The Reunion

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.