That evening, I sit down at my computer with a bottle of wine, go to the chat room and pour my heart out to friends I’ve never met and probably never will.
The bell makes me jump. It’s nine o’clock. I get up, a little woozy from the wine and press the button that opens the door downstairs.
‘It’s me,’ Jeanine shouts.
She comes up and looks around. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Chatting. I’ll just shut down.’ I log off.
Jeanine goes through to the kitchen and stops. ‘How long has that lot taken you?’ she calls out, pointing to the bench top covered in empty bottles.
‘Oh, I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Not very long, I think.’ She studies my face. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. I just like a glass of wine.’
‘If you drink that much, you don’t ‘just’ like a glass of wine, you need alcohol. And if you need alcohol you’ve got a problem.’
I’m uneasy under Jeanine’s sharp gaze.
‘Perhaps you’d be better off finding out why you feel so miserable, instead of kidding yourself that you just like a glass.’
Her expression is so worried that my irritation melts away. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me in that way, apart from my psychologist, but she was paid for it. We sit down at the kitchen table and I stare at its wooden top.
‘This is not just because of RenÉe, is it? This is still something to do with your depression,’ Jeanine says.
I nod.
‘But you did see a psychologist, didn’t you? Didn’t that help?’
‘After a while she couldn’t see how she could help me any more. Things were going better, but she had the feeling that she couldn’t get to the heart of the problem.’
I fiddle with the fruit in the fruit bowl. It is a pretty ceramic bowl that I bought in Spain and paid too much for. I laugh and tell her that.
‘Sabine…’ Jeanine says.
I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl and try to decide whether to go on. Then I look up and ask, ‘Do you ever feel that there’s something in your memory that you can no longer get to?’
‘Sometimes,’ Jeanine says. ‘When I’ve forgotten someone’s name. It will be on the tip of my tongue and then just when I want to say it, it will disappear.’
‘Yes, exactly.’ I take a banana and gesture towards her with it. ‘That is exactly what it is like.’
‘What’s it got to do with then?’ Jeanine asks. ‘Or have you forgotten that too?’
I snap off the top of the banana and slowly peel it. There it is again, that spark, the memory that surfaces. I sit frozen, stare at a framed print on the wall and then it has gone again. I eat the banana, frustrated.
Jeanine hasn’t noticed a thing. ‘I’ve forgotten so much of the past,’ she says.
‘I have told you about Isabel haven’t I?’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘I get the impression that I might know what happened to her.’
Jeanine stares at me. ‘But they never found her, did they? How can you know what happened to her?’
‘That’s just it,’ I sigh. ‘That is what I am trying to remember.’
That night I sleep badly again. I wake up with a mind full of confusing dreams, dreams about the past, about school. When I’m fully awake, I can’t remember any of the details. The only thing that remains is Bart’s smiling face, close to mine, and the deep sound of his voice in my ears. Bart, my first real love, the first and the only boy I’ve slept with. I haven’t seen him since school. I can’t remember ever having dreamt about him before. Why is the past pursuing me so relentlessly?
‘I’ve got a suggestion.’ RenÉe comes in to the office, takes off her coat and places a large pink piggy bank on her desk. ‘I’ve discussed it with Walter and he agrees with me. Too much paper is wasted on typos. Often the mistakes would have been found if you’d read over your work again. We all make mistakes occasionally, but recently the paper bin has been getting really full.’
She so deliberately avoids looking in my direction that I know who is being held responsible.
‘If we were to put ten cents in the piggy bank for each wasted sheet of paper, we could use the money to pay for our Friday afternoon drinks. What do you all think?’ She looks around expectantly.
I can’t believe it. I’ve got a headache and have been keeping an eye out for Olaf. It would be handy if something small could go wrong with my computer, but the PC starts up just fine.
‘Hmm, yeah,’ Zinzy says.
I met her for the first time this morning and she seemed quite nice. She’s small, dark, very delicate, but in one way or another able to stand up to RenÉe.
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ says Margot, who types the fewest letters. ‘A lot of paper is thrown away.’
‘Why don’t you all have a think about it,’ RenÉe says.
I don’t agree, but I don’t feel like sticking my neck out. Zinzy doesn’t say anything else.
To escape RenÉe’s gaze, I swivel back to the screen and an email from Olaf pops up. Good morning, Sabine. It seems that your computer is working alright. Pity!
A smile spreads across my face. I immediately send him a message back: It is a bit slower than normal.
It isn’t long before I get a reply. I’ll come and have a look. ASAP!
On my way to get a coffee, I bump into Olaf.
‘That was quick,’ I say, laughing.
We’re standing in the hall, looking at each other.
‘So, there is something wrong with your computer,’ begins Olaf, at the moment that I say, ‘What a bit of luck that you…’ I break off my sentence but Olaf gestures for me to continue.
‘What’s a bit of luck?’ he asks.
‘That you emailed when I was in the middle of thinking how slow my computer was.’ I walk over to the coffee machine. Olaf comes with me and leans against the kitchen unit.
‘That’s why I’m in IT. I can sense that kind of thing.’
‘Coffee?’ I ask.
‘Black.’
I place an empty cup in the machine. We make no move to go to the admin department.
‘Did you do anything good yesterday afternoon?’ Olaf asks as he takes his cup from the machine and puts one in for me.
I press ‘white coffee’.
‘I tried to clean the windows but stopped myself in time. After that I went to buy fake plants in the Bijenkorf, went up to the cash desk with them and took them back again. I was home just in time for The Bold and the Beautiful.’
Olaf laughs so hard that he spills coffee onto his shoes. RenÉe, who is just walking by, turns around. I step to the side so that Olaf blocks out her sour expression.
‘And