Anyway, when I told her about the second incident, over a hot chocolate the morning after it happened, she got serious.
‘Would you like me to write it up? He should not be making indecent proposals like that to you, Cassie. That’s sexual harassment. Bloody pervert.’
‘I know. He had the cheek to say I’d been leading him on. Called me a prick-tease.’
‘Seriously? That’s so out of order. And how gross that he even thought he had a chance. He must be twice your age! What is it about these old rich guys? They think their money can buy them anything they want.’
‘I know. All I did was smile at him, like I do to all the guests.’
I told Angela to drop the matter, seeing as he hadn’t actually put his hands on me and he’d left me alone afterwards.
That sounds so weak and pathetic in the context of modern times, I realise. Looking back, I should have made an official complaint. However, things were different in those days. Men used to get away with all sorts of unwanted behaviour towards women, because it wasn’t taken half as seriously as it is now. I can only hope that neither of those men who harassed me went on to do anything more serious to anyone else. That’s the point. In letting them get away with it, I enabled them to continue acting like pigs going forward, potentially with women less able to stand up for themselves than I was.
‘Are you sure?’ Angela asked, looking me in the eye. ‘Because, trust me, I’d be very happy to—’
‘I’m sure. It’s fine. Nothing I couldn’t handle.’
‘Would you like me to have a stern word with him at least? Or maybe with his wife?’
‘Tempting, but no, thanks. I’d rather put it behind me.’
‘Okay. I’m just sorry you had to go through that. If you change your mind, you know where I am.’
Angela was a great friend as well as a brilliant boss. So when she told me she would be returning to the South of France again that summer, in the same role as the previous year, a part of me was tempted to join her.
‘I was thinking you could be my deputy,’ she said, ‘running the show when I’m not around. There would be a decent pay bump, and it would be a good stepping stone for you towards becoming a manager. I think you’d be great.’
‘I’m flattered, but it’s time for me to do something different – see somewhere else. The traveller in me is getting itchy feet.’
Angela’s face fell for an instant before she regained her composure. ‘That’s a shame. Please tell me it’s nothing to do with—’
‘Absolutely not. I promise. I wouldn’t let that idiot man affect my life like that. This is about my needs and desires, full stop.’
‘I’m disappointed, but I respect your decision, Cassie. Where are you planning to go instead?’
‘Amsterdam.’
CHAPTER 23
The Netherlands was a country I’d always fancied visiting. Originally, when I was a teenager clinging on to my battered old atlas and dreaming of a foreign future, this was largely due to it being nice and close to the UK. Cheap and quick to get to, in other words.
However, I think it was also inspired by a group of Dutch kids that came to visit my school once, touring our country as part of an award-winning youth orchestra. They performed for everyone at school and were put up for the night by selected pupils’ families.
I’m not entirely sure why their brief visit stuck in my mind. None of them stayed with me, for obvious reasons, and I barely even spoke to any of them, despite being around the same age. It struck me how healthy and happy they all looked in their jeans and colourful T-shirts. Every single one of them, as I remember it, looked confident, content in their own skin. They all spoke fluent English and sounded amazing when they played together. I remember hearing one of them – this tall, handsome, fresh-faced boy with dark blond hair in curtains – remark about how pupils didn’t have to wear a uniform in their country.
‘I can’t believe you all have to dress in a jacket and tie,’ he said with an almost American-sounding twang. ‘Isn’t it hot and uncomfortable?’
I’d never considered the possibility of not having to wear a school uniform before that and, although I’m sure it’s also the case in lots of other countries, at the time I imagined it was unique to the Netherlands. Combined with everything I saw of those chilled-out, talented youngsters, it led to me idealising the country as a wonderfully calm and civilised place.
