Page 15 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)
Johan
Back from a weekend that now feels more like a fleeting dream, I find myself sitting in my office at Cambridge, overwhelmed by the stark contrast between the vibrant, living memories of my time with Hannah and the sterile academic confines surrounding me.
Being with her in the Cotswolds felt like stepping through a portal into a reality where expectations were suspended, and the only imperative was authenticity.
My office, usually a place of solace and scholarly pursuit, now seems more like a cage, trapping me with reminders of obligations and the heavy weight of expectations.
My thoughts incessantly drift back to Hannah and our moments together, each memory vivid and alive against the monochrome backdrop of my current surroundings.
I can still feel the softness of her laughter echoing through the open fields, the way the sunlight danced in her hair as we wandered through the gardens of the country estate.
Her eyes, bright with curiosity and laughter, seemed to pull me deeper into a world where the only thing that mattered was the connection between us. Okay, enough. I’ve got to focus!
Just as I turn my attention to a stack of research papers, I hear a few knocks on the door before it creaks open unexpectedly.
It’s my mother, and her presence in my office is as startling as it is unusual.
She rarely visits me here, especially unannounced.
“Mum, what are you doing here?” I ask, masking my surprise with a warm smile that I hope conveys pleasure at her unexpected visit rather than the anxiety it stirs within me.
She returns my smile as she steps in, though hers is tinged with a certain formality that heightens my sense of unease.
“Glad to see you too, darling.”
Rising up from my chair, I go and greet her with a hug and a cheek kiss. “I’m sorry, I was just not expecting you here.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Her comment makes me uneasy. “Is there something wrong?”
“Can we talk in the sitting area, dear?” she suggests, her tone gentle yet carrying an undercurrent of seriousness that suggests this isn't a mere social call.
“Of course,” I reply, my voice steady despite the slight quickening of my pulse.
I lead her across my office, which is filled with the usual academic disarray—stacks of books teetering on the edge of my desk, papers littered with notes and reminders, and the faint scent of stale coffee lingering in the air.
I sweep a few loose papers aside to make room as we approach the sitting area, a small oasis of comfort with its plush sofa and armchairs positioned invitingly around a low coffee table.
“Can I offer you something?” I inquire as we settle into the soft embrace of the sofa. The fabric is a deep, rich blue, often a calming presence in my hectic days. Today, however, given the tension I sense from her, it feels almost too plush, too inviting.
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” she declines politely, folding her hands in her lap. Her posture is perfect, and her demeanor composed. Her eyes, however, betray a hint of something deeper, something perhaps a bit troubled, as she looks around the room, taking in the scholarly chaos with a faint smile.
She turns to me then, reaching out to caress my cheek lightly, a gesture so filled with affection and pride it momentarily warms the chill of apprehension.
“I can’t believe this Saturday you and Astrid will be official.
You’ve no idea how proud your dad and I are,” she says, her voice soft yet firm, as if willing me to understand the depth of their feelings about my engagement.
“Believe me, I am.” My words are laced with sarcasm, a reflexive shield against the pressure her words invoke. I feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon us, the air thickening.
Feeling a sudden need to move, to do something with the restless energy that her visit has sparked, I stand abruptly.
“If the subject is about the engagement, I’m gonna need some scotch.
Can I get you some?” It's an offer made more out of a desire for a brief respite than any hope that she might accept.
“No, dear,” she says softly, watching me as I stride over to the small cabinet where I keep a decanter of scotch. The golden liquid seems to glow under the dim light as I pour myself a drink, the sound of the scotch hitting the glass oddly comforting.
As I settle back into the plush cushions beside her, the softness of the sofa contrasts sharply with the tension that sits between us.
My mother's gaze, full of intent and purpose, meets mine, her expression one of both compassion and concern.
It's clear she’s come with a message, one that I suspect will challenge the fragile peace I've managed to piece together over the weekend.
“Johan, I know it’s not easy for you to get engaged at twenty-seven,” she begins, her voice firm yet tinged with a gentle plea for understanding, “but let me tell you, this union is saving your family.” She pauses, maintaining eye contact, ensuring the gravity of the situation is not lost on me.
