Love Like Theirs

by Sophie Love

  Although… it had been a long time since she’d spoken to Shane. She wondered how the family was since his father had passed. There was no Cristiano to glare jealously at her anymore, or make her feel bad about caring about her other ex’s tumult. Maybe she should get back in touch with him, see how he was doing…

  Before she had a chance to get her cell phone out of her bag, Keira became very aware of the sensation of eyes upon her. She turned her head and saw a woman at a nearby table quickly look away. She frowned and turned back to her table. Distracted from whatever it was she’d been about to do, she began to peruse her menu again.

  The server returned then, taking Keira’s order of a salted beef sandwich, fries, and Coke, before heading away. Keira followed his trajectory, looking over her shoulder to see whether she was still being observed by the woman. She was.

  Her heart started to hammer then. Was it because she was alone? Way to make her feel worse about it, Keira thought. Surely people did this all the time, dining alone, being brave and independent. She couldn’t be the first person in the world that lady had ever seen eating dinner in her own company!

  Her food arrived, and Keira ate with purpose, her ears burning from the sensation of being watched. She wondered whether everyone was looking at her with such judgment. But whenever she glanced about her at the few other diners they were all occupied with themselves, their own companions, their conversation, and their food. Only the middle-aged woman behind her seemed to be staring.

  Keira grew more and more frustrated as she ate, formulating rebukes in her head for the woman along the lines of “Did no one ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” As her fries diminished, she worked herself up into something of a frenzy, gearing herself up to go over and say something. When her plate was empty, she turned to discover the woman had gone. The moment had passed.

  So it was with great alarm she turned back to her table and discovered the woman standing over her. Keira squealed loudly.

  “Sorry!” the woman said, holding her hands up. She had a Texan accent. “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

  She was blond, with a heart-shaped face and delicate features.

  “Where did you come from?” Keira exclaimed, looking around her, her heart racing with shock.

  “I was just watching you all through dinner because I recognized your face,” the woman admitted.

  She was blushing suddenly. She pulled something from her purse and handed it to Keira. To Keira’s surprise she was looking at an image of herself, in black and white, looking like a film star. And there was Cristiano. It was the front cover of Viatorum. The Paris issue.

  “Oh,” Keira said, feeling a strange sense of loss over the sight of the image.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” the woman asked hopefully.

  “Yeah,” Keira replied, sounding glum. “That’s me.”

  The woman clapped her hands. “I knew it! I knew it! None of my friends believed me.” She pointed to the bar, where the rest of her party had moved after vacating the dining table, and gave the four other women watching a thumbs-up.

  The whole thing felt extremely odd to Keira. First Meredith in the office, then the taxi driver, and now this woman. She was becoming recognizable, something that, as a writer, she’d never really wanted to be! She knew she shouldn’t have taken the cover image. It was so mortifying to be recognized from that silly, fantastical image rather than the more sensible one in her by-line!

  “Hey, we’re here on a bachelorette party,” the woman told her. She was smiling broadly—not in a stalkerish way, Keira realized, but in an actually friendly way. “I don’t suppose you’d want to join us?”

  Keira felt too strange about the whole thing to join them, even though she was feeling even more lonely now that she’d been confronted with the image of Cristiano.

  “I’d better not,” she said. “I’m here on an assignment so I need to get an early night.”

  “You’re writing an article?” the woman asked. “About the cruise?”

  Her eyes seemed to be sparkling suddenly. It dawned on Keira then why. This woman must assume she was on the cruise with Cristiano, to write about their wonderful experience of being in love, of exploring the globe together. Only that was the opposite of what she was here to do.

  “He’s not onboard, by the way,” Keira told her. “Cristiano, I mean. Sorry to dash your hopes, but it’s just me.”

  The woman let out an exhalation. She looked disappointed. “He’s not? But why?”

  Keira plucked the tablecloth, her gaze focused on its strange design. “We broke up.”

