Page 126 of Forever, Maybe
“Amsterdam? Dope, strippers and prostitutes? Lovely.”
When he rushed to reassure her that the latter two held absolutely no interest for him, she’d just rolled her eyes.
“Danny, for God’s sake. Drool over the strippers all you want. I trust you. Completely.”
That trust had weighed on him all night. Still did, pressing down harder with every step he took along the canal.
He turned right, vaguely remembering that his hotel was near water. With any luck, the canal would lead him there—or somewhere that didn’t feel like the set of a bad decision.
On the far side of the canal, houseboats in garish reds, greens, and blues bobbed gently against the current. Their occupants, dishevelled and blinking against the morning light, emerged to stretch and yawn. A few shouted cheerful greetings in Dutch and English, their voices cutting through the stillness of his hangover-addled thoughts.
Bits of the night began to surface.
The café Joe had insisted on visiting. The waitress—much more fluent in English, her second language, than most of their party—warning them about the strength of some of the dope.
The club, drenched in neon, with women twisting around poles, their oiled legs pointed skyward, stilettos glinting under the strobe lights. Other women glided through clusters of gawking men, cooing about private dances and overpriced champagne.
He remembered the group pooling their euros to buy his cousin a dance. The guy stumbling out of the curtained booth ten minutes later, flushed and grinning like he’d seen the face of God.
And then… another club. This one blasting relentless Euro-pop.
See those lassies over there? They’re fae Glasgow too.
A hen party.
That yin there? The wee honey wi’ the dark, curly hair and the dazzling teeth? She’s been eyeing you up for the last ten minutes.
The night blurred after that, fragments of conversation swirling in his mind like broken glass:
Oh my God, you’ve only ever been wi’ one woman! Lorraine, did you hear that? He married her too. Isn’t that dead romantic?
Later:
You’re fucking gorgeous. What about… oh, no. I cannae ask that.
Had she said it? Had he? The words were muddled, overlapping, their origins lost in the fog of his memory.
Did it make it worse that he had no idea?
At last, the Lekkeresluis Brug came into view—a graceful 18th-century stone bridge Daniel remembered as the landmark nearest to their hotel. Relief flooded through him. He crossed quickly, turning left on the far side, where the cheap and cheerful hotel he’d booked weeks ago stood, its red-and-cream sign cheerfully welcoming guests in Dutch, English, French and German.
It wasn’t yet eight o’clock.
He patted his pockets, searching for his room key, only to realise with a sinking heart that he didn’t have it. There was no point going back to the other hotel. The mystery woman had said her flight was first thing, and besides, the thought of returning made his toes curl. Once had been more than enough.
The receptionist greeted him with a dead-eyed stare, his much-washed shirt, waistcoat and trousers hanging limply off his wiry frame. At Daniel’s explanation, the man sighed like it physically pained him, muttering about how often stag parties lost their keys.
He followed Daniel down the narrow, dimly lit corridor, jangling a set of master keys. “Happens every week,” the receptionist grumbled. “And just so you know, the price of cutting a replacement key will be added to your bill.”
Daniel mumbled his thanks as the door clicked open.
Unlike the others, who had all opted for twin rooms to save money, Daniel had splurged on the luxury of privacy. Now, he blessed his past self for that decision. Maybe he could feign illness for the rest of the day, skipping the group’s plans to hit yet more cafés, bars and clubs. A long shower might wash away the sticky grime of the other hotel, along with the haze of guilt and regret. Then, he could sleep off the weekend’s excess and piece together exactly what had happened last night.
As long as, when his memorydidreturn, it didn’t include the unpleasant revelation that he had committed adultery.
The curtains in the room were drawn, plunging the space into darkness. But not enough darkness to hide the person-shaped lump sprawled on the double bed.
The lump stirred. Rolled over. Sat up.