“I suppose you're aware of the financial troubles your father has faced and that all those debts were bought by Ludovic.”
“And that now we owe everything to him?” I can't help but interrupt, frustration coloring my tone. “Yes, I do. Dad said once I marry, all those debts would magically disappear.”
“Isn't that reason enough to at least try to make this work?” Her question, rhetorical, hangs heavily between us.
I sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. “Mum, I don’t love her. It's that simple.”
Her reply is swift, a sharp retort that cuts through my resistance. “Love isn’t just a feeling, Johan. It’s a decision. You can choose a stable, prosperous life, or you can choose to drag us all down with you.”
“I love someone else, Mum.” The words spill out of me, desperate and defiant. “Astrid can’t change that.”
Her reaction is immediate and gentle, a softening around her eyes as she places a comforting hand on my arm.
“What you feel for Hannah isn’t love; it’s lust and infatuation.
In a few years, you’ll have moved on. But if you marry Astrid, you're securing a future not just for yourself but for all of us.”
Her words sting. The dismissal of my feelings for Hannah as fleeting and trivial wounds me more than I want to admit. “How do you know about her? Was it Dad who told you?” The suspicion gnaws at me, and the idea of my private life being scrutinized without my consent is unsettling.
Without saying another word, Mum reaches into her bag and produces a brown envelope, pulling out several photographs of Hannah and me taken during our weekend in the Cotswolds. The images—stolen moments of happiness captured without our knowledge—feel like a violation.
“Are you spying on me? Who took this? The gardener?” I ask, anger coloring my tone as I struggle to keep my composure.
“It wasn’t like that. The staff talk, and it seems one of my maid’s relatives works at the property you stayed at. They exchanged pictures, and she recognized you,” she explains, her tone even, almost apologetic.
“Does anyone else know about it?”
“Only those who need to, and I’ve ensured they'll keep quiet,” she assures me, her voice a calm contrast to the storm brewing within me. “If this is how it’s going to be, then you need to be more careful in the future. If Astrid or her family find out?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt sharply, the resolve in my voice surprising even me. “I’ll find a way to get out of this. And I’ll take care of the debts, too.”
My mother’s eyes hold mine, a mix of sadness and resignation reflecting back at me. She understands the stakes, but her belief in duty over personal happiness remains firm. I wonder if she chose my dad in the same light she’s pressuring me to choose Astrid.
After a long, heavy silence, my mother’s voice softens, her next words carrying a blend of hope and resignation. “All I ask for is that you think thoroughly about this. Astrid is a wonderful woman, and her family, too. Are you sure you don’t want to give this union a shot?”
Her plea, laden with genuine concern, hangs in the air.
The weight of her expectations, the significance of my choice—it all converges into a knot of tension within me.
I know in my heart that my path does not lie with Astrid, that what I feel for Hannah transcends the pragmatic confines of this arranged union.
Yet, seeing the worry etched into my mother’s features, the earnest hope in her eyes that I might still reconsider compels me to offer her some semblance of peace.
“I'll think about it,” I say finally, the words hollow but necessary. The statement is more for her benefit than mine— a small concession to ease the immediate pressure and provide her some comfort.
Her expression eases slightly at my response, a mixture of relief and gratitude flickering across her face. She nods, accepting my answer for now as the best compromise she could hope for under the circumstances.
As she stands to leave, adjusting her purse over her shoulder, there's a weary acceptance in her posture, as if she, too, understands the depth of my conflict yet remains bound by her own beliefs and expectations about family and duty.
“Thank you, dear,” she says softly, offering a small, weary smile as she prepares to depart. “Just remember, whatever you decide, we love you and want the best for you.”
Her words linger in the room long after she’s gone, leaving me to ponder the immense burden of choice and consequence.
While my promise to consider her words might have placated her for the moment, the decision looming over me remains unchanged.
I know what my heart wants, and no amount of contemplation can alter the truth that beats strongly within me.
As I sit back in the quiet of my now empty office, the images of Hannah flash through my mind, each a vivid reminder of where my true happiness lies.