. Why is the past pursuing me so relentlessly?

‘I’ve got a suggestion.’ RenÉe comes in to the office, takes off her coat and places a large pink piggy bank on her desk. ‘I’ve discussed it with Walter and he agrees with me. Too much paper is wasted on typos. Often the mistakes would have been found if you’d read over your work again. We all make mistakes occasionally, but recently the paper bin has been getting really full.’

She so deliberately avoids looking in my direction that I know who is being held responsible.

‘If we were to put ten cents in the piggy bank for each wasted sheet of paper, we could use the money to pay for our Friday afternoon drinks. What do you all think?’ She looks around expectantly.

I can’t believe it. I’ve got a headache and have been keeping an eye out for Olaf. It would be handy if something small could go wrong with my computer, but the PC starts up just fine.

‘Hmm, yeah,’ Zinzy says.

I met her for the first time this morning and she seemed quite nice. She’s small, dark, very delicate, but in one way or another able to stand up to RenÉe.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ says Margot, who types the fewest letters. ‘A lot of paper is thrown away.’

‘Why don’t you all have a think about it,’ RenÉe says.

I don’t agree, but I don’t feel like sticking my neck out. Zinzy doesn’t say anything else.

To escape RenÉe’s gaze, I swivel back to the screen and an email from Olaf pops up. Good morning, Sabine. It seems that your computer is working alright. Pity!

A smile spreads across my face. I immediately send him a message back: It is a bit slower than normal.

It isn’t long before I get a reply. I’ll come and have a look. ASAP!

On my way to get a coffee, I bump into Olaf.

‘That was quick,’ I say, laughing.

We’re standing in the hall, looking at each other.

‘So, there is something wrong with your computer,’ begins Olaf, at the moment that I say, ‘What a bit of luck that you…’ I break off my sentence but Olaf gestures for me to continue.

‘What’s a bit of luck?’ he asks.

‘That you emailed when I was in the middle of thinking how slow my computer was.’ I walk over to the coffee machine. Olaf comes with me and leans against the kitchen unit.

‘That’s why I’m in IT. I can sense that kind of thing.’

‘Coffee?’ I ask.

‘Black.’

I place an empty cup in the machine. We make no move to go to the admin department.

‘Did you do anything good yesterday afternoon?’ Olaf asks as he takes his cup from the machine and puts one in for me.

I press ‘white coffee’.

‘I tried to clean the windows but stopped myself in time. After that I went to buy fake plants in the Bijenkorf, went up to the cash desk with them and took them back again. I was home just in time for The Bold and the Beautiful.’

Olaf laughs so hard that he spills coffee onto his shoes. RenÉe, who is just walking by, turns around. I step to the side so that Olaf blocks out her sour expression.

‘And what are your plans for this afternoon?’ he asks.

‘I’m going to Den Helder.’ I pick up the scorching plastic cup and blow into it.

‘Den Helder.’ He looks at me with interest. ‘What do you want to go there for?’

I shrug my shoulders and smile, but don’t answer.

‘Do your parents still live there?’ Olaf asks.

‘No, they emigrated to Spain five years ago.’

‘Oh yeah, you told me that yesterday. Not a bad move.’

‘It depends how you look at it. Robin is in London, my parents are in Spain…’

‘Ah, poor thing, so you’re left behind all on your own?’

Olaf puts his arm around my shoulders and leaves it there for a while. His arm feels like lead. It would be terrible to shake him off but that is my first impulse. The way he strokes my arm suggests a bond that isn’t there at all. Not yet. It could also be the first step towards something unthinkable. Is Olaf interested in me? Is that possible?

‘I must get back to work.’

‘But wasn’t your computer a bit slow?’ he says.

‘No slower than me, so it will be alright.’

Olaf stays in my thoughts for the rest of the morning. Every time someone comes in, I look up, and I keep thinking I can hear his voice. Every ten minutes I check for new mail. But, no, that was it for today, and now my uncertainty drives away the hopeful butterflies in my stomach.

It’s been a long time since I felt this way. The first time I fell in love was with Bart at the school disco, and his reciprocal interest brought about the same feeling of amazement I’m now experiencing with Olaf. That nothing came of my other relationships was my own doing.