  When she looked back up at the woman, her mouth was hanging open. Keira thought she even saw tears glittering in her eyes.

  “But why?” the woman asked in a pained voice.

  “It just didn’t work out,” Keira said, hurriedly.

  Suddenly, she wanted to get away. To get far from her fan with her probing questions and staring eyes. She felt like some kind of specimen being studied under a microscope, an alien for people to gape at.

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing and discarding her napkin. “I’d better get some sleep. Nice to meet you.”

  She hurried away before the woman had a chance to say anything else.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Keira woke the next morning more than ready for a fresh start. So much for being bold and independent; her meeting with the reader yesterday had knocked her for a loop. But now, after a proper night’s sleep in her luxurious bed, she was ready once more to face her task head on.

  She washed in the small but comfortable en suite bathroom, then dressed for the day in casual faded denim jeans, black shirt and dark green woolen cardigan, finishing off her look with black, heeled ankle boots and some choice pieces of simple jewelry. Despite the gentle lulling motion of the ship, she managed to apply her makeup without any mishaps, opting for a natural but classy look. Then she tied her hair into a messy bun and felt ready to confront the day.

  Keira left her cabin, locking the door behind her, and walked the length of the corridor toward the front of the ship. The dining room where breakfast was being served was right at the front of the ship, in order to have the most exciting views. She passed through the double glass doors into the room she’d only been dimly aware of through last night’s haze of champagne. It looked different in the morning light, a little less decadent, and nowhere near as intimidating. Plus it was filled with guests eating their breakfasts, and the smell of fried eggs and bacon had never exactly been indicative of class.

  Keira joined the small queue of waiting guests, and then a smartly dressed server showed her to a table. Not by the window this time, but in the corner, tucked away, just as Keira liked it. Still, she scanned the room to see whether the bachelorette party from yesterday was anywhere to be seen. Thankfully, they were not.

  Keira took her laptop and notebook from her purse. She always laid the notebook out beside her in her moments of respite. Be it on a park bench in Paris or the breakfast table of a cruise ship, one never knew when the muse would strike. Unfortunately, the moment definitely didn’t seem to be now. She needed to get some words over to Elliot and Nina but nothing was particularly forthcoming. She hoped that once they made their first destination she’d feel more inspired.

  She became aware of a figure approaching and looked up to see a waiter coming over. He was a young man—she guessed late teens, twenty at a stretch—with dark auburn hair and freckles over every inch of his skin. He had warm hazel-colored eyes and perfectly aligned teeth which he flashed in a wide grin.

  “Good morning,” he said, eyeing her laptop as if trying to formulate something to say about it. “Have you decided what you’re having for breakfast?”

  Keira thought about the extra layer of flab around her stomach. “A coffee, please,” she said.

  The server nodded, but didn’t leave. He must have been expecting her to order some food. Keira smiled in a way that she hoped suggested finality but he didn’t get the
hint.

  “That’s it,” she added. “Just coffee. Nothing else.”

  He didn’t move.

  “So what are you writing?” he asked. “Are you an author? Or… no… a poet?”

  Keira wasn’t much in the mood for conversation. But she didn’t want to be rude, so she replied simply, “Travel writer.”

  His eyes widened with interest. “No way. Are you writing about us? The cruise ship?”

  “Not the ship per se,” Keira replied. “But the destinations we visit, yes.”

  Her fingers went to the keyboard of her laptop, in what she hoped he’d take as an I’m-busy gesture. He did not.

  “Awesome. Will you write about me?” He grinned and batted his eyelids.

  Keira got the distinct impression then that this barely out of high school man-child was hitting on her. She felt a groan deep in the pit of her stomach.

  “That depends,” she said, looking up and smiling sarcastically. “On whether the coffee is any good.”

  He smirked. “A challenge. I like it. Well, I’m determined to fix you up the best coffee you’ve ever had in your life.”

