Around the World in 80 Dates (8 page)

My taxi driver chatted as she drove but I wasn't really listening. I was thinking about how I was being played. Anders was keeping me guessing: He obviously liked to be in charge, calling all the shots. “Let him,” I said to myself, smiling. I had no problem with that. This was going to be fun.

After fifteen minutes of driving along the coast road, we came to a stop at a picturesque wharf. Although small sailing vessels tugged gently against their moorings, the air was still and, even this late in the day, the sun was hot on my skin.

The driver parked the car and together we walked the short distance to a wooden pier on which a cheery man in his sixties seemed to be waiting for us. He looked like an ad for
Crewing Monthly
with his turtleneck sweater and pipe, periwinkle eyes flashing mischievously in his tanned face. I had thought Anders would be younger, more edgy. Although he looked fun, I was a little disappointed. I shrugged it off, though; it was fine, at least the waiting was over, and I was sure there'd be more game players further down the line.

The driver introduced us: It wasn't Anders, it was one of the local captains. Another twist—Anders and I had yet to meet.

The driver made her excuses and disappeared for a moment, leaving the captain and me to chat. Was I going out on a boat? he asked. Memory of the date with Willem made me hesitate: Was there a good way of explaining that, not only did I have no idea what I was doing here, but I was doing this eighty times over with strange men around the world? It was a tricky thing to say nonchalantly to someone not in on my plan (and, as Willem had demonstrated, sometimes tricky to say to someone who was).

I was saved from having to explain my presence by the return of my driver. She was accompanied by a man in his mid-twenties, with classic Swedish looks: fine, clean features, white-blond hair, incredibly clear skin, and blue, blue eyes. Was this Anders? Again, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Fresh-faced and sweet-looking, he was young and had the air of an earnest, uncomplicated boy, quite at odds with the foxy game-playing vibe Anders had been putting out.

He walked over, holding out his hand to shake mine. “Hello,” he said. “I'm Martin.”

Ahhhh
, I thought with a grin,
the game is still on.

“If you will please come with me, I must take you on my boat. Anders is waiting for you.”

I laughed and picked up my bag, following Martin onto a small, incredibly sleek speedboat. I sat on the jockey seat next to him, strapped on the life jacket he handed over, and braced myself as we gently accelerated away from the wharf and into the open water.

The water in question was part of the Scandinavian southern archipelago, where the North Sea forms Kattegat, a wide channel between Sweden and Denmark. Even while I was concentrating on my soothing mantra of
“don't be sick, don't be sick,”
I could appreciate it was intensely beautiful. We knifed through the clear water; the sharp-edged waves from our boat had turned to gentle ripples by the time they reached the shores of the tiny islands we passed. I could hear the local children chatter and laugh as they milled around in rock pools and dived off rafts into the cool water. Behind them, pine trees crowded down to the boulder-studded shoreline, like kids around an ice cream van. The occasional tiny red stave house peeped shyly from between branches, pristine white roof bright against the deep green of the needles. We flew across the clear blue water; the air felt clean and fresh. I was both nervous and excited: I felt sure this was the final leg of the journey before Anders and I would meet.

Some of the tension must have shown on my face. Martin, sweetly misunderstanding, took one hand from deftly skimming the boat from tip to tip of the bouncing waves. “Don't worry,” he shouted over the noise of the engine and crash of the water, touching my arm reassuringly and frowning with concern. “We have all been told you get very, very sick on boats and I am to watch and see if you will vomit.”

I smiled weakly and wiped some of the salty spray from my face to hide my embarrassment, as we plowed ever onward into the surf.

 

Half an hour later, I was watching a cluster of tacking boats filled with orange-life-jacketed children learning to sail. I reflected on how wonderful it would be to grow up having sailed dinghies, ridden horses, or hiked and biked mountains virtually from the age you could walk. In England, it seems everyone has watched TV or idled in traffic from the age we could sit. I snapped out of my ruminating: The roar of the engine had become a gentle purr. Martin had slowed the boat and was standing at the wheel, scanning the horizon.

“Are we lost?” I asked, suddenly really nervous about meeting mysterious Anders. Maybe going back to the hotel, having a big bath, and catching up on sleep wouldn't be such a bad thing.

“No,” Martin replied politely, but preoccupied as he eased the boat through a rocky channel, all the time scanning the horizon. “They are here somewhere.”

Where the hell am I being taken?
I suddenly thought crossly. Why didn't Martin know where they (THEY?) were? What was next? To get into a submarine? Who was the goddamn date with—Captain Nemo?

I was starting to get impatient. Enough was enough.
Let's get on with the date or take me back to the hotel so I can watch cable and be as one with the minibar.

But at that very moment, Martin pushed the throttle down on the boat and we sped forward: He had spotted them.

I was about to meet Anders.

 

We were sailing toward a floating pontoon moored to a rocky outcrop in the middle of the sea. It was a big pontoon, about eighteen feet by thirty, a large cabin in the middle with a deck front and back. I could make out two men standing on the front deck, one pale, fiddling with ropes, one tall and dark, looking straight at me. He waved.

Oh, my God, it was Anders. Finally.

Except, all of a sudden, “finally” felt like it had arrived far too soon. I didn't feel ready. Clutching my bag protectively to my chest, I felt completely overwhelmed with nerves and I suddenly wished my date had been with lovely, sweet Martin after all.

I waved back to Anders with a confidence I didn't feel.

The sun was bright on my face. My hair had been whipped insensible and my eyes were stinging and weeping after an hour being buffeted by the salty wind and surf. As Martin sailed closer to the pontoon, Anders steadily came into focus. I groaned to myself wretchedly: He was absolutely gorgeous. Completely and ridiculously handsome. I was utterly out of my depth.