RenÉe comes into the office and I get back to my work. She sends a cool glance in my direction, slides behind her desk and from then on checks every other minute to see what I’m doing. With a sense of deep relief, I pick up my bag at twelve-thirty and leave without saying goodbye to anyone.

I spend the whole afternoon lying on the sofa and zapping through all of the television channels, waiting for As the World Turns. The sun shines in, revealing the dust on every object in the room.

I’d planned to do some cleaning but energy has deserted me. Even making a cup of tea seems like too much effort.

With my feet, I shift a book on the table towards me. A woman with a challenging look and hands on her hips is on the cover. The Assertive Woman is written in menacing letters at the top.

It’s one I recently got from the library. It is full of tips and psychological insights that offer solutions to every problem. All you need to do is learn a list of assertive sentences by heart and then use them at the appropriate moment.

It’s not my problem./I’m off. Bye!/What difference does it make to me?/I want to be left alone now./I’m not taking that./Do it yourself./I’m not going to do that./I don’t want to do it./I’m against it.

They would all be usable against RenÉe. I memorise them until I hear the theme tune to As the World Turns.

8

‘Have you all thought about it?’ RenÉe asks the next day once we have all arrived.

I say nothing and carry on calmly typing.

‘About what?’ Zinzy asks.

‘That we pay fines for unnecessarily wasted paper.’

‘I’m for it,’ Margot says. ‘It is a brilliant idea, RenÉe.’

RenÉe’s eyes wander over to Zinzy and me. ‘Sabine?’ she asks.

I picture the list of assertive sentences. An ‘I’ message would be particularly good here. It sounds powerful and commands respect.

‘I’m against it,’ I say.

There is a moment’s silence.

‘Given the amount of mistakes in your letters this doesn’t surprise me, Sabine,’ RenÉe says.

‘I’m against it,’ I repeat. ‘It’s a terrible idea.’

Margot and Zinzy remain silent.

‘Zinzy?’ asks RenÉe. ‘Do you think that too?’

‘Well, I’m not sure…’ Zinzy falters. ‘If you think it’s necessary…’

‘We have to all want to do it,’ RenÉe says.

I recognise Walter in her words.

‘Listen, RenÉe,’ I say. ‘I come here to earn money, not to finance the weekly drinks. I don’t think that we deliberately make typos, so if we just agree to check our work more thoroughly before we print it that should be enough.’

They all look at me, gobsmacked. I’m rather good at this.

‘Some people make more mistakes than others,’ RenÉe says coolly.

‘If it’s taken up by the union, we’ll implement it, otherwise not,’ I say, equally coolly, and turn my back on her.

RenÉe doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the morning and Margot and Zinzy avoid me. The tension in the office is so tangible that anyone who comes in immediately lowers their voice. My in-tray is filled up with drafts covered in yellow post-it notes. If RenÉe needs to speak to me, it comes through Zinzy and Margot.

‘Do you know what the problem is?’ Zinzy says. We are hanging around by the vending machine, where I used to stand with Jeanine. ‘You don’t give the impression that you want to get back to work. You sit at your desk with a stony face and that puts people off. Everyone thinks that you’re a grumpy cow who’d rather be at home on sick leave.’

‘However would they have come up with that?’ I say.

Zinzy seems to be nice. Slim, petite, shiny black hair, big brown eyes. I’d like to look like her. There’s something uncertain in her manner that makes her come across as insecure—which she absolutely isn’t. She’s just told me exactly what people think of me, after all.

The ultimate proof of her independence is this particular risky venture: eating Mars bars with me by the vending machine.

Her words are illuminating. So that’s how they see me. Well, they are not really wrong. I don’t really want to be back at work, but it wasn’t always like this.

‘Do you find me grumpy?’ I ask.

‘Not right now, but when RenÉe comes over, I see you go all stiff. Why do you have such a problem with her?’

I screw up the Mars bar wrapper and throw it into the bin.

‘You’ll find out for yourself one day,’ I say.