Amazingly, that wasn’t far off the mark, as I eventually found out when I headed there after Alpe d’Huez. With Angela’s encouragement, I’d contacted one of our fellow reps from Fréjus from the previous summer – a Dutch woman in her early twenties called Bianca. She’d worked for a different travel company, a small Dutch operator, but I’d got to know her well, nonetheless, since we all socialised together. It hadn’t occurred to me to contact her before heading to Amsterdam, not knowing where she lived in the country, or indeed if she had even gone back there. However, Angela revealed that she’d been in recent contact with Bianca, having approached her to return to the South of France and work for her this year. Consequently, she knew that Bianca was settled in the capital city and working as a duty-free sales assistant at Schiphol, the Netherlands’ huge main airport.
‘She also turned down my job offer,’ Angela had said to me with an exaggerated sad face. ‘I must be losing my touch. It’s enough to make a person paranoid.’ Winking, she added: ‘My loss is Amsterdam’s gain, twice.’
I took my time travelling up to the Netherlands, stopping off in the French cities of Lyon and Strasbourg, then Luxembourg, followed by Brussels, Bruges and Antwerp in Belgium. Lastly, determined to see more than just Amsterdam while in the Netherlands, I took advantage of the short distances and fast rail connections between towns and cities there, dropping in on Eindhoven, Arnhem, Utrecht and The Hague before arriving at my destination.
Bianca was waiting for me amid the hustle and bustle of busy Amsterdam Central Station with rosy cheeks, long legs and a huge smile. ‘Your hair! It makes you look so different,’ I said after we’d greeted each other with the three cheek kisses I knew were customary in Holland.
Last time we’d been together her hair had been long with blonde streaks from the sun. Now it was light brown and in a short pixie cut. ‘It really suits you,’ I added. ‘You look lovely.’ I’m not sure I’d have recognised her if she hadn’t waved at me and called my name to get my attention. Other than the hair, she was also much paler than I remembered, her rep’s tan long since faded away.
‘Thanks so much for letting me come to stay with you,’ I said. ‘It won’t be for long, I promise. I am hoping to hang around for a bit, if I can find a job, but I don’t expect you to put me up for more than a day or two.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said in the same near-perfect English that nearly every Dutch person I’d encountered so far seemed to speak. ‘Stay as long as you like. I have plenty of space; I’ll be glad of the company.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ I said, taken aback and assuming she was exaggerating and being polite. Mind you, that wasn’t typical of the Bianca I knew from the Côte d’Azur. She was very much the kind of person who spoke their mind, saying things as they were rather than standing on ceremony. ‘How far away do you live?’
‘Oh, it’s close. Five minutes by bike, maybe less. Would you like to get a coffee here, or shall we go straight back?’
I opted for the latter, since I was feeling tired and had all my belongings with me.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Bianca asked, pointing at my backpack.
‘Um, yeah, that’s it.’ Travelling light had become second nature to me by that point. I found it liberating rather than restricting. I’d accumulated a few odds and ends during my period in the Alps, as I had before that in Fréjus, but before leaving, I’d ditched everything unnecessary to my onward journey.
‘I should be able to carry you with me on the bike,’ she said.
‘Right. So you actually came here by bicycle
?’
‘Of course.’ She flashed me a puzzled look, like she could barely understand the question.
When I saw the countless bikes shoved into row upon row of racks a short stroll from the station, her comment made more sense. I’d seen a similar state of affairs outside other Dutch railway stations on my journey here – but not to this extent. I don’t think I’d ever seen so many bicycles gathered in one place before.
‘How do you even know which is yours?’ I asked Bianca as she strode off ahead of me.
‘Oh, it’s easy once you get the hang of it,’ she replied without looking back.
‘I’ll take your word for that.’
‘Careful!’ she warned me a minute later after I was nearly mowed down by another bell-ringing cyclist while Bianca was busy unlocking her bike.
‘Hop on,’ she said once perched on the traditional, high-seated and rather decrepit-looking two-wheeler.
I stared blankly at her. ‘Sorry, where?’
‘On the back,’ she said, twisting around and nodding at a small rectangular metal bag rack fixed over the rear wheel.
