Love Your Life(10)

That’s a good tip. Maybe I’ll change my heroine’s name from Ada to something a bit less like Ava. Victorienne. Is that a name?

I write down Victorienne in my notebook, just as Farida resumes speaking.

“Today we look at the principles of story,” she says. “I would like each of you to say what story means for you. Just one sentence. Beginning with Austen.”

“Right.” Austen colors bright red. “It’s…um…wanting to know the end.”

“Thank you.” Farida smiles. “Author-to-Be?”

“Crikey!” says Author-to-Be with a throaty chortle. “Put me on the spot, why don’t you! Er…beginning, middle, end.”

“Thank you,” says Farida again, and she’s about to draw breath when there’s a rattle at the huge wooden door. It swings open and a woman I recognize as Nadia, the course administrator, beckons Farida over. They have a hurried whispered conversation, during which we all glance at one another uncertainly, then Farida turns back to address us.

“As you know, there are three different retreats taking place in the monastery this week,” she begins. “Writing, meditation, and martial arts. Unfortunately, the leader of the martial-arts retreat has been taken ill and a replacement has not been found. Those guests have been given the opportunity to join one of the other retreats instead—and three have chosen to join our writing group. I would ask you to welcome them.”

    We all watch, agog, as the door widens. Two men and a woman walk in—and my heart jumps. That taller, dark-haired guy. Wow.

He smiles round the room and I feel my throat tighten. OK. So it turns out my instincts don’t want a holiday, after all. My instincts are leaping up and down and pulling in the extra emergency-instincts team and yelling, “Look, look!”

Because he’s gorgeous. I’ve been on thirty-six online first dates—and not one has sent a streak of electricity through me like this.

He’s got to be in his late thirties. He’s well built—you can see that through the fabric of his kurta pajamas. Wavy black hair, faint stubble, a strong jaw, deep-brown eyes, and a fluid, easy motion as he takes his seat. He smiles at his neighbors a little uncertainly as he takes a name badge and pen from Farida and regards them thoughtfully. He’s the most good-looking person in the room by a million miles, but he doesn’t even seem to have noticed.

I’m blatantly gobbling him up with my eyes, I realize. But that’s OK, because you’re allowed to be observant if you’re a writer. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m making mental notes for a character in my book, and that’s why I’m gazing so intently at his thighs.

    Kirk seems quite taken by one of the other new arrivals, I notice, and I swing round to survey her quickly. She’s pretty attractive, too, with tawny hair and white teeth and amazingly toned arms. The second guy is incredibly pumped up, with mammoth biceps—in fact, our whole group is suddenly about 50 percent more good-looking on average. Which maybe says something about martial arts versus writing.

The entire mood of the room has lifted, and we watch, rapt, as the newbies choose their names. The girl goes for Lyric, the super-muscled guy is Black Belt, and the dark-haired guy chooses Dutch.

“It was the name of my childhood dog,” he says as he introduces himself—and I melt. His voice is good. It’s deep and resonant and honest and ambitious but noble and humorous, too, with a hint of past sadness but rays of future sunshine and a thread of rare intelligence. And OK, I know I’ve only heard him utter eight words. But that’s enough. I can tell. I can feel it. I just know he has a big heart and integrity and honor. He would never photoshop in Brad Pitt’s eyes.

Plus he had a childhood dog. A dog, a dog! I feel almost giddy with hope. If he’s single…if only he’s single…and straight…and single…

“We try not to reveal details of our lives on this retreat,” says Farida with a gentle smile, and Dutch clicks his tongue.

“Right. You said. Sorry. Messed up already.”

A new appalling thought hits me. If we’re not talking about ourselves, how am I supposed to find out if he’s single?

He’s got to be. He’s giving off single vibes. Also: If he’s attached, where’s his partner?

    “Now that everyone has been introduced,” Farida is saying, “we can carry on with our discussion. Maybe, Dutch, you could tell us what story means to you?” Dutch’s face jolts and he looks alarmed.

“Story,” he echoes, clearly playing for time.

“Story.” Farida nods. “We’re here to create story. That’s our task in this retreat.”

“Huh. Right. Story.” Dutch rubs the back of his neck. “OK,” he says at last. “Here’s the thing. I came here to learn how to kick the shit out of my opponent. Not this.”

“Of course,” says Farida softly. “But do your best.”

“I’m not a writer,” Dutch says at last. “I can’t tell stories. Not like you can. I don’t have your skills or talent. I’d like to learn, though.” As he looks around, his eye catches mine and my stomach twangs.

“I’m sure you will learn,” I say throatily, before I can stop myself.

At once I curse myself for being too uncool and eager, but Dutch seems disarmed.