I look up and find Jack watching me with a very strange expression on his face. When he sees me looking at him, he smiles quickly, the rogue expression vanishing behind his usual peaceful façade.
“Shall we go and find the car that the hotel sent for us?” he says blandly. I stare after him for a second and then make haste to shove the phone in my pocket and follow him.
The car turns out to be a Mercedes and our driver is a man called Pieter. He’s tall and thin and very dapper with dark, slick-downed hair. He piles our luggage into the boot and ushers us into the car, pointing out the bottles of water and packets of nuts waiting for us.
As he rounds the car to get into the driving seat, I turn to Jack. “Just exactly how posh is this hotel?” I whisper. “You don’t get this service with a Travelodge.”
“It’s very expensive,” he says. “Haven’t you paid yet?”
“I haven’t actually paid for any of this,” I say, my face flushing. “I’m bowed down with student loans, and Tom said he was paying.”
“Well, of course, he would,” he says sincerely, easing my embarrassment. “He wants his brother with him when he proposes to his boyfriend.”
I smile. “Only Tom would take the act of proposing to his boyfriend and make it into a three-ring circus accompanied by his best friend, his brother, and Fred the Pisshead.”
“I’m sure Fred was christened something else,” Jack says wryly. “Or the vicar would have had a fit.”
“What is his real name?” I ask curiously. “He’s been Fred the Pisshead since you two brought him home from uni in the first year, and he threw up in the kitchen and burnt a hole in mum’s sofa when he passed out smoking a cigarette.”
“He’s actually Fred Montgomery.” He winces. “I’m still amazed he was ever invited back to your house.”
“I’m not. Have you met my dad? He says Freddy’s funny, and he values that more than academic qualifications.”
“It’s a shame that he wasn’t Fred’s career adviser, then, because that lady was definitely not impressed by his degree.”
“Good job he’s employed by his dad, then.”
He shrugs. “Freddy’s calmed down now and doing incredibly well. His dad’s really proud of him. Thinks the sun shines out of his arse.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I still can’t believe that we’re here so Tom can propose to Bee. My brother. Our Tom.”
He smiles. “He’s ready, and Bee’s perfect for him.”
“He definitely is,” I say fervently. “I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with Tom.”
I’ve loved my spiky brother-in-law-to-be since the first time Tom brought him home. The two of them had met on holiday in Scotland through mutual friends, and it had been instant hatred. According to them, that shifted over the holiday, and as soon as Tom came home, we all knew he’d met someone special. Probably because he had more hearts flying around him than a card shop on Valentine’s Day.
Bee is a student currently doing his PhD. He’s scarily intelligent, but he’s funny and kind and loves Tom madly. He also doesn’t put up with any bullshit from my brother. It’s like he has magical Tom powers—he levels him with a look or makes him laugh, and Tom’s occasional arsehole tendencies vanish.
I look around curiously as Pieter steers the car onto a road where cars immediately seem to come at us from everywhere.
“It’s busy,” Jack says.
I bet if Pieter had ten euros for every time some passenger says that, he would be chauffeuring people around in a car made of gold.
However, Pieter nods happily. “The city is full at the moment. People have come for Christmas shopping and to see the lights.” He shrugs. “And then there are the residents. There are over eight hundred thousand people in Amsterdam and well over a million bicycles. That’s one and a half bicycles per person.”
“I’m sure the half makes all the difference,” I say idly.
Pieter laughs. “Be careful, though,” he warns us. “The bicycles have the right of way, and there are many of them. You must look left and right when crossing the roads.” He chuckles. “And then do it again for safety.”
I look around with interest as we drive through a built-up area. Tramlines spread across the road like veins on the back of a hand, and there are bikes parked everywhere. They stand in groups like mothers waiting outside school for their children. It’s a bit like London with lots of ordinary shops and butchers and flats, and I feel a little disappointed. Then we turn a corner and cross a bridge over a canal, and I inhale in delight. Tall, old houses slumber in the winter sunshine, towering over the canal and the myriad barges moored there.
“Oh wow,” I say softly.
Jack smiles at me, squeezing my hand. “You like it?” he asks.
I nod, my eyes everywhere. “It’s amazing. I’ve always wanted to come here.”
“Did you not do it in your first year at uni when you backpacked with your mate?”
I shake my head. “No, Evan and I did Europe, but we missed out on Amsterdam.” I’m glad I’m seeing it with Jack by my side, but I don’t add that.
“A lot of these roads were once canals,” Pieter says. “But they were reclaimed because we needed the roads.”
“For the bikes?” I say.
“Absolutely, yes.” Pieter smiles. “It is a way of life. You’ll notice that none of these bicycles are expensive, though.” I had actually wondered about that, because they all look ancient. Pieter carries on. “That is because we do not believe in shiny new things. If you had a brand-new bicycle that was very expensive, you would stand out like …” He searches for the phrase. “… like a sore thumb,” he says triumphantly.
“Really? I can’t imagine that in London. Bikes are status symbols like cars over there. Flashy and expensive with everyone wearing the best gear. The other day a child cycled past me, and I swear she was better kitted out than Bradley Wiggins.”
Pieter nods. “Even the king rides an old bike. You can often see him cycling around the streets of Amsterdam. Very happy.” The car slows, and we turn down a street alongside a canal. “We are nearly there,” he says.
I look out of the window eagerly. Tom arranged for us to stay in the Jordaan neighbourhood, and it turns out to be lovely, with gracious old buildings and cobbled streets. Funky shops and restaurants glow in the early evening light. Then we turn down a small road, and Pieter pulls to a stop. My mouth drops open. The pictures in the brochure Tom sent me didn’t do the extraordinary hotel justice. The building is formed from ten Golden Age canal houses; it’s six storeys high with lovely gables and tall windows and sits placidly beside a peaceful canal lined with narrowboats.
A liveried doorman approaches as we come to a stop, and my eyes widen. “I’m going to kill Tom. He said we were doing this cheap.”
“When did he ever do anything cheap?” Jack says. “It’s a good thing that his job pays well, or he’d have had to embark on a life of crime.”
“Not a successful one. I remember Mum marching him down to the corner shop when she found out that he’d nicked a bar of chocolate. He cried all the way there and all the way back.”