Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘I’ll give you a call in a bit, Jen. Is that okay?’

  ‘It’ll bloody well have to be. I think I’ll go back to sleep. I was only up ’cos I thought you’d be alone and I felt guilty. If you’re sorted, I’ll have another forty winks!’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Be careful, Imi, and keep your phone on.’

  Imogen returned it to her pocket. ‘That was my friend Jenny. You probably gathered that, she’s got a voice like a fog horn.’

  ‘She’s protective of you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve known her a very long time.’

  ‘It’s good to have friends like that.’ He kicked at the floor, indicating by his forlorn tone of voice that maybe he didn’t.

  Imogen listened to Owen shuffling from foot to foot. ‘What would you like to do now?’ She wanted him to make the decision, wary of coercing him.

  ‘Whatever you’d like. We can go get some food, seek out coffee, another gallery, a canal walk?’

  ‘All good. I’ll leave it up to you!’ Imogen smiled.

  Suddenly Owen clapped loudly, making her jump. ‘I have it, I know exactly where I want to take you!’

  ‘Lead on.’ Imogen slipped her arm through his. This was turning into a very good day indeed.

  *

  They walked along, chatting and listening to each other in the way that two people do when they meet and feel a connection that is hard to describe. There was something new about this for Imogen. Often, when meeting a stranger, conversation was awkward, stilted, as she had so little in common with them and no shared history to fall back on, but with Owen it felt quite the opposite. There was so much to talk about because they knew so little about each other. It was exhilarating.

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, two. One of each, both older. My sister’s married and has two kids and lives in North Carolina and my brother is in the US Air Force, making us all proud, putting on the uniform. He’s away on tour right now.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘I do, yes. And my sister’s kids. They are two of my very favourite people.’

  ‘You sound broody!’ laughed Imogen, thinking how his tone mirrored her own, an insight into her longing to be a mum.

  ‘No, not really. I love them but I can’t have kids of my own... mumps when I was younger... It’s just how it is. I’m kind of reconciled to it.’

  Imogen squeezed his arm at the revelation. She heard the tone beneath his practised words and could decipher the echo of regret.

  ‘What about you, any siblings?’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘No. Just me and about a million cousins! People often ask if it’s lonely being an only child, but our house was always jam packed or else we were at my gran’s, who lives close by, and her house was always packed, so no, not lonely at all.’

  ‘My mum passed away when I was ten so our house has always been kind of quiet. I don’t remember it being busy and full of her laughter, not really, but my dad tells me it was like that once.’

  ‘You must miss her too.’

  ‘Very much. Even now.’

  Imogen heard the catch in his voice. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said quickly.

  ‘No! Not at all. I just don’t really talk about her much and, when I do, it gets me.’ Owen clapped again, a habit of his. Again she jumped. ‘Hey, no time for regret, it’s our anniversary!’

  ‘It is?’ She laughed, a little nervously.

  ‘Yes! I have known you, my new friend, for three hours exactly!’

  ‘Wow! Happy Anniversary.’ She smiled at him. ‘And can I ask, do you kiss all your new friends?’

  ‘Only the pretty ones.’

  ‘Oh, well, lucky me!’ she giggled.

  ‘God, that sounded like I do it often. In fact I have never done that before. I just got caught up in the moment. I hope I didn’t offend you.’

  ‘Offend me? No. As my gran says, a bit of hanky-panky is actually good for you.’

  ‘Hanky-panky? Now that’s something I don’t hear every day!’ Owen chuckled.

  Suddenly Imogen stopped walking, as if concentrating on something that lay ahead. ‘Oh my word!’ She inhaled deeply. ‘That... that is quite possibly the most incredible scent I have ever experienced!’ She breathed deeply, walking on towards the source of it. ‘Oh, Owen!’ She swayed, as if intoxicated.

  He held her arm and guided her forward. ‘I knew you’d like it. Welcome to the world-famous Bloemenmarkt... the Amsterdam Flower Market!’

  *

  They stepped out, Owen holding fast to Imogen’s arm. ‘So the market is here on the Singel Canal and it floats! The stalls are on houseboats,’ he explained.