At twelve-thirty I go to the lift. I could take the stairs but just the thought of all those stairs makes me feel dizzy. Lifts are there to provide people with a service. You’d have to be stupid not to take advantage of them.

There’s a ping and a moment later the lift arrives and opens. I rebound off a wall of bodies.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘full.’

‘Not quite, Sabine! You can fit in. Breathe in, everyone.’ It’s Olaf from somewhere at the back.

On the second floor, I almost fall out when the doors open.

I wait until everyone is out to get back into the lift. Olaf hovers outside the lift.

‘From now on I’ll resort to the stairs,’ I hold the door open with my foot so I can talk to him. At the canteen, there is a long queue by the buffet. ‘It smells of pancakes.’ I enjoy the greasy, sweet waft.

‘Do you like them?’

‘They’re delicious. Especially with a slab of butter and a thick layer of icing sugar…’

His gaze glides over my body. ‘I can’t tell.’

‘Because I never eat them. I’ve banned them from my diet,’ I say.

Olaf shakes his head. ‘If there’s one thing I hate,’ he says, ‘it’s that women are always denying themselves things.’

‘What?’

‘I once had a girlfriend who was always dieting. She couldn’t talk about anything else. Montignac, juice diets, Slimfast, you name it. I became an expert in the field. Pounds flew off and kilos went back on. If I ever cooked anything, she would have just started a carrot diet. I got sick of it.’

I laugh despite the unexpected pang I felt when Olaf started talking about an ex.

‘You’re not on a diet are you?’ he asks.

‘What difference would it make? I’m not your girlfriend am I?’

‘That’s true.’ He looks at me with a mysterious smile. ‘What do you like, apart from pancakes?’

‘Greek food,’ I say, ‘I love Greek food.’

He nods. ‘Then we’ll go out and eat Greek sometime, okay?’

‘Okay.’

9

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.

10

Olaf is in a black Peugeot, the windows wound down, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His fingers drum on the roof of the car, marking time to Robbie Williams’ latest single. He hasn’t bothered to dress up, he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

My own metamorphosis suddenly seems rather over the top. Isn’t that pink a bit too sweet? These strappy high-heeled shoes might be great, but my top is tight around my breasts and the straps keep falling down.

I give myself a last once over in the mirror, apply a coat of mascara and put on a pair of crystal earrings. My hair looks good. Nice to have it all out of my face. It’s a shame that I’m so pale but the self-tanner I used made one of my legs look like a carrot, so I didn’t dare try it on my face. I didn’t do the other leg either, so I’m now walking round with one orangey leg. In the restaurant my legs will be under the table though, and in the car I’ll cross my white leg over the orange one.

The horn echoes against the walls of the houses. Olaf spots me and sticks his head out of the window. ‘Are you ready?’ he shouts.

I’m outside in the blink of an eye, but he still finds an opportunity to blow his horn again.

I stalk across the road. Olaf is blocking the narrow street without bothering to leave any room. I pull open the door and snap, ‘Drive.’

‘Yes, miss! You look as pretty as a picture.’

I turn away and remain silent.

‘What’s the matter? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when you take a lady out?’ Olaf is genuinely surprised.

‘When you take a lady out you shouldn’t honk in the street like a crazy person!’ I regret my remark instantly. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s picked up his granny from the retirement home. And he does have that feeling; I can see it in the way he is looking at me. Worse, he hasn’t driven off, but remains blocking the street.

‘You could have rung my bell,’ I suggest, more gently.

‘But then I’d have had to double park,’ he defends himself. ‘Have you seen those wheel clamps in the street?’

‘Then call me on my mobile. Why don’t you drive off? There are five cars behind us!’ I look over my shoulder. One of the drivers gets out, another begins to toot his horn.

‘Oy, don’t do that! You should call me on my mobile!’ shouts Olaf out of the window. He puts his foot down and the car roars out of the street.

I can’t help it, I have to laugh. ‘You feel at home in Amsterdam, don’t you? No one would think you were actually a beachcomber from Den Helder.’

‘In Den Helder, they might call me a beachcomber, here I’m an Amsterdammer. Do you know what they call people from Tilburg by the way?’

