this is when we can relax, unmask, introduce ourselves, and say our good-byes.
As I get down from the minibus, I’m feeling huge pangs, because I’ve loved it here. The sunshine, the food, the writing, the people…I’ll even miss Metaphor. Nearby, Austen, Scribe, and Author-to-Be are already talking about booking next year, and I don’t blame them.
Giuseppe is unloading a massive hamper from the minibus, and some others are carrying blankets. I’m about to go and help when Author-to-Be comes up, brandishing a piece of paper at me. “Aria! Have you entered the competition?”
“Competition?” I blink at him.
“Guess the name. Two people have got you down as Clover.”
“Clover?” I take the paper from him and look down, starting to laugh. There are seven guesses against my name and all of them are wrong.
After a bit of thought, I fill in my own guesses. It’s so random and silly, but I do feel like Author-to-Be might be Derek, and Kirk might be Sean.
“Well done.” Author-to-Be takes back the paper. “Now let’s get some drinks poured and we can have the big reveal!”
“Actually…” I put a hand on his arm. “Dutch and I aren’t revealing our names yet. We want to leave it until we absolutely have to.”
This was my idea. We’re not leaving till tomorrow morning. We’re in paradise right now. Once we reveal our names, the whole cascade of information will come out…and what’s the benefit? Why burst our precious bubble any earlier than we have to?
“Fair enough.” Author-to-Be twinkles at me. “I’m not above a bit of role play myself.”
I stare at him in indignation. Role play? This isn’t role play—it’s real, connected love! I’m about to tell him so, but he’s already heading over to where the group is sitting on amazing embroidered blankets (available for sale at the gift shop).
I gaze at the scene for a moment, wanting it to last forever. There’s prosecco going round and plates of cured meats and Farida is laughing at something and the sunlight is dappled through the olive trees and it’s just idyllic.
Dutch is chatting to Giuseppe as they carry the last hamper together. He winks at me, then comes to join me, and we find a place on one of the rugs together. I sip my prosecco while Beginner proposes a toast to Farida, whereupon Farida makes a nice speech about what a particularly charming and talented group we are. (I’m sure she says that every week.)
Then Author-to-Be tinkles a fork in his glass. “Attention! Time for the big identity reveal! I will now read out all the names that you think I might be. Derek. Keith. James. Simon. Desmond. Raymond. John. Robert. And the truth is…” He pauses for effect. “I’m Richard! And I’m a geography teacher from Norwich.”
Everyone bursts into applause and whooping, while Richard beams around, then says, “Next up…Scribe!” He passes the paper along to her while Kirk calls out, “Wait! Scribe, can I change my mind? I think you’re called Margot.”
Scribe isn’t called Margot but Felicity, and she’s a stay-at-home housewife. Metaphor is called Anna and works in London in HR. Kirk is called Aaron and is doing a postdoctorate in computer science. Beginner is called Eithne and has eleven grandchildren! It’s actually really fun, hearing everyone reveal their true identities, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if we should join in….But, then, don’t the best things come to those who wait?
And anyway, the truth is, I have a fair idea about Dutch already. I’m pretty intuitive. Not psychic, exactly, but…I pick things up. I have sensitive radar. He’s good with his hands and lit up when I mentioned furniture at the beach. He loves design and he once let a comment slip about being in “the workshop,” so, putting that all together, I think he’s a carpenter. He probably makes beautiful marquetry or something like that, and I think he might work with his dad.
He also has a name with foreign origins. He blurted that out by mistake two nights ago. And it could be anything, obviously…but the name “Jean-Luc” instantly popped into my brain.
I just have a feeling about it. Jean-Luc. He looks like a Jean-Luc.
Hi, this is Jean-Luc. He’s a carpenter.
Yes. That feels real. It feels like Dutch.
I don’t know where he lives, and that’s a bit scary. But it’s a city and it’s not Australia or New Zealand. (I couldn’t survive without asking him that.) So we’ll make it work. Whether it’s Manchester or Paris or Seattle. We