  ‘That’s amazing!’ Imogen sighed, still quite overcome by the beautiful scent of flowers, whose rain-kissed petals had only benefited from a light touch of drizzle where it fluttered in beneath the canopies.

  ‘It’s an explosion of colour, rainbows in front of my eyes, all shades from hot to cold! Here, it’s a lily.’ Owen let go of her arm and bent forward to pick a pale, long-stemmed lily from a bucket. He held the flower beneath her palm. Imogen let the silky-soft petals brush the underside of her hand. It tickled a little. She raised the flower to her nose and inhaled the peppery, warm scent.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, running her finger along the smooth, pointed outline of a petal.

  ‘Try this one.’ He removed the lily and placed a shorter, stubbier stem in her hand. Imogen ran her hand up the stalk, which was covered in fine hairs that felt a little resistant when she brushed them the wrong way. Her fingers tentatively touched the cluster of long, sharp petals that were almost quill-like. She sniffed her fingers; now slightly sticky with residue, they smelt sweet, sickly, and reminded her of fruit that was spoiling. ‘Ooh, I’m not sure about that one! What is it?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea, but it looks very exotic. Its colour is fiery and I can picture it growing somewhere hot and dusty.’

  Imogen handed it back and wiped her hand on her coat.

  ‘Okay, this one is easy.’ Owen opened her fingers and placed not one, but two slender, twig-like stems in her palm. Imogen ran her fingers over the knotty hubs that held the most delicate, paper-thin, trumpeted petals in a neat row, clinging to one side of the stem. She raised them to her face and took a deep breath. ‘Freesias!’ Their smell was sweet, honey-like and pretty. ‘I love them!’

  ‘They look incredible too, they’re a glorious deep, dark purple, the colour of a bruise or a rolling, thundery sky, and yet despite their darkness, they are delicate and beautiful.’

  Imogen stood still, taking in the majesty of the market. Listening to the happy burble of the visitors who all sounded equally enthralled to be in such a place. It had been a long time since someone had gone to so much trouble just for her.

  ‘Thank you, Owen. Thank you for bringing me here.’

  ‘Oh, my pleasure! It’s quite a sight, I shan’t forget it.’

  She could hear the happiness in his voice.

  Me either...

  As the two of them stood beneath the nearest canopy, rain began to fall again in earnest, pooling in pockets of canvas before falling in a rush, splashing down on the pavement below and sending spray up over their feet.

  ‘Come on!’ Owen gripped Imogen’s arm and hurried her into the street, where a cab had pulled over to drop off a fare. He practically bundled her into the back seat before climbing in beside her and giving the driver the address.

  ‘Where are we going? Should I be worried? Because if you are kidnapping me, I should warn you, you’ll be very unlikely to get much of a ransom and you have clearly never met my friend Jenny, who would beat the shite out of you!’

  ‘I’m not kidnapping you, I just thought we could go back to my hotel.’

  ‘Flippin’ ’eck, that’s a bit forward, isn’t it?’

  ‘No! Oh, god, no! I didn’t mean like that or... for that! No!’

  She heard the
embarrassment in his protestation.

  ‘I... I just thought we could get dry and there’s a nice bar so we could have a drink and maybe some... some soup!’ he stuttered.

  ‘Phew, well, thank goodness for that, Owen. Thank goodness we are going for soup because I’m not that kind of girl.’ Imogen gave a mock tut. ‘Soup sounds good.’

  She felt his thigh muscles unknot with relief as they sat close side by side while the cab trundled across the city.

  ‘I’ve had the best afternoon. Thank you.’ Imogen turned her head towards him.

  ‘Me too, absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘You could be a guide, you know.’ She gave him the best compliment she could think of.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really, you are very considerate and original – who knew that freesias could be the colour of a bruise or thunder, but still smell so sweet!’

  ‘I enjoyed it too. It’s funny, it kind of made me look at the world in a different way, because you can’t. I haven’t had to think about how to describe things before, not in that way. I’m glad I did good.’

  ‘You really did, you have a knack for it.’ She patted his thigh.

