‘So do I mainly, even though I’m here for the whole day,’ Olaf says.
Arms folded, he leans against the side with the mirrors and checks me out without any sign of embarrassment. The lift feels smaller by the second.
I lean against my side of the lift, my arms also folded but I can’t keep my eyes still. I laugh at Olaf’s joke, but my laugh sounds nervous to me. Don’t act like a teenager Sabine, I tell myself. This is Olaf, you know him.
But it doesn’t feel like that. Not now that he’s looking at me in that way. I try to think of something natural to say. ‘You haven’t worked here for that long have you? I mean, I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘A few months.’ His eyes wander shamelessly from my legs to my breasts. The appreciation in his expression flusters me.
‘I’ve been off sick for quite a while. A burn-out.’ I explain. Depression suddenly sounds so neurotic.
Olaf makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Were you out of circulation for long?’
‘Quite a while.’
‘And now you’re easing back into it.’
I nod. Then there’s a silence while we look at each other. Why do I find him so attractive? His features are too angular and irregular to really be called handsome. His blue eyes are too pale to contrast with his blonde eyelashes and eyebrows. His hair is thick but messy, the sort that never looks neat. He’s changed. And he seems just as surprised by my appearance, even though I don’t think I’ve changed much. I’ve still got my straight, light brown hair, I barely use any make-up, just a bit of kohl and mascara, and my taste in clothes isn’t really any different. But Olaf’s looking at me like I’m gorgeous, which is nonsense, of course. He’s probably winding me up.
‘What a coincidence, meeting again like this,’ Olaf says. ‘On the other hand, everyone seems to have moved to Amsterdam. Sooner or later you bump into everyone. Tell you what, do you really want to go home or shall we have lunch together?’
I look at him alarmed. Have lunch together? His eyes glued to my face while I lift my fork to my lips with trembling hands?
‘Sorry, I have to head off. Another time perhaps.’
The lift stops and the doors open. RenÉe and some other colleagues are getting out of the other lift.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Olaf says. ‘You have to eat, don’t you? We can do that just as easily together.’
RenÉe looks from me to Olaf with a glimmer of disbelief.
‘Why not then. I’d like to catch up,’ I say.
We walk into the canteen together as if we’d remained in touch all those years.
‘I’m going to go for the bread roll with a meat croquette,’ Olaf says. ‘You too?’
‘Alright.’ Over the past year I’ve put on five kilos from the Prozac and from comfort-eating chocolate. One croquette isn’t going to make a difference.
We pick a table near to where RenÉe and her cronies have set up. They arrange themselves so that they can keep an eye on me.
I try to relax and smile at Olaf.
‘Did you read about the school reunion?’ He spreads a layer of mustard onto his croquette.
I nod and cut my roll into smaller pieces. There’s no way I’m going to try to eat this whole thing with my hands.
‘Are you going to go?’ Olaf asks.
I think about the school grounds during the breaks, the little groups dotted around it, the wall I used to lean against, on my own.
‘No way.’ I take a bite.
Olaf laughs. ‘I don’t really feel like it either.’ He mashes his croquette onto his bread. ‘If I’d wanted to stay in touch with somebody I would have. But still, we haven’t seen each other for years and it is good to see you again.’
I still don’t quite feel comfortable with him. Each time he looks at me, I become even more conscious of my limp hair, my tired, pale face and the sweat patches on my jumper.
Just then Olaf attacks his sandwich like a buzzard after prey. He eats with perceptible and audible pleasure. I don’t usually like men who let you see exactly how they chew their food. But in this case I’m filled with relief and renewed confidence. Sweat patches might be nasty but lumps of croquette falling out of your mouth are worse.
Olaf doesn’t seem in the least bit bothered by it. He picks up the pieces again with his fork and puts them back into his mouth. He hasn’t yet swallowed them when he begins to talk again. ‘If you change your mind, tell me. We could drive together. By the way, how is Robin these days?’
‘Good. He’s living in England.’ I’m relieved that we’ve dropped the subject of school.
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘He also works in IT,’ I say.
‘In what sort of company?’ Olaf asks.
‘Clothing,’ I say. ‘Men’s fashion.’
‘And he’s going to stay there? Or is it just temporary?’
‘I hope it’s only temporary,’ I say. ‘If he emigrates as well…My parents already live in Spain, you know. Robin and I both lived and worked in Amsterdam but then his company decided to set up a new branch. Once it’s off the ground he’ll come back, I hope.’
‘The two of you were always close, I remember that.’ Olaf takes such a huge bite of his roll that I look away as a precaution. I only look at him again when it’s obvious that the mouthful has been safely disposed of. He wipes the remains from around his mouth and rinses the rest away with a gulp of coffee.
‘I’d better get back to the grind. That was really nice, let’s do it again soon.’
‘We’ll do that,’ I say, and I mean it, despite the croquette.
We carry our trays to the rack, shove them in, plate, cutlery and all, and walk to the lift together.
‘You’re going home now, right?’ Olaf says. ‘I’ll come down with you.’
He doesn’t have to do that; he could just take a different lift. There is a churning in my stomach. When we reach the bottom and the doors open, Olaf gets out with me.
I look at him a little uneasily. I know what’s coming, that testing the waters phase. Wanting to ask someone out, dodging around the subject, angling to see if the other person is interested. I need to smile and flirt a little to urge him to take that step, and I’m not very good at that.
‘See you tomorrow then. Enjoy your work!’ I pull my bag up higher onto my shoulder, raise my hand and walk into the lobby. I don’t look back but I’m almost certain that Olaf is looking at me, dumbfounded.
The May sunlight accompanies me to my bike. I have a car, a little Ford Ka, which I only use when it’s raining. In Amsterdam you can get around faster by bike, especially during the morning rush hour.
I’m glad I’m not driving. I need a dose of fresh air. My temples are throbbing.
I ride through the Rembrandt park where the trees are blooming a fresh spring green. People are walking their dogs, a couple of school kids with a bag of chips sit smoking on one of the benches and the ducks are noisy in the pond. I’m going so slowly that joggers overtake me.
I feel like a prisoner who’s just been released from her cell. A dog