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‘Pas op, drempeltje,’ he warns me, as the tip of my shoe hits something like a bump.

‘Are we there yet?’

He chuckles. ‘Almost.’

By the echo of our steps, we’re probably in the large hall.

‘You can open your eyes now.’

I do, and… ‘Oh. My. God!’

My thoughts are drowned by the flood of images on the walls of the Fabrique. It would have been amazing anyway. Only now it’s magical, for the images are from the film based on the book I was named after—Coraline.

‘You like?’

‘I…I love!’ My whisper bounces against the bare walls and returns like tiny pompoms.

He sighs, as if relieved.

‘How did you do this? Is the place even available for private events?’

He shrugs. ‘It isn’t. But it helps to know the right people.’

I spin, taking in the images with a huge smile. There’s my namesake crawling through the tunnel that takes her to the other world; the cake with the candles that says Welcome Home; the full moon illuminating the garden with the red trees, hummingbirds and the magic flowers; and the Pink Palace apartments. All scenes blended together to create a universe made for me by Luuk, and I want to hold every scene in my memory.

‘It’s amazing!’

‘Glad to hear, but we are not done.’

‘There’s more?’

He takes me by the hand, and I follow. There’s a Fatboy loveseat in the middle of the hall, complete with cushions and a fluffy throw. In front of it, a small table is filled with colourful nibbles.

‘This is the best thing ever!’

The spread is exquisite. Because of course Luuk and Dory—as I find out—conspired to create a feast of colour, texture and flavour, the effect enhanced by Mason jars with flickering tealight candles. My stomach is a knot of nerves and excitement, and the only reason I have a few bites is that the Prosecco will go straight to my head on an empty stomach, and that dry spell might tip over into ZeroFucksToGive.

The stunning man next to me does nothing to help. We watch the scenes for a while; thighs, shoulders and arms rubbing as the loveseat wobbles with every move, sending small surges through my body that electrocute every attempt at overthinking. Who am I kidding? Right now, thinking is one of those tasks best left for another day.

Then Luuk pulls out his phone and a small speaker, turning to me with the naughtiest smile. He presses play, and the first notes of Knockin’ Boots fill the space.

‘I couldn’t help myself. Not the most Coraline-suitable soundtrack, but we’ll be uncensored here.’ He gets up and stretches his arm. ‘Shall we?’

The bubbles party in my head as I take his hand, my mind interpreting his invitation to dance as a prompt to do what the song says—FFS!

He pulls me to my feet, and we’re standing face-to-face, listening to lyrics about hair coming down and a dress sliding off. As we dance, his hand on my lower back, his other cradling my palm, I throw my head back and laugh—what feels like my first carefree laugh in years.

My babies give me plenty of reasons to be joyful, including embarrassing ones, but right now, here, alone with Luuk in this huge space reserved for us, we feel wrapped in our own cocoon, where no worries can pass through. And I allow myself to be me. Not Coraline the mom or the daughter or the ex—the one who hasn’t had much luck in love—but Corrie who dares to dream.

It feels only natural that those dreams include this man, dazzling as he smiles at me while demonstrating some serious dance moves. It’s refreshing and a relief, this sensation of an invisible net called Luuk Meiers, here and ready to catch me if I fall.

I find myself wanting more of this, of him in my life, flipping the bird at fear and catastrophizing.

Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under follows the first song. ‘I see a theme here.’

He sends me a devilish smile. ‘Do you?’

‘What, no song of yours?’ I ask, when the playlist reaches its last song.