  *

  The hotel lobby was a little sterile; the soft carpeting and groups of high-backed sofas meant it could have been any hotel in any city in the world. One of a large chain, it was soulless and efficient. Conversation was conducted at little more than a murmur, the temperature was carefully regulated and there was a tinkle of piano music in the background that Imogen thought might be more appropriate in a lift.

  ‘So,’ Owen removed his heavy coat and placed it over his arm, ‘shall we get a drink?’

  She nodded. ‘That’d be lovely.’

  They wandered to the bar area where foreign visitors sipped glasses of wine or swigged from cold bottled beers and all commented on the lousy weather, as though they had expected the Netherlands in winter to be tropical.

  ‘What would you like?’ whispered Owen close to her face. He was sweating a little; it heightened his natural scent and wasn’t unpleasant.

  ‘Glass of white wine would be great.’ She folded her cane into her handbag.

  ‘Shall we get a bottle?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Why not? We’re on holiday after all, we should do things we wouldn’t normally do at home!’

  Owen clapped again. This time however she didn’t jump. She was getting used to him.

  With two squeaky-clean wine glasses and the opened bottle on a tray, they navigated the tables and sofas, looking for a good place to sit.

  ‘It’s all a bit busy.’ Owen twisted to left and right.

  ‘We could take it to your room?’ Imogen felt bold and scared, all at the same time, her cool delivery masking a pulse that raced nervously.

  ‘Oh! Well, yes, sure, we can if you are comfortable with that...’

  She heard him swallow; he was nervous too. ‘Of course. I mean, it’s only a glass of wine, right, and maybe we could watch some crap TV?’

  ‘Yep, crap TV sounds good.’ He smiled as they made their way to the lift. On his floor they giggled their way along the narrow corridor.

  ‘Here we are.’ Owen put down the tray and retrieved the key card from his wallet.

  Imogen pulled out her phone and texted Jenny: If you are awake, don’t wait up! I’m safe and having a blast. Will make it up to you tomorrow! I LIKE Amsterdam! xxxx

  As the door closed behind them, Imogen found herself in a large room. Owen walked forward and put the tray on a hard surface, table or desk. The sound was muted, as if the walls were soft. The air felt warm against her face.

  ‘This feels nice,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit dark, I’ll find the light switch.’

  ‘Owen, it doesn’t make any difference to me.’ She placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘Oh, god! I’m stupid! I’m sorry, Imogen.’ Once again he sounded mortified.

  ‘Don’t be sorry, you have no idea how happy it makes me that you forget.’

  ‘I think you are amazing...’ he breathed.

  Imogen ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I find it odd that people think I’m amazing or brave or any other adjective they want to throw at me, when I only do what everyone else does every day of the week, without praise or recognition.’

  She knew that he was staring at her and felt the heat of a blush creep over her cheeks.

  ‘But that’s just it. You’re amazing because you do what everyone else does every day of the week, when you can’t see.’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘So were you born with any sight? Have you ever been able to see?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you dream about? I mean, how do you dream?’ He was curious. ‘I can’t imagine not dreaming in pictures, not seeing things while I sleep or not seeing colour.’

  Imogen smiled. It was rare that someone who didn’t know her well was so forward with their questioning. She could tell by his tone that he was genuinely interested.

  ‘I dream in sounds and feelings and smells and touch. It’s just like it is for me every day, like real life, only I’m asleep!’

  ‘Okay, I could have guessed the asleep bit. Duh!’ he laughed.

  ‘Oh, rude!’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘That was nudging a four!’

  Owen reached out and ran his hands over her arms before pulling her close to him.

  ‘My life isn’t great, Imogen. I’m quite lonely a lot of the time. Meeting you has made me feel alive! I feel happy! I never would have thought this was right here, waiting for me in Amsterdam.’

  ‘I think you never know what’s around the next corner, never know what twists and turns life might throw at you next, but you should always be ready to face whatever comes at you.’

  He kissed her very gently on the mouth. Imogen pulled back and touched her fingers to his chest, feeling the buttons of his cotton shirt. ‘I was thinking, Owen.’