‘No idea.’

‘Pot-pissers. It comes from when Tilburg was the centre of the textile industry. In order to make felt you needed urine, amongst other things. In Tilburg it was collected from the inhabitants, they were paid to fill a pot. Gross, eh?’

‘Hilarious,’ I say.

This makes him laugh. ‘You’re a dry one.’

‘I’m just happy I’m not from Tilburg. I know exactly what nickname you’d have given me then. That’s what you used to do.’

‘Me?’

‘Don’t you remember what you used to call me?’

‘Sabine, perhaps?’

‘No. Little Miss Shy.’

Olaf slaps his chest. ‘That’s true! God, you’ve got the memory of an elephant. You were a real Little Miss Shy.’

We turn onto the Nassaukade and into a traffic jam. Olaf looks in his rear view mirror but there are cars behind us and we can’t turn round.

‘Shit.’ Olaf turns the wheel to the left and mounts the tram lane. A tram behind us complains with a loud tinkling noise. Olaf gestures that he’ll get out of the way soon and drives on. The Marriott Hotel comes into view.

I straighten up. I’m not dressed for that place.

But we drive on past the Marriott and turn left onto the Leidseplein. The Amsterdam American Hotel then. Damn, if I’d known that. I pull down the sun visor and inspect my make-up. I’ll pass.

Olaf turns into a side street and parks illegally.

‘What on earth are you doing? They’ll tow you away.’

‘No, they won’t.’ Olaf brings out a card and puts it on the dashboard.

‘Since when have you been an invalid?’

‘I always get a terrible stitch in my side when I have to walk too far,’ Olaf explains. ‘A friend of mine couldn’t bear it and sorted out this card for me.’

Shaking my head, I throw the card back onto the dashboard and climb out. ‘Hasn’t the Amsterdam American Hotel got a carpark?’

‘Probably.’ Olaf locks the car. ‘But only for guests.’

I go to cross the tram rails but Olaf turns around and gestures for me to follow him.

I spot a garish pancake stall with a terrace full of plastic chairs.

‘Where would you like to sit? There, in the corner? Then we can watch everyone go by.’ Olaf springs onto the terrace and pulls out a bright red plastic chair. His eyes question me, the chair dangling awkwardly in his hands.

His eyes are shining and I find myself moved. On second thoughts, the pancake place seems much nicer than the Marriott or the American. You don’t have to worry what you are wearing at least.

A waiter takes our order. Two large portions of mini pancakes, extra icing sugar and two beers.

Olaf reclines. The small chair nearly tips backwards. He folds his arms behind his head.

‘Good idea of yours.’ He looks pleased. ‘It’s been ages since I had pancakes.’

‘I can’t remember having suggested it.’

‘You did, this afternoon near the canteen. You said you really fancied pancakes.’

‘I said that I could smell pancakes.’

He leans forward. ‘Would you rather eat somewhere else?’

‘No,’ I reassure him. ‘This is perfect.’ I relax into my chair.

And then there’s silence. It’s the kind of silence that happens when you’re both scouring your minds for things to say. What have we got to talk about? Do we even really know each other?

‘How do you find it at The Bank?’ I ask. Stupid question, Sabine.

‘I like the guys I work with,’ Olaf says. ‘Sometimes the humour is a bit dodgy, but that’s what you get in a department full of men.’

‘But don’t two women work with you?’

Olaf grins. ‘They’re a bit overwhelmed by all the male jokes. It’s exactly the opposite for you, isn’t it? Only women.’

‘Yep.’

‘Is it friendly?’

‘You have no idea how friendly.’

He doesn’t hear the irony in my voice. ‘That RenÉe strikes me as being a pretty dominating type.’

‘RenÉe? She’s a really lovely girl, always so understanding, sociable, warm. Yes, we’ve struck gold with her.’

Olaf frowns then spots my expression and smiles. ‘A bitch.’

‘A bitch,’ I confirm.

‘I thought so. She’s always nice when she sees me, but I’ve heard her telling people off.’

