Page 95 of Short Stack 3

The heat feels fantastic, and I look around with interest as we remove our coats. Tall glass windows show the street outside, but inside, it’s like going back in time. The café is wood-panelled with a beamed ceiling, and old Dutch advertising posters line the walls. The dim lighting makes it feel cosy, and the furniture looks old and comfortable. In one corner is the bar, which is made of polished wood, and the bottles behind it gleam in the low light. Stools topped in green leather flank the bar, and I notice a statue of three bronze monkeys grinning at me.

Tom leads me to a table tucked in the corner. “This okay?” he asks.

I nod, grabbing my camera. “It’s amazing.”

Pleasure lights his pretty eyes. “I knew you’d like it. I’ll go and grab some drinks while you take pictures.”

I watch him walk towards the bar, his stride easy and fluid. He’s wearing jeans that cling to his arse and a black jumper that shows off those broad shoulders of his. I snap a photo of himleaning on the bar talking and then wander the café. There are only a few customers — two sets of couples and a group of older people talking in American accents. I nod and smile at them and start to snap pictures.

A wooden staircase that goes nowhere — as it abruptly ends at the ceiling — earns a photo, and then I gaze along the shelves lining the room. Interesting bric-a-brac with old bottles and jars are crammed on them, and I notice the preponderance of monkeys amongst the ephemera. There are numerous little monkey statues, and monkeys feature heavily in the artwork. I savour the sound of my camera clicking away.

Tom comes back, and I snap another of him, catching the wavy brown hair and the strong face I think I could spend the rest of my life looking at and loving.

“What have you got?” I ask as I sit down at the little table. He unloads a plate of cheese and two small, tulip-shaped glasses filled to the brim with a clear liquid.

“Jenever. It’s the Dutch version of gin.”

I take a sip and taste the spicy juniper. “Wow, that’s potent,” I say, coughing.

He chuckles. “Shame we didn’t have this when Steven was here.”

I roll my eyes. “He doesn’t improve with distance, does he?”

“He’s a narcissist. They don’t tend to.”

I frown. “I hope he doesn’t cause trouble for Jack.”

“Nah. You know Jack. If it’s finished for him, he’s done. The fact that it lasted as long as it did is a testament to Steven being in another country for most of their relationship.”

I consider this. Should I tell him I saw Jack and Arlo embracing at the museum? I speak to him about everything, but something tells me to let this play out and not involve Tom. I’m sure Jack and Arlo are worried about Tom’s reactions, but they don’t need to be. I know my boyfriend, and he’s incrediblyloyal and protective to the people he considers family, and that includes his friends. If Jack is serious about Arlo, and I know he is, then Tom will be fine. He’s the most loving man I know. I kiss him on impulse, tasting the juniper on his lips.

“What was that for?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

“Can a boy not kiss the man he loves?”

He smiles and kisses me. “Absolutely.”

He sits back and pushes the cheese to me. “Eat some of that. The jenever is strong. I don’t think it’s traditionally served with food, but the Dutch must be a hardy race in that case because they’ll be rolling us out of here.”

“How long have we got before we meet them at Westergas?” I love being with our friends, but I also treasure the times when it’s just us.

He checks his watch. “We’ve got a couple of hours. I said we’d meet them there, so we can wander after this, and you can take more photos.”

“I love being with you,” I say fiercely.

He squeezes my hand. “Same, babe.” The simple honesty in his voice makes me feel warm all the way through.

“Okay, tell me about this place and the monkeys,” I demand. “I’m intrigued.”

He leans closer. “The place dates back to the sixteenth century. It was an inn where sailors could stay the night. Legend says if they couldn’t pay their bar bill and their lodgings, they would give the owner the monkeys they’d brought back from their overseas voyages.”

I gape at him. “Really? What did the owner do with the monkeys?”

“I knew you’d be worried about that,” he says affectionately. “A bar regular had some land, so he took them and kept them on his grounds, and that place became the Artis Royal Zoo.” He pauses, his eyes twinkling. “Or so the story goes.”

“It’s not true?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? It’s not unusual for landlords to make up stories to get customers in. Are you disappointed?”

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