  ‘What?’ he breathed.

  ‘I might quite like to be a girl like that, just for an hour or so. It sounds like more fun than having soup...’

  They laughed together as they tumbled towards the large, soft bed. When their faces touched, she felt the pressure of metal against her nose.

  ‘You wear glasses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She listened to the clatter as he threw them on to the bedside cabinet.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he sighed.

  ‘Oh, well, I do now you’ve taken your glasses off!’

  ‘Trust me, you are beautiful with or without my glasses.’ He kissed her neck.

  ‘And you feel wonderful and smell wonderful.’ Running her hands over his shirt, Imogen was helping him with the buttons.

  ‘Is this okay?’ he whispered, anticipating what might come next.

  She nodded. It was more than okay. This was living, this was an adventure.

  9

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ Duncan asked as he scooped up the girls’ bags and guided his daughter and her friend out to his van in the airport’s short-stay car park.

  ‘Mmmnn.’ Imogen smiled, wary of giving away too much to her dad.

  ‘We had a great time. One of us rather more so than the other!’ Jenny jabbed her friend in the back.

  ‘One of us was too tired to keep up the pace,’ Imogen retorted, laughing.

  ‘Thank goodness one of us was too knackered to keep up the pace, or one of us might have been a right royal gooseberry!’

  Duncan shook his head in confusion as he loaded their bags into the back of his van. ‘I haven’t got the foggiest what the two of yous is talking about, but as long as you had a great trip, that’s the main thing.’

  The girls squashed into the front seat together in the way they had been doing since they were small.

  ‘We did, Dad. We really did,’ Imogen told him.

  Duncan beamed, happy that their friendship was fully restored.

  *

&
nbsp; After dropping Jenny off at home, where a rather animated Shay waited for his wife on the doorstep, and enjoying a cup of tea at her parents’ kitchen table, Imogen lay on her bed and switched on her laptop. And there it was, his name, repeated in a slightly robotic sound alert from her Inbox. Owen Jackson. Owen Jackson.

  It became part of her daily routine, reading and replying to his daily email. With a six-hour time difference, their lives ran half a day adrift, with him waking while she was in the middle of her working day and Imogen settling down to bed at night as he was hitting the gym or still sorting through computer files in a dimly lit office.

  *

  ‘So how’s lover boy?’ Jenny asked as the bus sat in traffic on the Ferry Road. The air was a thick fug of wet clothes, steamed-up windows and the smell of fast food wafting from the teenage boy a couple of seats back, who was tucking into a fat burger.

  ‘Okay. Yep.’

  ‘Okay. Yep? That’s it?’ Jenny elbowed her friend.

  ‘Ow! What else do you want?’ Imogen laughed, rubbing her side.

  ‘I want the juicy gossip, to hear his declarations of love and to know what plans you are making for a re-match?’

  Imogen was quiet. ‘There are no plans, Jen, and certainly no declarations of love.’

  ‘Aaaw, don’t say that! I’m already saving for flights to Chicago and I’ve picked my wedding outfit from the catalogue!’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Don’t look so grumpy, this is supposed to be exciting! Don’t you still email each other every day?’ Jenny was not going to let it drop.

  ‘We do, aye, but...’ Imogen didn’t know where to start.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s difficult, being so far away. It’s hard to progress, move forward.’

  ‘Oh, honey, I know, but if it’s worth having...’

  ‘No,’ Imogen interrupted her friend, ‘actually it’s not. It’s not worth having. And if I’m being honest, it’s started to feel like a bit of a chore. We say the same things over and over, I tell him about my day and he tells me about his, and we ask the same questions.’ She sighed. ‘There are only so many times you can read what someone has had in their sandwich for lunch and what the weather might do tomorrow! When you are with someone in person, you can chat about where you are, what’s happening, make plans, but this... this is different. We are stuck in one day in Amsterdam. One beautiful, brilliant, magical day in Amsterdam, but I think that’s it. I think that’s all we were meant to have and staying in touch feels like we are trying to eke it out, make it more than it ever should be.’