  Keira folded her arms and drummed her fingers against them impatiently. “I’m deducting points for the time it’s taking to arrive…”

  He laughed then, clearly in no way concerned about delaying her caffeine fix, but he did at least retreat to fetch it for her.

  Keira turned back to her screen and quickly typed.

  If the only men who hit on me during this cruise are like my waiter, I’ll pass the romance abstinence test with flying colors…

  The waiter returned, a mug of coffee in hand. He placed it in front of her with a flourish. She saw in the cream he’d made the design of a heart. She rolled her eyes.

  “Really?” she said dryly. “A heart?”

  “A man’s got to try,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows. “So? How did I do? Did I make the article?”

  Keira reached for the mug and took a sip. “Oh yes,” she said in a deadpan voice. “You made the article.”

  He punched the air as he walked away, and Keira smirked to herself. Little did he know!

  *

  Keira finished her breakfast and went up to the deck to watch the approaching landmass of Denmark. They’d been at sea for many hours and Keira felt excited at the prospect of standing on flat ground again.

  She watched on as the boat slowed and pulled into the harbor of Copenhagen. It was such a beautiful, awe-inspiring experience, to see a city from the ocean first. Usually the first thing she saw of a new country was its airport, which quite frankly looked more or less the same as the one she’d taken off from. But this way the first sight her eyes beheld was a market stall–lined road and a row of terraced houses painted rainbow colors. It was far more magical.

  As the ship’s crew moored up, Keira headed off deck and to her cabin to collect a few more things for the day ahead. She went inside her room and picked up Heather’s itinerary as well as the pamphlet on Denmark that the cruise company had left on her bedside table, along with pamphlets for the other locations she’d be visiting. She was about to leave when she decided to swap to a warmer jacket. The temperature was bound to be very chilly.

  Then she headed back out, following rows of people all heading for the place where they could disembark. She flicked through the pamphlet. The ship was only stopping in Copenhagen for two days so she’d have to pick her day’s activities wisely.

  She decided her first stop would be Thorvaldsen’s museum. She always enjoyed a healthy dose of art and culture before lunch, and the museum was exclusively for the sculptures of Danish artist Bertel Thorvaldsen. Then she’d stop for food before walking on to another museum, the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, to fill up on yet more art. Finally, she’d peruse the attached winter gardens to (hopefully) kick-start some nature-induced inspiration.

  Keira filed off the boat, taking a deep breath of the fresh Danish air. The weather was as crisp as she’d anticipated and she wrapped her arms about her middle, grateful for the last-minute switch of jackets.

  She began walking, idly at first, not too concerned with what direction she was heading but just glad to be on flat ground, and taking in the sights of a new foreign land. She wanted to really take some time to absorb the locale, to not taint her initial impressions of the city.

  For the sake of exploration, she turned away from the harbor and headed along a cobblestone road lined with tall buildings, noting how bicycles seemed to outnumber cars two to one. The road led her to a vast tiled square with a fountain in the middle, a sight she felt was now synonymous with European cities. A busker played classical guitar in the center, and a small crowd of people placed coins in his upturned hat as they passed. So far so quaint, Keira thought.

  She noticed a sign indicating the museum wasn’t far, and so she decided to follow the directions to her first destination.

  After she had negotiated several roads, the museum appeared before her. It was a large rectangular building painted vibrant orange, raised above ground level by a series of stone steps. There were five enormous doorways and an intriguing sculpture on the roof, which looked to Keira like horses pulling a chariot. People milled around outside, on the steps and surrounding square. She hurried inside, excited to see Bertel Thorvaldsen’s sculptures in the flesh.

  Inside, there was a very large corridor, with a domed ceiling, as well as the usual reception area to pay. Keira noticed a small group of people forming and realized that a tour was just about to take place.

  “May I join the tour?” she asked the woman at the reception desk as she paid for her ticket.

  “Yes,” she replied, smiling. “You’re just in time.”

