Page 39 of The Expat Affair

The man looks over. Our eyes meet, and his are surprisingly sharp, surprisingly alert. His gaze slides quickly away, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen it. This man is not drunk like the rest of his group. He’s not here by accident. And I’ve definitely seen him before, but at the time, he wasn’t wearing a beanie. He was wearing a ball cap. It’s the man from the number twelve tram, the one who smiled at me through the window.

I scoot to the end of the booth. “Thanks for the shawarma, Lars, but I gotta go.”

“Then let’s go.” Lars pulls a wrinkled twenty from his wallet and tosses it on the table, and I’m not opposed to him escorting me out of here. The man in the beanie is no longer pretending not to watch me. He’s planted himself between me and the front door.

Lars tugs me the other way, leading me out a back door and into a dim alley that reeks of garbage. Trash rolls by on an icy wind, empty Coke bottles tangled with cigarette butts and hamburger wrappers. I have no idea where I am, and I’m too panicked to think straight. When Lars takes a sharp left, I don’t hesitate; I follow.

The alley dumps us out on a cross street lit up with late-night snack bars and traffic, bikers headed home from the bars in thick coats and wool hats pulled down over their ears. I watch a cluster ofthem pedal past, trying to catch a glimpse of their faces, but they’re bundled up and flying by too fast. And there are beanieseverywhere.

“Which way is the Rijks?” I ask, the museum an important landmark around the corner from my apartment. Once I spot its twin pointy steeples, I’ll know the way home—not the safest spot, admittedly, but the only one I’ve got. Hopefully by now, Ingrid will be home, and I won’t have to stay there alone.

“Too far to walk.” He shoves a hand in his pocket, and two quick beeps sound from a silver Vespa parked at the corner. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

I think of finding my way through streets that are quickly emptying of people, all the deserted sidewalks and dark corners between here and home where beanie man could snatch me off the street and throw me into a van, and my skin goes tight with fear. He’s found me twice now. Clearly, he’s skilled at this.

“Fine, but for the record, you’re not invited inside.” I clamber on to the back of his bike, winding my arms around Lars’s torso. “My last one-night stand didn’t end on the best note.”

Willow

I’m winding my way through the packed tables at Firelli’s, still a popular lunch spot despite the bullet that not all that long ago sailed through the front window and into a mobster’s head, when Fleur’s peal of delighted laughter rips the air.

“Good Lord, Willow. Did youbikehere? You’re more Dutch than I am.”

“What gave it away?” I flap my drenched hands, sending icy drops of water flying. “My hair? My sweater?”

Bad weather doesn’t exist, people here are so fond of saying,only bad clothing. Within seconds, mine was soaked to the skin.

Meanwhile, Fleur is a vision in a silky white blouse. Flawless hair and makeup, a cluster of diamonds glittering at the base of her throat. I see my reflection in the mirror above her head, swiping away a dirty trail of mascara with a knuckle.

“Sit down, sit down.” She motions for me to scoot into the round velvet booth, her voice peppy and bright. “I ordered us some wine. I hope Sancerre’s okay.”

Wine on a workday, I’m intrigued. I toss my bag on the booth and slide in after it. “Sancerre sounds perfect. I love a boozy lunch.”

Normally, Fleur would turn up her nose at the thought of skipping out on a Thursday to socialize with anyone, much less her barely tolerable sister-in-law. She and I see each other all the time, but it’s always at family or work events, and we never go much deeper than a politehow are the kids?She doesn’t suggestwe meet up for happy hours or call me to gossip about the latest couples drama at the golf club. When she called with the invitation to join her for lunch, I couldn’t help but ask, “What’s the occasion?”

“Because you and I never get any one-on-one time,” she said, her voice playful in a way I rarely hear. “There are always so many other people around.”

Fleur wanted something from me; that much was clear. This is a woman who doesn’t make a move without an agenda, and the fact she wanted to sneak away from the office smack in the middle of a workday said that whatever that agenda was, it was an important one.

“Please?” she said, turning up the heat. “I really need to talk to you about something, and I can’t do it over the phone. And please don’t mention this to Thomas, by the way. It would turn into a whole big thing.”

My sneaky sister-in-law knew what she was doing by dangling that little carrot. My curiosity wouldn’t let me say no.

She plucks the bottle from the cooler and pours two generous glasses. “Thanksfor giving me an excuse to get out of the office. Ever since the mess with Xander, Papa has been in the office every single day, and between you and me, he’s not the easiest person to work for. Or to even be around lately.” She leans in close like she’s sharing a secret. “Papa can be so difficult.”

I lift a brow. Fleur has spent every family get-together I’ve ever been a part of sucking up to her father, so to hear her speak this way about him now is more than a little surprising. “Imagine what it’s like for people whoaren’tnamed Prins.”

She laughs. “Oh, believe me, I know. When Papa was still CEO, we were losing employees at the rate of one a week. One a week, Willow! At every level of staff including the polishers, who are so hard to find, and even the best ones need training before we letthem loose on the Prins cut. Now people are starting to remember they didn’t have it so bad with the older Prins in charge. But enough about work...” She picks up a glass, taps it against mine. “Cheers.”

I sip the Sancerre, cold and fruity and delicious, thinking about not just what she said, but how she said it, a backhanded way of telling me the staff doesn’t love working for Thomas. Is this why she called me here, to complain about her brother’s management style?

“So what do you usually eat here?” I say, nonchalant, trading my glass for the menu. The tangy wine, the smell of garlic and pasta, Fleur’s agenda of subterfuge. Suddenly, I’m starving.

“Oh, a salad or something, I don’t know.” Fleur plunks her glass onto the table with a soft sigh, her fingers twisting the stem. “Look, I know it’s no secret that I don’t agree with Papa appointing Thomas CEO instead of me, but he’s still my brother. Mybabybrother, which means I’ve always felt this... I don’t know, responsibility, I guess, to look after him.”

I bristle a little at thebaby brother, mostly because it’s always been the basis of Fleur’s arguments: as the older sibling, it’s only fair this company be handed to her. But this is her pony show, not mine, so I let it slide.

“Understandable,” I say instead, like I grew up with a younger sibling or for that matter any siblings at all, like before Sem, I had any idea what it was to have someone who needed me. I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen, when my mother’s indifference and her endless string of skeevy, creepy boyfriends became too much to bear. I emptied out the shoebox where she stashed her cash and hopped a Greyhound bus to Atlanta. When she finally called three whole weeks later, it was to yell at me for stealing her money.

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