‘Really? Are you sure it’ll hold the weight of me and my bag? I could always walk alongside you instead, if you don’t go too fast.’
‘No, come on, Cassie. Don’t be a wuss. We do this all the time here. You’ll be fine.’
‘If you say so.’ Still hesitant, I started to straddle the rack, one leg on either side, until the sound of Bianca’s laughter made me stop.
‘Not like this?’
‘No, silly. You should sit sideways on it, like the posh ladies used to do on horses. It won’t be comfortable otherwise. And you might be better holding your backpack on your lap rather than wearing it.’
‘You’re the boss.’ I took her instruction and, next thing, we were off at a surprisingly fast pace, giving me quite the bumpy, white-knuckle ride among various other cyclists and pedestrians. At least we were separated from the cars, trams and so on for the most part, thanks to a series of cycle lanes. It definitely wasn’t very comfortable; I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth for much of the journey, which felt longer than five minutes, but according to my watch was actually just under.
‘Here we are,’ Bianca said, drawing to a halt outside a terraced row of tall, skinny, brown and white canal-side properties. They couldn’t have looked more typically Dutch if they tried. There were a few people around, but they mainly looked like residents rather than tourists. It wasn’t busy at all compared to some of the streets we’d passed through. It was clearly an affluent spot.
‘What a gorgeous neighbourhood,’ I said, mouth agape. ‘It looks like a scene from a postcard.’
‘Nice, eh?’ she replied. ‘Wait until you see inside. It’s my aunt’s home. I’m looking after it while she’s working in Singapore. I’d never be able to afford to live here, otherwise. This is the main reason I turned Angela down when she asked me to return to the South of France. I’ve never had the opportunity to live in central Amsterdam before – especially not somewhere like this.’
She walked up to a big, solid wooden door and opened it to reveal a long hallway with a steep flight of stairs at the end. After wheeling her bicycle into the narrow space and leaving it there, she led the way up to the duplex apartment, which was on the top two floors of the building.
The stairs were even steeper than I thought, not far removed from a ladder, with twists and turns on the way to keep things interesting. Bianca, having first grabbed my bag to save me the effort, bless her, shot up with practised ease.
‘Wow, that’s quite a flight of stairs,’ I said on catching her up. ‘How on earth do you get large things in here, like washing machines, beds and stuff?’
‘Ah, now that’s interesting,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure if you noticed, but there’s a big hook at the top of many of the buildings here. That’s for, um … what’s the word? Pulling up with a rope?’
‘Winching?’ I offered.
‘Yes, that sounds right. Winching things up on the outside and in through the windows, which are nice and big, so also plenty of daylight. A lot of the buildings lean forward a little. Did you notice?’
‘No, I wasn’t really looking at that on the way here.’
‘Anyway, this leaning is often mistaken by tourists for, er, how do you call it: movement in the ground?’
‘Subsidence?’
‘Yes. That definitely can be a problem here in the Netherlands, but it’s not the reason for this leaning, which is deliberate. This is so that when things are pulled up on the outside, they don’t swing into the building and damage the bricks and such.’
It didn’t take me long to fall in love with Amsterdam. The process began as Bianca showed me around the gorgeous apartment, which was surprisingly spacious and airy, with amazing views over the canal and beyond from the living area and master bedroom. The first floor contained a large open-plan lounge and high-spec kitchen. It was all wooden floors, clean white walls and what I’d probably describe as cosy minimalism – functional without being clinical. A couple of large modernist-style paintings adorned the walls and there was a big, well-filled bookcase next to the sofa, but little in terms of clutter. I adored the place, including the simple but very comfortable guest bedroom that Bianca told me was all mine.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘And seriously, stay as long as you want. It’s wonderful to see you, Cassie. Now, how about some good Dutch coffee and a tasty treat while we catch up?’
‘That sounds lovely.’
‘Have you ever heard of tompouce?’
