Page 156 of When We Were Young

‘I swear. We didn’t do anything. I’m not acompletescumbag – I love her!’ he blurted.

She laughed. ‘Don’t give me that shit!’

‘I do! I have for years! She’s the reason I took this course. The reason I organised this flat share.’

Miranda’s smirk disappeared. ‘Oh, my God. You do, don’t you?’

He rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Yeah.’

She shook her head. ‘You delusional bastard. You know she’ll never love you back, don’t you?’

‘Why not?’ he asked, but he knew the answer.

‘I want to go home,’ Emily’s voice came from behind him.

She was standing in his doorway wearing one of his t-shirts, more beautiful than ever despite the tousled hair and hollow cheeks.

And in that moment he knew Miranda was right.

Chapter 74

July 2016

Emily

Scott is building up to something. I can tell by the way he’s rotating the paper coffee cup around on my kitchen table. He’s invited himself over and brought lattes with him, a sure sign he’s buttering me up. Maybe things have progressed with Katya; maybe he’s here to tell me they’re getting married.

I can’t wait any longer. ‘Okay, spit it out.’

‘I have a favour to ask.’ He lifts his eyes from the cup. ‘I wouldn’t ask you this if I wasn’t desperate.’

Shit, this sounds serious. ‘What is it?’

‘I need you to come to Amsterdam.’

I can’t hide how that last word makes me flinch and his eyes flash with concern.

‘The general manager of the hotel wants to meet you.’

‘Why on earth do they want to meet me?’

‘He wants to meet the artist I’ve been raving about. He’s really into his art, Em. He’s much more involved with this project than anything else we’ve done for him. It’s only three nights.’ He bites his lip, eyebrows high.

‘I can’t go to Amsterdam for three nights, Scott. I have to work.’

‘Can’t Magda cover for you? We’ve got the meeting the first day, then it’s the installation, then the photoshoot. He’spaying for an artist. He’ll be pissed off if the artist isn’t there for the installation.’

I sigh. ‘What about Liv?’

‘She’s old enough to look after herself now.’ He sees the worry in my face. ‘Or she could stay with your parents?’

I’ve always wanted to return to Amsterdam since visiting briefly with Will on tour. I’d been disappointed there wasn’t time to explore the museums and galleries, which was partly why I chose the city for my residency. But I abandoned that dream long ago. Going there now could dredge up past regrets. I’m not sure I can handle it.

Scott’s tone is gentle. ‘I understand if it’s too much…’

Europe flashes by as we travel business class to Amsterdam on the train. I look the part in an elegant navy dress with a berry red cross-body bag. We read magazines; we chat. They serve wine with lunch, and coffee with our pistachio and apricot tartlets. And, just for the journey, I pretend I’m an artist travelling to Amsterdam for a meeting with a client about a commission. And it’s not so bad.

Our taxi drops us at the hotel in the heart of the museum quarter on a street bustling with bicycles and trams. The grand, imposing nineteenth-century exterior hides a sleek modern interior of glass and black steel. The guy at the check-in desk says, ‘Welcome, Mr King. Mr Allemand is expecting you. Please take a seat while I locate him for you.’