We all gasp in shock, and Beginner gives a little terrified cry.
“Awesome!” shouts Black Belt encouragingly as Dutch lands. “Nice technique, man.”
“Thanks,” says Dutch, panting slightly.
“Dutch!” Farida leaps up from her seat and puts a hand on his shoulder before he can perform any more maneuvers. “Dutch. That was very convincing. However, this is a writing group. Not a martial-arts group.”
“Right.” Dutch seems to come to. “Sorry. I lost it for a moment.”
“Please don’t worry,” Farida reassures him. “You found a form of expression, and that’s a start. Clearly you were expressing powerful emotions?”
“Yes,” says Dutch after a pause. “It was frustrating. I felt it.” He bangs his chest. “Just…couldn’t find the words.”
“Indeed.” Farida nods. “The plight of the writer in a nutshell. But, please, no more kickboxing. Although I do applaud your vivid portrayal of antagonism. We’re here to write romantic fiction.” She addresses the group. “And love is closer to hate than any other—”
“Romantic fiction?” Black Belt interrupts her, his face convulsed with horror. “Romantic? They said ‘Writing.’ They didn’t say anything about ‘romantic.’ ”
“Of course, you don’t have to write romantic fiction—” begins Farida, but Black Belt ignores her.
“I’m outta here. Sorry.” He gets to his feet. “This isn’t my bag. Jeez.”
“It’s not my bag either,” says Lyric, standing up and glaring around generally, as though it’s all our faults. “It’s super-weird and I want a refund.”
She’s going? Yesss!
Angels are singing hallelujah in my head. She’s leaving!
“Shame,” I say in the most regretful tone I can muster.
“You coming?” says Black Belt to Dutch, and Lyric turns to him expectantly too. The singing angels dwindle away inside my head, and my throat clenches in fear. He can’t leave. He mustn’t.
Don’t go, I silently beg him. Please don’t go.
I feel as if the whole retreat will be ruined if he goes. Or even my whole life. Which is ridiculous—I only just met him. But that’s how I feel.
“I think I’ll stay,” says Dutch at last, and I breathe out, trying not to give away how relieved I am.
* * *
—
Supper is around a long wooden table in a paved garden filled with massive terra-cotta pots of agapanthus and herbs and spiky cactuses. There are huge candles everywhere and painted pottery plates, and the waiters pour wine into short stubby glasses. Apparently the meditation group are having supper in a different courtyard. So that we don’t pollute their meditation, I guess.
I’m at the end of the table, sitting next to Metaphor and Scribe. I tried to sit next to Dutch, but somehow he got swept to the other end, which was incredibly frustrating.
“This place is so inspiring, don’t you think?” says Scribe, clinking her wineglass with mine. We’ve all changed into indigo linen kurta pajamas for the evening, and I must say, hers are very flattering. “My mind is absolutely humming with ideas for my book. Is yours?”
“Er…” I take a sip of wine, playing for time. The truth is, I haven’t given my book a thought. I’m obsessed with Dutch.
He’s so handsome. Self-deprecating, but confident too. And he’s good with his hands. A few moments ago, it transpired that the massive wooden pepper grinder didn’t work. Booklover wanted to tell a waiter, but Dutch said, “Let me try.” Now he’s taken the whole thing to bits and is staring at the mechanism intently, ignoring the conversation around him.
“During the break, I entirely replotted my story,” Scribe tells me. “And it’s only day one!”
“Great!” I applaud her, suddenly feeling guilty. I’ve neglected Chester and Clara (I’ve renamed her). I should focus on my task. Am I here to write a book or find a man?
Man! yells my brain before I can stop it, and I splutter my wine.
“I’m finding inspiration in everything,” Metaphor announces grandly. “Look at these dishes. Look at the sky. Look at the shadows in the garden.”
A waiter puts a bowl of bean broth flecked with green herbs in front of each of us, and Scribe says happily, “Mmm, yum.”
“I love the way the broad beans rest in their broth,” says Metaphor, “looking so contented. As though they’ve finally found home. La casa. A spiritual rest.”
They what? Broad beans have found spiritual rest? I catch Scribe’s eye and quell a giggle.
“I must write that down,” adds Metaphor. “I may use it.” She shoots each of us suspicious looks, as though we’re planning to pinch her idea.
“Good idea,” says Scribe blandly.
At the other end of the table, there’s a conversation going