As a Netherlands newbie, I hadn’t. But it was something I had a lot more of while I was there: an iconic, delicious Dutch take on the vanilla slice, with sweet yellow pastry cream sandwiched by two layers of puff pastry, topped with pink icing.
I stayed with Bianca for the whole time I was in Amsterdam – nearly a year as it turned out. It was longer than I’d intended, but it was so nice, I couldn’t help myself. It was rent-free too, amazingly. Bianca refused to charge me anything, since she wasn’t being charged by her aunt. All I had to contribute was my share of the supermarket shopping and utility bills.
It was news of her aunt’s imminent return from Singapore that was the eventual catalyst for my departure. I knew nowhere else would be able to live up to that amazing apartment, where the two of us had made such wonderful memories. Plus Bianca had found a serious boyfriend by that point and, although she mentioned the possibility of us looking for somewhere else to live together in Amsterdam, I could tell her heart wasn’t in the suggestion. Sure enough, soon after I left, she moved in with Jeroen and they got married a couple of years later. They have two daughters. We’re still in touch. I stayed with them on a trip to Amsterdam about a year ago.
Funnily enough, they met through me. For most of the time I was there, I worked at a bar close to Rembrandtplein, which is right in the buzzing heart of Amsterdam.
It’s one of the city’s major squares, named after the famous Dutch painter, and always a lively hub of activity, particularly at night, thanks to the many nearby shops, bars, clubs and restaurants.
I was waiting tables, inside the bar and on the large terrace outside. It was a lot of fun, for the most part, other than the regular late nights and sore lower limbs I experienced from being on my feet for hours on end.
Originally, Bianca had tried to get me a job working alongside her at the airport. But that hadn’t worked out due to the fact I didn’t speak Dutch. Luckily, this wasn’t a problem at the bar, since a large proportion of the customers were foreign tourists and the owner, Frits, loved Brits. Plus I’d done bar work previously in the UK. And my skill for picking up languages paid off again, as I soon managed to learn enough Dutch to have a basic conversation.
I went out with a Dutch law student called Joost for a few months. He lived near the bar and often drank there. Jeroen was a friend of his, who I introduced to Bianca. And while Joost and I fizzled out, their relationship went from strength
to strength.
It’s funny. When I left the Netherlands, I told myself that perhaps it would be a good place to return to one day when I was ready to settle down. I felt really at home there. The Dutch are generally so practical, friendly and relaxed. They combine good sense with good humour. Also, you don’t see the same kind of class divide or social snobbery that you do here and in so many other countries. It’s refreshing.
Maybe I’ll end up retiring to a houseboat there one day. Who knows?
CHAPTER 24
‘Do a lot of people live on houseboats in the Netherlands?’ Rose asks after Cassie pauses her monologue, draining the remnants of her wine prior to pouring them both some more.
‘What’s a lot?’ Cassie replies. ‘It’s not that common. Most people live in apartments and houses, but you definitely do see houseboats, particularly in the towns and cities with canals running through them, like Amsterdam, Haarlem and Utrecht.
‘They’re probably not very practical in reality, but there’s something romantic about living on one, I’ve always thought. Not that you have to be in the Netherlands to do so. People live on barges in the UK too, of course. But I’ve never seen as many in one place as when I was in Amsterdam.
‘I have such fond memories of living there; the hundreds of colourful houseboats, of various shapes and sizes, were a key part of the backdrop. Ever since, I can’t see any kind of canal boat without having flashbacks to that time.’
Biting her lip, Rose replies: ‘I’ve never been to Amsterdam. Ryan often suggests we should go on a trip there, but I always say no, on the grounds that it’s probably full of stoners and sex tourists. After everything you’ve said, I feel a bit stupid.’
‘Plenty of potheads do go there for the coffee shops,’ Cassie says. ‘Especially from the UK. As for the famous red-light district, it’s self-contained and you can easily avoid it. Amsterdam has an enormous amount to offer in terms of culture, food and drink, shopping, you name it. The rest of the country is wonderful too – and less touristy.’
The Daughter's Choice Page 17
