Литагент HarperCollins - The Reunion

People are talking about me. I can tell from the silence that descends when I enter the department with the letters book, from the quick glances people give me, and the guilty faces. I pull a requisitions form towards me and fill in scissors, hole punches and paperclips. I keep an eye on the clock. Do the hands sometimes stop?

A deep voice breaks the silence of the office. ‘Has somebody here got a problem?’

I swivel my chair and see a body that’s six feet four, a handsome face crowned with thick, blond hair, a broad smile.

‘If it isn’t Sabine!’ He perches on the edge of my desk. ‘I thought it was you yesterday. You don’t recognise me do you?’

‘Oh, yes, aren’t you…I mean…’

My colleagues are looking at me with a mixture of amazement and envy.

‘Olaf,’ he says. ‘Olaf van Oirschot, you know, Robin’s friend.’

The haze in my brain begins to clear. I take a deep breath of relief. Lanky Olaf, a friend of my brother’s. When we were both at secondary school, Robin hung out with a group of idiots who were more interested in practical jokes than their exam results.

‘Now you remember,’ he says, pleased.

I lean towards him to get a better look.

‘Weren’t you the one who pretended to be blind in that cafÉ?’

Olaf laughs, looks embarrassed. ‘What can I say? We were young. We’ve made up for it now.’

Close by, RenÉe has discovered something urgent in the overflowing in-tray, which she usually ignores. She turns to Olaf as if she’s only just noticed that he’s here, and says, ‘Oh, Olaf, I’ve got a bit of a problem with my computer. When I save something, I get all these strange messages. Would you mind taking a look?’ As she speaks she guides Olaf towards her desk.

Olaf turns back towards me, ‘See you later, Sabine.’

I try to concentrate on the order forms. It doesn’t work. The unexpected confrontation with a period of my past I’d long since put behind me has left me reeling. And apart from that, I can’t get over the fact that Olaf has become so good-looking.

When I finally leave at half-past twelve, we bump into each other in the lift.

‘Are you off to lunch too?’ Olaf asks.

‘No, I’m going home.’

‘Even better!’

‘I only work half days.’ I find myself compelled to explain.

‘So do I mainly, even though I’m here for the whole day,’ Olaf says.

Arms folded, he leans against the side with the mirrors and checks me out without any sign of embarrassment. The lift feels smaller by the second.

I lean against my side of the lift, my arms also folded but I can’t keep my eyes still. I laugh at Olaf’s joke, but my laugh sounds nervous to me. Don’t act like a teenager Sabine, I tell myself. This is Olaf, you know him.

But it doesn’t feel like that. Not now that he’s looking at me in that way. I try to think of something natural to say. ‘You haven’t worked here for that long have you? I mean, I haven’t seen you here before.’

‘A few months.’ His eyes wander shamelessly from my legs to my breasts. The appreciation in his expression flusters me.

‘I’ve been off sick for quite a while. A burn-out.’ I explain. Depression suddenly sounds so neurotic.

Olaf makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Were you out of circulation for long?’

‘Quite a while.’

‘And now you’re easing back into it.’

I nod. Then there’s a silence while we look at each other. Why do I find him so attractive? His features are too angular and irregular to really be called handsome. His blue eyes are too pale to contrast with his blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. His hair is thick but messy, the sort that never looks neat. He’s changed. And he seems just as surprised by my appearance, even though I don’t think I’ve changed much. I’ve still got my straight, light brown hair, I barely use any make-up, just a bit of kohl and mascara, and my taste in clothes isn’t really any different. But Olaf’s looking at me like I’m gorgeous, which is nonsense, of course. He’s probably winding me up.

‘What a coincidence, meeting again like this,’ Olaf says. ‘On the other hand, everyone seems to have moved to Amsterdam. Sooner or later you bump into everyone. Tell you what, do you really want to go home or shall we have lunch together?’

I look at him alarmed. Have lunch together? His eyes glued to my face while I lift my fork to my lips with trembling hands?

‘Sorry, I have to head off. Another time perhaps.’

The lift stops and the doors open. RenÉe and some other colleagues are getting out of the other lift.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Olaf says. ‘You have to eat, don’t you? We can do that just as easily together.’

RenÉe looks from me to Olaf with a glimmer of disbelief.

‘Why not then. I’d like to catch up,’ I say.

We walk into the canteen together as if we’d remained in touch all those years.

‘I’m going to go for the bread roll with a meat croquette,’ Olaf says. ‘You too?’

‘Alright.’ Over the past year I’ve put on five kilos from the Prozac and from comfort-eating chocolate. One croquette isn’t going to make a difference.

We pick a table near to where RenÉe and her cronies have set up. They arrange themselves so that they can keep an eye on me.

I try to relax and smile at Olaf.

‘Did you read about the school reunion?’ He spreads a layer of mustard onto his croquette.

I nod and cut my roll into smaller pieces. There’s no way I’m going to try to eat this whole thing with my hands.

‘Are you going to go?’ Olaf asks.

I think about the school grounds during the breaks, the little groups dotted around it, the wall I used to lean against, on my own.

‘No way.’ I take a bite.

Olaf laughs. ‘I don’t really feel like it either.’ He mashes his croquette onto his bread. ‘If I’d wanted to stay in touch with somebody I would have. But still, we haven’t seen each other for years and it is good to see you again.’

I still don’t quite feel comfortable with him. Each time he looks at me, I become even more conscious of my limp hair, my tired, pale face and the sweat patches on my jumper.

Just then Olaf attacks his sandwich like a buzzard after prey. He eats with perceptible and audible pleasure. I don’t usually like men who let you see exactly how they chew their food. But in this case I’m filled with relief and renewed confidence. Sweat patches might be nasty but lumps of croquette falling out of your mouth are worse.

Olaf doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by it. He picks up the pieces again with his fork and puts them back into his mouth. He hasn’t yet swallowed them when he begins to talk again. ‘If you change your mind, tell me. We could drive together. By the way, how is Robin these days?’

‘Good. He’s living in England.’ I’m relieved that we’ve dropped the subject of school.

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘He also works in IT,’ I say.

‘In what sort of company?’ Olaf asks.

‘Clothing,’ I say. ‘Men’s fashion.’

‘And he’s going to stay there? Or is it just temporary?’

‘I hope it’s only temporary,’ I say. ‘If he emigrates as well…My parents already live in Spain, you know. Robin and I both lived and worked in Amsterdam but then his company decided to set up a new branch. Once it’s off the ground he’ll come back, I hope.’

‘The two of you were always close, I remember that.’ Olaf takes such a huge bite of his roll that I look away as a precaution. I only look at him again when it’s obvious that the mouthful has been safely disposed of. He wipes the remains from around his mouth and rinses the rest away with a gulp of coffee.