I don’t say anything and Olaf doesn’t seem to want to talk about RenÉe. What links us is the past, so it doesn’t surprise me when Olaf mentions it. He lights up a cigarette, blows the smoke upwards and looks at the sky. ‘Little Miss Shy,’ he ponders. ‘You can’t have enjoyed that.’

‘I was used to it with an older brother.’

Olaf laughs. ‘How is Robin?’

‘Good. Busy. He’s working hard. I haven’t spoken to him for a while but the last time he called he was pretty enthusiastic about someone called Mandy.’

‘Good for him,’ Olaf says. ‘I’ll give him a ring sometime. Do you have his number?’

‘Not on me. I’ll email it to you tomorrow.’

Olaf nods and gazes at the smoke from his cigarette as he touches on the one subject I’ve been trying to avoid.

‘Tell me,’ he says. ‘You were a friend of Isabel Hartman’s weren’t you? Have you ever heard anything more about her?’

I pick up the packet of cigarettes that is lying between us on the table and light one. Silence stretches out.

11

I’ve forgotten a lot about my time at high school. When I read back through my diaries or listen to Robin’s stories, I come across completely unknown events, as if another person was living then in my place. And yet a recollection can suddenly knife its way through my mind, a spark that lights up the grey matter of my memory for an instant. I don’t understand how memory works. I don’t understand why it lets you down in one instance, then confronts you with something you’d rather forget.

The flashback I get when Olaf mentions Isabel’s name isn’t pleasant. I see myself standing in the school canteen, looking for somewhere to sit and eat my sandwiches. My classmates have settled not far away. Isabel is sitting on the edge of the table and leading the conversation. I’m twelve and until recently I was part of this group. I take a chair and walk towards them. They don’t look up but I see the exchange of glances, as if they were surrounded by a magnetic field which launched an alarm signal as soon as I broached it.

I go to put my chair down with the others, but there’s a scrape of dragged chair legs and the circle closes. I sit down at an empty table right by them and watch the minutes tick by on the clock until lunch is over. One time my eyes meet Isabel’s. She doesn’t look away; it is as if she is looking right through me.

‘Wasn’t she your friend?’ Olaf sips his beer.

‘Isabel? At primary school she was.’ I inhale deeply on my cigarette.

‘They still don’t know what happened to her, do they?’ Olaf says. It’s a statement, not a question, but I still answer.

‘No. Her disappearance was just recently on Missing.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’ Olaf asks. ‘Didn’t she have some kind of illness?’

‘Epilepsy.’ Images from the past come flooding out. I try to stop them, to break away, but Olaf carries on.

‘Yes, epilepsy, that was it. Could she have had an attack?’

‘I don’t think so. An attack doesn’t last long. You feel it coming on and when it’s over, you need a while to come round. If it is a light attack, at least. I know all about it, I was so often with her when she had one.’

‘So you don’t think the epilepsy had anything to do with her disappearance?’

I signal to the waiter for another glass of beer and shake my head. I really don’t think so and never have done.

‘I can barely remember anything from those days around Isabel’s disappearance,’ I tell him. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, you’d think I would remember the first time I heard she didn’t come home. Her parents came around to talk to me the following day, hoping that I might be able to tell them something. It got a lot of attention, at school and in the media, but I only know about it through hearsay.’

Olaf looks sceptical. ‘You must remember something.’

‘No.’

‘The entire school was talking about it!’

‘Yes, but I really don’t remember much more. I always feel so wretched when I think back to that time. Now, I get the feeling that I’ve forgotten things. Important things. I think I knew more then than I’m conscious of now, but it’s all gone, lost.’

Olaf sprinkles icing sugar over his pancakes.

‘Is that why you wanted to go to Den Helder?’

‘I was hoping that it would all become clearer if I was there, but it didn’t work. It is too long ago.’

Olaf stuffs five mini-pancakes into his mouth at the same time. ‘Perhaps you were in shock and got through those early days in a kind of daze. I can understand that. Isabel used to be your best friend. It must have had an effect on you.’

I stab my fork into a clammy, cold pancake.

‘Last year, just after I’d gone on sick leave, I asked my mother how I’d reacted to Isabel’s disappearance,’ I say. ‘She couldn’t tell me much. When Isabel went missing, my father had just had another heart attack and was in hospital, so she had other things on her mind.’

