Simo has beautiful hands, wide palms with strong fingers. He pulls at one end of the croissant, and it comes apart, buttery sweetness rising into the air. I never thought I’d envy a croissant, but I’d give a lot to switch places right now. His fingertips glisten with grease. He catches me looking just as a piece of flaky pastry disappears between his lips. As if he can hear my thoughts, his eyes flash golden in the ceiling lights of the bakery. I’d look away, but it’s physically impossible.
‘And? What say you?’ Anna leans in. She’s in one of her trademark suits, azure-coloured, that says business as well as extravagance. She clashes with the clean but tiny kitchen that Simo, Graham, Anna and I have squashed ourselves into. This is the place where my great-grandfather made and sold his loaves in the sixties. This is the first Brandenburg bakery.
‘It’s stunning,’ I say, half a croissant in my own hands. It’s still warm, but I can’t say much about its taste because Simo is far too distracting.
Graham nods proudly. ‘Our chefs are excellent. Much better than I was when I worked here, before we expanded.’
I look at him now, crisp and elegant, and can’t imagine him as a young man, arms covered in flour, baking bread to support his family.
When we arrived late last night after a six-hour train journey, we spent the evening settling into our rooms at my grandparents’ townhouse. That is, they gave us a room each, but we dropped our things in the first one without even checking the second. The bed alone is twice as big as mine back home. It would have been weird to sleep in separate beds when we’ve been sharing since we were seven.
This morning Anna and Graham are taking us around the capital. I’ve never been in a place so busy and so loud. Sure, at home you always hear the ocean, but being here feels like you’re being shouted at from all sides. Everything flashes and screams for your attention. Following a visit of the culinary school that my grandparents founded, and a twelve-course lunch on the thirty-ninth floor of a skyscraper, we stopped by the humble kitchen where it all began.
‘So, what do you want to do next? We could board Graham’s sailing boat and go on a river cruise, or get a private tour of the Portrait Museum,’ Anna offers.
I don’t want to sound spoilt and ungrateful, but—
‘Would it be OK if Simo and I checked out some bookstores? I know he has a whole route mapped out.’
Simo’s cheeks flush. He looks angelic, dark curls out in full force and a glow in his eyes, like a kid that’s been promised ice cream. No one could deny him a bookshelf-browsing session. I can’t deny him anything.
‘As long as you’re home by six,’ Anna says, with a hint of relief in her voice. Maybe she’s just as glad as me at theprospect of a break. ‘We need to ensure your tuxes fit before the ball.’
Outside the bakery, their limousine has barely disappeared around the corner before Simo pulls me into the labyrinth of the capital. He was quiet around my grandparents, more so than usual. He brightens up when we reach our first stop, a poetry apothecary that offers books for those seeking hope, comfort, heartbreak cures and other remedies.
‘Thanks for the escape plan,’ he says.
‘I didn’t know you needed one,’ I laugh, expecting him to laugh too. But he doesn’t. ‘What is it?’
He shrugs, his fingers gliding over the spines of books on the shelves.
‘Simo, tell me,’ I say.
He glances up at the worry in my voice, then quickly looks away again. ‘Maybe I’m making it up,’ he starts, ‘but I get the sense your grandparents don’t like me that much.’
I don’t know what I expected, but it’s not that. ‘What makes you think that? Of course they like you.’ Anna and Graham have been nothing but charming. They’re the type of hosts that go out of their way to please their guests.
Simo shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t . . . Forget I said anything.’
‘No, Simo—’
‘Pick something,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Pick a book,’ he repeats and motions to the shelves. I know he’s trying to distract me, and it works, mostly because there’s a flake of leftover croissant clinging to his jaw. I see myself drop it on my tongue and swallow. Isquash the instinct and brush the crumb from his skin like a sane person. He watches me with gold-specked eyes, one eyebrow slanted in question.
‘Seriously?’ I ask.
‘Come on. Poetry can be short and sweet.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘I want to buy you a book,’ Simo says quietly, ‘as a memento of this weekend.’
I melt away. I don’t tell him that I don’t need a memento to remember this, or him. But I nod and step closer. Simo tracks my movement, and his attention warms my neck. In the end I pick a book solely based on its title:Clouds Cannot Cover Us. Simo holds his palm out, and I want to take his hand again, like I did the night of the Christmas party. Instead, I hand over the book. He reads the title with a smile, and I feel like I made the right choice.
The charity ball is held in a converted gas holder. A red carpet leads into the domed building. Inside is a wide platform that easily holds a few hundred people, surrounded by water. As cameras flash and people pose for pictures, Anna introduces us to her friends, men and women in smart tuxes and glittering dresses with ageless faces that tell me they’ve been touched by a surgeon or two. I’m not being judgemental, simply stating facts.