  The woman handed Keira her ticket and she thanked her before heading toward the group, which mainly consisted of Japanese tourists. She slipped in amongst them and dug her notebook and pen from her bag.

  The tour began, leading them through the first corridor of the marvelous building. The floor consisted of patterned tiles of interlocking geometric shapes, and the ceiling was a gorgeous, vibrant blue color. One side of the hallway consisted of windows, and lined along the inner wall were amazing sculptures of warriors.

  “Over here,” the tour guide said, “is the infamous Cupid and Psyche sculpture.”

  He led the group to the podium upon which the statue stood. Keira gazed up at the two figures, arm in arm, one a naked male, the other an androgynous figure with a swathe of fabric wrapped around their waist and stretching to their feet.

  The tour guide began to explain the art to the group.

  “Thorvaldsen was commissioned to make this sculpture, which depicts Psyche and Cupid, a popular subject at the time. Their story, if you’re not familiar, is one of deep, true love. Cupid, the God of desire, eroticism, love, and attraction, was instructed by his mother, Venus, the goddess of beauty, to poison Psyche, whose immense beauty was eclipsing hers. But Cupid, on setting eyes upon Psyche, fell for her charms. Instead of cursing her to fall in love with a hideous serpent creature, he took her to his castle and made her his wife.”

  Keira rolled her eyes. She was so not in the mood to hear fantastical tales of immortal love and magic, knowing as she did that no such love truly existed.

  The guide continued. “Incensed, Venus then sent Psyche on a series of quests, each one more torturous than the last. The final quest culminates in Psyche falling into an eternal sleep. And yet when Cupid finally tracks down his long-lost wife, he is able to bring her back to life.” The guide finished his story with a triumphant, theatrical flourish. “The love they shared was so powerful it transcended even death.”

  Keira couldn’t help herself. She scoffed aloud.

  Suddenly, everyone fell silent. Keira looked up and saw the tour guide and the entirety of the tour group were now glaring at her. Everyone had heard her noise of disapproval.

  Mortification overcame Keira. Her cheeks flushed pink. She hadn’t meant to offend the guide in any way, she just tho
ught the story of true love was silly. Now she felt awful.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  The tour guide’s face remained dark and unimpressed. Awkwardly, Keira slipped away from the rest of the group, consumed by embarrassment.

  *

  Keira’s cheeks were still burning when she stopped in the first cute cafe she could find. It was a bit early for lunch, but she ordered coffee and a sandwich nonetheless, then went and sat at a table in the window, looking out at the world passing her by.

  Copenhagen was very pretty to look at, and the gray skies did little to diminish its charm. Most of the buildings were painted in bright colors, which certainly helped, and the throngs of tourists always present in a capital city added to the cheery atmosphere. And yet, her trusty notebook—lying out on the table beside her as always—was still empty.

  She attempted to write some initial lines and impressions of Copenhagen.

  Quaint. Charming.

  Then she sighed and gave up. Nothing was forthcoming. Her writer’s block was particularly acute at the moment, thanks in no doubt to her sadness over the breakup.

  She concentrated instead on eating her food and getting on with her day. Eating alone still wasn’t a particularly enjoyable experience, and it made her uncomfortable sitting here surrounded by groups of people and couples having a lovely time. With Cristiano, breakfast, lunch, and dinner had been exciting events, but on her own, eating was just a means to an end. She didn’t even want to try any of the strange local dishes, like the unpronounceable smørrebrød or spegepølse. She just wanted it to end as quickly as possible.

  As soon as she’d eaten, she headed back out into the streets.

  Following the signposts to the Ny Calsberg museum, Keira discovered she was approaching a giant glass house. She went inside, into what was known as the winter gardens, and was taken aback by how breathtakingly beautiful it was, with huge trees brushing the glass ceiling above her. The smell of fresh vegetation was intoxicating. She could imagine the winter gardens being the perfect location for a proposal or wedding ceremony. It felt magical and very romantic, two words she jotted down in her notebook.