Olaf’s light blue eyes look at me.

‘My mother thought that Isabel had run away from home at first,’ I continue. ‘She’d often had older boyfriends, even some in Amsterdam. God knows where she found them. Who knows, perhaps she did run away.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

I think about it and shake my head. ‘Why would she? Her parents gave her an enormous amount of freedom. Sometimes even a bit too much, my parents thought. They never said anything but I think they were relieved when Isabel and I didn’t get on so well anymore. Isabel could go out as late as she liked, with whoever she wanted. Her parents didn’t go on at her about her homework. They’d let her go out with a vague group of friends to Amsterdam. That kind of thing. It didn’t surprise my mother that something happened to Isabel, of all people. She’s always believed that something happened to her in Amsterdam.’

‘That’s not likely,’ Olaf says. ‘She disappeared during the day, after school.’

I look up, surprised that he’s so familiar with the facts.

‘Yes, that’s right. I was riding home behind her. She was with Miriam Visser and when Miriam turned off, Isabel went on alone. I was going the same way, but I rode really slowly because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and then I took a side street to avoid her. I rode back through the dunes, but it wasn’t as nice as I’d thought it would be. I was completely out of breath when I got home. It’s funny, the kind of thing you remember. But I’ve no idea what I did for the rest of day. I might have gone to the library or something. Or done my homework.’

‘But the next day? Or after that, when it was clear that Isabel really was missing? It was the biggest topic of conversation at school!’

‘It is as if there’s a hole in my memory. Now and then a bit of it fills in, but then I lose it again.’

‘Hmm.’ Olaf leans back and lights up another cigarette. He offers me another one too but I shake my head.

There is a long silence. I drink my beer in large gulps. I’m not used to silences, I don’t know how to react to them, even though there’s nothing uncomfortable about Olaf’s silence. He’s not waiting for an explanation, expects no further emotional outpouring and I don’t make the mistake of babbling inanely. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I.

So we just sit there while he smokes his cigarette and I finally cadge another. Smoking a cigarette at the right moment can make you look like you’ve got purpose.

‘Did you know Isabel well?’ I let my ash fall into the ashtray.

‘Not really. I used to see her walking around at school and I spoke to her occasionally. Robin told me that you used to be friends. But that was before I came to your house, I think, because I didn’t ever see her round yours.’

‘Our friendship was over by then,’ I say.

Olaf’s gaze rests on me. He doesn’t say anything, just looks me straight in the eye—always a good way of unnerving someone and keeping them talking.

‘The last years of primary school were really great. The first years of secondary were a shock, but later on it was good.’ I’m rambling. ‘I’d really changed then. I was relaxed, didn’t let anyone bully me anymore. I was a completely different Sabine, the other me. You wouldn’t think so would you? You never knew me like that. You know, sometimes I have the feeling that I’m several different people, all with different personalities that take over without me having any say in the matter.’

What am I saying? I tap my cigarette against the side of the ashtray and let out a forced laugh. ‘I sound like a schizophrenic, don’t I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Olaf says. ‘I recognise that myself. Aren’t we all made up of different personalities? For each situation you put on a different face, a different manner, a different way of talking. You’re constantly adapting. At work I show a whole different Olaf.’

It’s quiet again. The waiter comes to collect our plates. He doesn’t ask whether we’ve enjoyed the food but looks at us questioningly.

‘Two coffees, please,’ Olaf says.

The waiter nods and walks away.

‘And it was delicious, thank you,’ Olaf adds.

The waiter doesn’t react and Olaf rolls his eyes. ‘He’s thinking, it’s only pancakes, man.’

‘Which is why they should be delicious.’

‘Exactly.’

We wait for the coffee and finish smoking our cigarettes. It is difficult to suddenly change to a new, lighter topic of conversation.

‘What do you actually remember from the day of Isabel’s disappearance?’ I ask.

