The Reunion. Литагент HarperCollins USD

      ‘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.