Relief washes over me. For a startling moment I thought I was going to need to share a bedroom with Astrid. And the thought has me feeling quite a lot of things.
And dangerous though as it is, I find myself wondering what would happen if we stopped pretending we were pretending?
What would happen if this became real?
Chapter Eleven
Astrid
I’ve been workingon an unofficial project I’m callingOperation Loosen Upin my head. Of course I can’t say that out loud, particularly not to the subject of the operation. That would make it sound a bit like something out of a spy show.This mission, should I choose to accept it…
Well, Ihaveaccepted it, and I’m doing my very best to help my fiancé loosen up.
The way I see it, we’ve got these two weeks together that will either make orbreak us.
Take, for instance, what happened yesterday afternoon. Following a successful visit to the children’s hospital, in which I spied what appeared to be Frederic bonding with a boy who gave him a picture, we visited the Mayor’s official residence. We were sipping cups of tea and enjoying scones with jam and clotted cream while making polite conversation when the Mayor’s golden retriever came bounding over to us with all the enthusiasm that golden retrievers possess. Which is a lot, as we all know.
I crouched down and enthusiastically petted the dog as it tried to lick my neck while Frederic looked like he might want to merge into the wallpaper. I then suggested that Frederic might like to pet the dog, and he did so withpreciselythree pats to the top of its head, like he was following some kind of protocol manual in one of his binders, entitledHow to Pet a Dog in Public.
There was no joy in it. That was the problem. He just petted the dog like he was a robot.
Of course, photographers were present. The papers this morning posted only a photo of Frederic looking completely out of his comfort zone, with the dog’s tail drooping while I looked on in the background with a bemused expression.
So where does that place us on this Royal Unity Promenade to show the country we’re actually marrying for love? I’d say we’re still at the starting blocks, hoping it’s all going to pan out.
Now, we’re at the new wing of an aquarium in Portminster, about fifty kilometers south of Lysoria, and Frederic has just cut the ribbon. The director has suggested we get into the tank with the dolphins for a swim, and the photographers are practically salivating at the idea.
“Absolutely not,” Frederic says before I even open my mouth.
“Why not? You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” I reply.
“You’re going to say ‘Let’s do it.’”
“But Fred, this would be an incredible experience. Have you ever swum with dolphins before?”
“That’s not the point.”
The director, a man called Mr. Proctor, a prematurely balding man who looks exactly like Jacques Cousteau, watches us hopefully. “We have wetsuits that would fit both of you, and I assure you, it’s perfectly safe, sir.”
I’m not letting this opportunity pass me by, no matter what level of protocol or decorum Frederic is clinging to.
“I would love to swim with the dolphins, Mr. Proctor. I’ve never been able to do anything like this in Elkevik. In fact, you can barely swim in Elkevik because the water’s so cold. Only in summer, for approximately two weeks, is it warm enough to step foot in without freezing. Although I’m told itisvery good for your body to get into cold water, you know.”
Frederic stares at me as though I’m speaking gibberish.
But Jacques Cousteau beams at me. “Wonderful!” he says with glee.
A short while later, I’m using the long string that hangs off the back of a wetsuit to zip it up before piling my hair on top of my head, when there’s a knock on the ladies’ changing-room door.
“Who is it?” I call out.
“It’s… err, me. Your fiancé,” Frederic’s low voice rumbles.
I pull the door open and am met with the most incredible sight. Frederic, wearing a sleeveless wetsuit that shows off a pair of rather shapely arms. Arms I might have seen in photosof him on the beach in the past, but have not yet seen in real life.
It takes me a moment to regain control of myself.
He looks rather… manly.
