The Light of Amsterdam by David Park

world would be a simpler place if it didn’t exist, this strange, inexplicable thing that happened between men and women and about which she had no real understanding. Perhaps this was one of her failings and a selfishness on her part that she should have done more to remedy. But who could you talk to about such intimacies, to whom could you reveal the inner life of a marriage? Another generation perhaps, with their internet blogs that laid out the secrets of their lives like so many clothes taken from their wardrobe and spread on the bed for the world to inspect. She could never do it, so whatever happened must only happen inside the privacy of her head.
    She turned the water off and listened. There were no other sounds from the changing room except the piped Christmas music and the hum of pipes and spin of extractor fans. Perhaps she would be lucky in this at least and have the place to herself but she sheathed herself tightly in the towel, took a deep and involuntary breath and then walked slowly back to her locker. The young woman had gone, the only traces of her, wet footprints on the tiles and the scent of the perfume that she’d sprayed. So quickly she changed, not caring that little spots of dampness seeped through her blouse and made it look as if she’d just come in from the rain. Then packing her things away she went to the mirror that filled the wall beside the entrance and switched on the hairdrier. She brushed and dried, pushing her hair back into shape, and all the time tried to tell herself that she felt some benefit from the exercise. A mother with a toddler came through from the swimming area, the child shivering a little until he was wrapped in a large white towel that had an image of Spiderman climbing a skyscraper. She rolled him in the towel as if coating him with flour and about to bake him in the oven. Watching them in the mirror made her remember how it was with her own children, sad just for a moment that they were grown up and no longer needed her to hold them in her arms, no longer looked to her for their protection or warmth against the cold. The child was puffing air as if blowing up some invisible balloon and he wore a little red and white swim cap that when taken off revealed a flattened bob of blond hair. She looked at herself again in the mirror and, seeing her face was still red from the heat of the shower, applied a little moisturiser to try and calm it. Perhaps she should think about changing the colour of her hair, nothing too dramatic or risky but something to lighten it or even just add highlights. A change, something unexpected. Too stuck in her ways, too stuck in her comfort zone. That’s what they’d say if she was the subject of one of those makeover programmes that were on every channel and every night. They made it look so easy, like a fairy story where magic dust was sprinkled and wishes granted. But she didn’t know where or how to start, and more than anything dreaded looking sad and desperate, advertising to the world what insecurities had driven her to an attempted transformation. And anyway she didn’t believe in fairy stories and perhaps belief itself was the prerequisite for such miracles.
    At the desk on the way out the girl was still studying her mobile phone while Paul was flicking through a collection of CD s. They both looked up as she passed and smiled. The girl said, ‘So you survived then,’ and her voice was friendly and warm. The light glittered the diamond.
    â€˜See you soon,’ Paul said and she answered yes and walked off down the corridor wondering what they were really thinking. The new CD was put on and as she pushed the front door open she heard the opening bars of some tune she vaguely recognised but couldn’t name.
    So this was his birthday present to her. A year’s subscription to the leisure complex, a year’s opportunity to get herself in shape. And of course a weekend in Amsterdam. It wasn’t