Page 74 of When We Were Young

Emily

Scott is building up to something. I can tell by the way he’s rotating the paper coffee cup around on my kitchen table.

He’s invited himself over and brought lattes with him, a sure sign he’s buttering me up.

Maybe things have progressed with Katya; maybe he’s here to tell me they’re getting married.

I can’t wait any longer. ‘Okay, spit it out.’

‘I have a favour to ask.’ He lifts his eyes from the cup. ‘I wouldn’t ask you this if I wasn’t desperate.’

Shit, this sounds serious. ‘What is it?’

‘I need you to come to Amsterdam.’

I can’t hide how that last word makes me flinch and his eyes flash with concern.

‘The general manager of the hotel wants to meet you.’

‘Why on earth do they want to meet me?’

‘He wants to meet the artist I’ve been raving about. He’s really into his art, Em. He’s much more involved with this project than anything else we’ve done for him. It’s only three nights.’ He bites his lip, eyebrows high.

‘I can’t go to Amsterdam for three nights, Scott. I have to work.’

‘Can’t Magda cover for you? We’ve got the meeting the first day, then it’s the installation, then the photoshoot. He’s paying for an artist. He’ll be pissed off if the artist isn’t there for the installation.’

I sigh. ‘What about Liv?’

‘She’s old enough to look after herself now.’ He sees the worry in my face. ‘Or she could stay with your parents?’

I’ve always wanted to return to Amsterdam since visiting briefly with Will on tour.

I’d been disappointed there wasn’t time to explore the museums and galleries, which was partly why I chose the city for my residency.

But I abandoned that dream long ago. Going there now could dredge up past regrets. I’m not sure I can handle it.

Scott’s tone is gentle. ‘I understand if it’s too much…’

Europe flashes by as we travel business class to Amsterdam on the train.

I look the part in an elegant navy dress with a berry red cross-body bag.

We read magazines; we chat. They serve wine with lunch, and coffee with our pistachio and apricot tartlets.

And, just for the journey, I pretend I’m an artist travelling to Amsterdam for a meeting with a client about a commission. And it’s not so bad.

Our taxi drops us at the hotel in the heart of the museum quarter on a street bustling with bicycles and trams. The grand, imposing nineteenth-century exterior hides a sleek modern interior of glass and black steel.

The guy at the check-in desk says, ‘Welcome, Mr King. Mr Allemand is expecting you. Please take a seat while I locate him for you.’

Our luggage is whisked away, and we’re deposited at a table in a huge glass atrium with fresh coffee.

‘Who’s Mr Allemand?’ I whisper.

‘The general manager.’ Scott is at home in the luxury surroundings. I’m a fish out of water.

An impeccably dressed man with silver hair approaches.

‘Ah, Emily! It’s a pleasure to meet you. Pierre Allemand.’ As I stand, he clasps my hand in both of his. ‘I’m a huge fan of your work. I’m looking forward to working with you on this project. It will be a vrolijk kerstfeest, indeed.’

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I stand dumbstruck as he greets Scott like an old friend.

‘I’m sure you would like to freshen up after your journey. Let’s meet at four o’clock. Ask any of the hosts and they will direct you to the Blue Room. You will join me for dinner this evening as well, I hope?’

He’s looking at me.

‘That would be lovely. Thank you,’ I say.

‘Splendid.’ Pierre gives a slight bow and strides off.

I glare at Scott. ‘How the hell is he “a huge fan” of my work?’

He smiles as we sit down. ‘I showed him your portfolio.’

‘I don’t have a portfolio.’

‘I made you one.’

‘Using what?’

‘Photographs from your exhibition.’

‘Where did you get photographs of my exhibition?’

‘I took loads of pictures on the opening night. Don’t you remember?’

‘No…’

‘Here, I got you something.’ He reaches down into his laptop bag, pulls out a paper bag, and slides it across the table towards me. ‘To say thank you for coming with me.’

‘I should thank you .’ I peek inside and pull out a leather-bound notebook.

It’s been dip-dyed. The top is pale turquoise, and the colour gets richer and deeper towards the bottom.

The leather is smooth as I run my palm over it.

I unravel the leather tie and flip the pages.

There are no lines on the paper – it’s a sketchbook.

‘Do you like it?’ His eyes glint with expectation.

‘It’s lovely.’ I close it and refasten the tie. ‘Thank you.’

‘Maybe you could start keeping a sketchbook again…’

‘Maybe.’ But I can’t go there, not even in my head.

At four o’clock, we go to the meeting room as planned. I’m sick with nerves. Pierre is waiting beside a stack of huge cardboard boxes.

‘Shall we?’ he asks.

We unpack the boxes. Inside, encased in bubble wrap, are the giant baubles I designed.

When we visited the workshop last week, I made some last-minute adjustments to the design and came up with the idea of a set of steps, disguised as a pile of Christmas presents, for smaller children to reach the viewing hole.

‘These will look spectacular hanging in the lobby,’ gushes Pierre.

Scott and I hold up the larger bauble for Pierre to peer into the viewing hole where the miniature violins and saxophones dangle inside.

‘Magical!’ he says.

Scott can’t stop grinning as we pack everything away until the installers arrive in the morning.

‘Come with me,’ says Pierre, ‘there are some things I want to show you.’

He takes us back to the atrium and stops in front of a bronze sculpture of a giant bunny.

‘What do you think?’ he asks me.

‘Is it Miffy? My daughter loved those books when she was small.’

Pierre laughs. ‘Yes, some guests call it “Scary Miffy”. Its proper name is Under My Skin by Dutch artist Raphael Hermans. Are you familiar with his work?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I must look him up.’

Pierre takes us on a tour of the entire hotel, stopping at all the various artworks around the building. He asks for my thoughts on each of them and by the end, I’m struggling to come up with anything intelligent to say.

Finally, he leads us back to the atrium, past Scary Miffy, and pauses by a staircase leading down to the spa in the basement. We stand before a bare brick wall. Scott and I exchange glances.

‘We need something here, no?’ Pierre looks at me like I’m the font of all art knowledge.

‘There’s certainly space here,’ I say.

‘Something like your feathery piece would look fabulous here. Do you have time to take on a new commission?’ asks Pierre.

My brain appears to be malfunctioning. I have no words.

‘You’re tied up with commissions until September, aren’t you, Emily?’ says Scott. ‘But perhaps after that?’

‘We only have a small budget for this,’ says Pierre. ‘Around ten thousand euros.’ He reads my hesitation as reluctance. ‘I could push it to twelve if I take some budget from next year?’

‘That could work, couldn’t it, Emily?’ Scott nudges.

‘I––’

‘You don’t need to commit now. Think about it and let me know if it’s something you would consider.’

As I stand in that glorious atrium, counting the eight storeys of brickwork up to the glass ceiling, I feel woozy. But gradually shapes and colours appear in my mind, snaking up the wall like a tree sprouting branches and leaves.

And the fear is tinged with excitement.