As Martin navigated the boat alongside the pontoon, Anders, who had been leaning against the railing watching our approach, stepped forward to help me aboard. My legs wobbling, my nose running, I pleaded with myself not to fall in or do or say anything stupid, as he reached down, took my hand in his, and pulled me up toward him.

Now both on deck, we stood six inches apart and gave each other a long, appraising look.

Anders was about six feet three and in his early forties. His skin was tanned golden, his thick brown hair wavy and swept back from his face, which was lined in a manner that suggested he knew his own mind and was used to getting his own way. He was deeply handsome, his green eyes offset by a strong jaw and full mouth. He was obviously very fit, dressed casually in a white T-shirt with a khaki shirt loosely buttoned over it, strands of hair curling up from his chest.

He looked a lot like Mel Gibson.

What the hell was Ann-Charlotte doing with a friend like this? How was this possible? She was like me: We didn't know people like this. We knew normal people, people who played table football and smacked into the full-length mirrors in the Met Bar, thinking it was another room. We knew people who looked like the boy next door, because in all probability they lived next door. This man was in another league altogether.

“So, I shall go now, Jennifer. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I stopped staring at Anders and spun around. Martin was climbing back into the speedboat with pale, rope-fiddling guy, and they were getting ready to head back to the shore.

I would have paid any amount of money to go with Martin rather than stay here with Anders, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. Plus, I told myself sternly, attempting a degree of control and to stop my thoughts free-falling,
This is what my journey is all about: to challenge my “type comfort zone” and be open to the possibility that a “new type,” although unfamiliar territory, might actually make me happier.

And with a friendly wave, Martin motored off. This was it: Short of faking a burst appendix, I was committed to dating Anders.

Maybe sensing my apprehension, Anders did the best possible thing. Dipping into the cabin and emerging with a bottle of chilled Moët and two glasses, he gestured that I should sit on one of the chairs by a long, wooden bench.

“Jennifer,” he said in a deep voice, his Scandinavian accent drawing out the syllables, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I think your story is a brave and fascinating one, and I am very much looking forward to hearing more of it. But first, I hope you are a little hungry as I have prepared some light food for us. I must return to the kitchen for a few moments, so why don't you just sit and relax and enjoy the view.”

I remained standing: I was still keyed up and didn't feel comfortable being waited on.

“Oh, Anders, please let me help,” I protested, but Anders just smiled warmly, handed me a glass glistening with bubbles, and pulled out the chair for me to sit on. Realizing Anders was being gracious—and knowing it would be undignified to argue—I settled into the seat. His hand lightly brushed my shoulder, then I heard him turn and walk into the cabin—which I now knew to be a kitchen—behind me.

Moments later, the sound of strings, gliding like a shoal of fish around Frank Sinatra crooning “Young at Heart,” came from speakers mounted on the side of the cabin.

When I was a kid my parents used to play us
Songs for Swingin' Lovers
; I've always loved Frank. I immediately relaxed and smiled appreciatively. I was allowed to do this. I could let someone treat me really nicely without over-thinking or fighting it. I remembered the Love Professor and realized this was one of my tasks: to learn to surrender a little control and trust that my feelings would still be considered. Also that I wasn't the only person who could make events run smoothly.

It was about 7:30 p.m. by now and the sun was still hot and bright. The water seemed to have a soft haze over it, a gentle mist that floated above the protruding rocks, making them appear like the heads and shoulders of a small crowd dressed in cashmere sweaters.

I was enjoying both Frank and the Moët but I was also very curious about Anders. I didn't want to interfere with his preparations, but maybe he could cope with me chatting while he cooked (one of those comfortable relationship intimacies that I really missed).

I walked with my glass over to the cabin door. “Room for a passenger with a lot of questions?” I asked.

Anders looked up from a chopping board full of smoked fish and lemons, a ramekin of what looked like dill mustard dressing in his hand. He smiled welcomingly. “I would like that very much,” he replied. “Please make yourself comfortable. Maybe you would like to look around, too?”

The kitchen was surprisingly well equipped: a full-size stove and fridge, plus, from what I could see, cupboards full of crystal glasses and fine china. The windows were fringed with blue and white gingham curtains; a stack of pressed white linen tablecloths and napkins sat on a counter. Agreeing that I would set the table outside, I busied myself with cutlery.

Stepping between the lovely kitchen and the picturesque deck looking out onto the water, I found it a little hard to get my head around how perfect this all was.

“Anders, you really do have the most incredible boat,” I told him. “I'm so happy that you invited me out here, thank you.” Anders, who was ferrying trays of cheese, crudités, and fish out to the table, laughed.

“I wish it was my boat,” he said sincerely, “but I have just borrowed it for tonight. Besides,” he continued, returning to the kitchen and pausing to inspect the open fridge before selecting a bottle of wine, “haven't you noticed, it's not a boat, it's a floating sauna.”

I laughed out loud, not particularly because I thought he was joking but more because it seemed too far-fetched to be true.

He smiled back at me. “No, I'm serious. Go and have a look.” He gently took my arm and turned me toward the back of the galley kitchen. Still laughing, I walked over, pulled aside the curtain, and stepped through into a narrow corridor. To the left, another curtain screened off a little toilet and sink; at the end of the corridor was a glass door, the view beyond it obscured by the steam streaming in rivulets down the length of it. Gingerly turning the handle on the door, I was immediately hit by a blast of heat that made my eyes sting. Anders had been serious, it was a full-size sauna: two long, wooden benches, white towels and gowns folded on the end, a grate filled with glowing coals in the middle. At the end of the room, another glass door looked out onto the rocks to which we were moored. It was incredible. I'd never seen anything like it.