‘Not that much,’ he says, ‘apart from that I had a maths exam. It was boiling in that sports hall. Luckily the exam was easy. Maths was my best subject, so I finished quickly. I didn’t wait for Robin but got on my moped and went home. That’s all. Later that evening he called me to ask if I’d seen Isabel at all.’

‘Robin called you? Why?’

‘Isabel’s mother had probably just called you.’

‘But why would you have known where she was?’

‘No idea. Robin knew that I knew her too. Isabel used to go out with…what’s he called again? That bloke in my class, the one with the denim jacket and black hair. Bart! Yes, Bart de Ruijter. I told him he should call Bart.’

I’m shocked, but I try not to let anything other than interest show on my face. ‘And did he?’ I ask.

‘He gave Bart’s telephone number to Isabel’s mother but Bart had been sweating away at that maths exam all afternoon, he hadn’t seen Isabel at all. He was interviewed by the police later though.’

The waiter sets down two tiny cups of coffee in front of us.

‘Espresso,’ I say in disgust.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No. Here, take mine.’ I push my cup towards Olaf.

‘What would you like? A milky coffee?’

‘No, don’t worry. I don’t really feel like coffee. Do you think they’ve got anything stronger here?’

Olaf laughs. ‘There are tonnes of pubs around here. We’ll go soon, okay.’

The blue of the sky takes on a darker tone. The neon lighting feels almost aggressive. I light a cigarette and watch Olaf drink his coffee. He stares into space.

‘Robin was really mad about her,’ he says after a while.

I look up with a start. ‘What, Robin? In love with Isabel? No!’

Olaf looks at me in astonishment. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘No, and I don’t believe a word of it. Robin and Isabel? That’s ridiculous!’

‘Why? She was good-looking. If you’d said she was eighteen, I would have believed it. I didn’t realise that she was so young until Robin told me that she was in your class. But I know for sure that he had his eye on her, even if he didn’t do anything about it. No one could understand it because she made such a play for him.’

‘Didn’t he do anything about it?’ I ask, moved.

‘No,’ Olaf’s eyes are soft. ‘No, he didn’t do anything about it, but I could see that it was a real struggle for him. He was attracted to her and she knew it. If she liked someone, she had to have them, even if it was only very briefly.’

I remain paralysed in the red bucket seat. Robin was in love with Isabel. He was in love. With Isabel!

‘He hated her,’ I say. ‘He told me so himself.’

Olaf empties his cup.

‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘He hated her too. Love and hate are quite close to each other. Why does it affect you so much?’

I look at him with dull eyes. ‘You know why.’

Olaf leans forwards and lays his hand on top of mine. ‘Yes,’ he acknowledges, and after a short silence adds, ‘Was it that bad for you?’

I look away, at a tram ringing its bell at a cyclist.

‘Yes,’ I hear myself say. ‘Until Robin got involved. But before that it was really bad.’

The relaxed feeling seeps away and the familiar pains in my shoulders and stomach return. My hand shakes as I put out my cigarette.

Olaf notices. His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t speak. I’m grateful to him for that.

12

I’m twenty-three and I haven’t had a boyfriend, apart from Bart. When I was a student I noticed plenty of boys and they noticed me too, but one way or another a night out never developed into a relationship. It was my fault, I’ve since realised. I just don’t like being hugged, or feeling a possessive arm around my shoulder, or being pushed against a wall to be kissed. I feel like pushing them away.

The psychologist I saw during my depression tried to find out if I’d had a sexual experience in my childhood, something that disturbed me. She was quite convinced of it; all my symptoms pointed in that direction. But she didn’t find anything in our sessions and eventually let it drop. Everything there works as it should. It’s just that since Bart I’ve not come across anyone worth bothering with, or who was interested in me.

The first time I became conscious of sexual feelings was when I was around fourteen. A film based on a book had recently been on at the cinema. I’d been really taken by it. It was the story of a forbidden love affair between a girl and a much older man. I wondered whether the book would be as beautiful and got it out. In the film the sex scenes had been quite subtle; in the book they were anything but. I lay on my bed with flushed cheeks. My body seemed to have a life of its own.

Even though my parents never interfered with what I was reading and wouldn’t have forbidden it, I hid the book in my wardrobe. I was embarrassed by what it brought out in me.

