The Reunion

‘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.’