From then on, I couldn’t look at boys in the same way. I wasn’t interested in the boys in my class who were mostly a head shorter than the girls, but I watched the older boys who Isabel hung out with. Bart de Ruijter was one of them—the best looking and most popular boy in school.

He was two years above me, the same age as Olaf and Robin. He belonged to the group they hung around with a lot. Of course I’d noticed him before, but I’d thought I didn’t stand a chance. Why would he pay any attention to such an unremarkable, shy girl? Yet he did.

It was at the school Christmas disco when I was fourteen. I didn’t want to go, but my parents knew it was on so it was impossible to stay home. The idea that I was different would have hurt my parents. Having them feel sorry for me seemed more painful than the disco itself.

My father dropped me off and gave me some money to get a taxi home. He could have picked me up of course, but that was the last thing I wanted.

I mingled with my classmates and tried to stay away from Isabel’s gang, but they were everywhere, shrieking and laughing. I danced with no one in particular, like everyone did. The music was pounding. In the middle of a song the whole group appeared on my right, some of them rolling their eyes. Isabel was copying me dance and trying to get Bart to join in. Bart and I barely knew each other and I saw him turn from Isabel to me with a look of non-comprehension. Isabel pulled a sulky face and made a few clumsy dance moves, which the others laughed at. I felt myself blushing and my movements became even more wooden.

‘Yep, I’m on a diet,’ Isabel said, and ran her hands over her hips. ‘I’ve already lost two kilos.’

‘Really?’ Bart said. ‘Then they must have sunk to your arse.’

Everyone burst out laughing and Isabel kicked Bart in the shins. I caught his wink.

After a while, they all went outside and I stayed behind. Then Bart was standing opposite me, smiling. He offered me his hand and pulled me towards him. We danced. We drank. Alcohol was banned but many students had brought small bottles of whisky with them and were adding it to their cokes. There was something intimate about the way we poured shots of whisky into our glasses and drank it huddled close together so the teachers couldn’t see what we were doing. The butterflies in my stomach got stronger.

As the evening progressed I lost more of my shyness; the whisky must have contributed. Isabel’s group came back but didn’t notice anything about us because we had separated and were dancing with the others.

The evening was almost over when we came together again. That’s to say, Bart gripped my elbow, led me from the dance floor and we went outside. At the beginning of the evening he’d been a stranger and now we were walking with our arms around each other to a deserted corner of the bike stand. Then we were kissing, hard. He was a fantastic kisser. I barely knew what I was doing.

‘Open your mouth a bit more,’ he said. The sensation of his tongue slowly exploring my mouth was breathtaking. I was kissing the most popular boy in school!

Just then it struck me that this might be a practical joke. I didn’t know in which way I was being teased but I opened my eyes and looked past Bart to check if the others were around. The bike shed was empty. Bart’s hand moved to my trouser zip, but I pulled it off. He didn’t mind.

‘No?’ he said. ‘Okay.’

We kissed some more and then finally walked hand in hand back to the main entrance. I was in seventh heaven. The party was over. Most people had already left. The group had also gone, probably into town.

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Bart had said goodbye and gone off to find them. But instead he asked me where my bike was. When I told him that my father had brought me, he got his bike, a rickety old rust bucket, and said, ‘Hop on the back.’

He took me home. It was a ten-kilometre ride, and for him another lonely ten kilometres back. At the front door, we said goodbye so slowly that an hour passed before I finally slipped inside. I lay in my bed with a thumping head, in no fit state to sleep. Bart, Bart, Bart, the voice inside sang.

I hoped that things would be different from now on. Bart would defend me, protect me and draw me into the group. Isabel would treat me with respect and we would be friends again. It would even be enough if she left me alone.

I’d forgotten that the Christmas holidays had begun and that there’d be no school for two weeks. But Bart would call me and we’d meet over the holidays and spend them together.

He didn’t call.

For two weeks I moved between hope and despair. Christmas passed me by totally and on New Year’s Eve, I looked outside at the fireworks in the starry sky and made a half-hearted wish that he’d show up in the new year.

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