Roxanne, p.1
Roxanne., page 1
Roxanne.
Melanie Martins
VAN DEN BOSCH BOOK 1
Copyright © Melanie Martins 2022
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All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of its publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar conditions being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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First published in the United States by Melanie Martins, LLC in 2022.
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eBook ISBN 979-8-9852380-8-2
Paperback ISBN 979-8-9852380-9-9
Disclaimer
This novel is a work of fiction written in American English and is intended for mature audiences. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This novel contains strong and explicit language, graphic sexuality, and other sensitive content that may be disturbing for some readers.
To all of you, my dear readers.
Thank you.
“The universe has a way of bringing fated lovers together.”
— Andries van den Bosch
Contents
Prologue
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
THREE WEEKS LATER…
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Also by Melanie Martins
About the Author
Prologue
Amsterdam, January 19, 2022
Andries
I still remember the day she first said her name. Her voice was nothing like I’d ever heard before––velvet, fine-grained, and smooth. There was something magnetic about it. It was terribly inviting and deeply alluring.
Through the window of my bedroom, I can still see the street she used to walk every single day on her way to work. She’d told me she was a librarian, and that she was currently working in an ancient bookshop in a dusty corner of the city. She’d stay there until late to read rare editions of books that can no longer be found anywhere else in the country. I love reading just as much, especially poetry or those classics that romanticize love. Those that feed your heart and soul. A pity my family doesn’t share the same opinion. “Really? That’s what you want to be? A poet? In a family of judges, industrialists, and politicians, you want to be the poet?” The disappointment in my dad’s voice when I told him I didn’t want to attend business school and that I wanted to become…well, yeah, a poet is not something that is easily forgettable.
The repugnance he has for the word poet is enough for me to never talk about my passion and dreams ever again under that roof. No one in my family likes poetry. In fact, any book that doesn’t teach you about finance, business, or law is not a book that is allowed to be paraded around the Van den Bosch estate.
She, on the other hand, shared the same passion as I. She liked poetry of many forms, from simple to complex, from Rimbaud to Verlaine. We could spend hours talking about our favorite poets and the exciting lives they led. Then, she would lay her head on my chest, and listen to me while I’d read her some of the poems I’d written.
My poems… As if what I write can be worthy of being called poems. But she liked them. At least that’s what she’d told me on a handful of occasions. But there were so many other things she also told me that just weren’t true….
My eyes drift downward to the carmine-colored leather notebook she gifted me for my most recent birthday, my initials carved on its cover. Write in it, she had said. Aren’t you a writer? A poet?
No woman I had ever met before cared about me in this way. They usually cared about the nobility or the status my family name carries, the money and lifestyle that could follow for being in my circle, but never about me—Andries, the introvert, the wannabe poet, the incurable romantic.
Not one, until I met her.
Now I’m nothing but a foolish boy who fell for a woman he should’ve never met in the first place.
There’s a tear streaming down my cheek, but I can’t help it. I shake my head remembering what my sister told me: Heartbroken poets write their best work.
But despite my heart being shattered into a thousand pieces, I’m not in the mood to write poetry. No, if I have to write, I will write about her in her entirety—as the woman who stole my heart and played with it, the woman who fooled me, the woman I hate and love the most at the same time: Roxanne.
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER…
1
Amsterdam, August 19, 2021
Roxanne
“If she has to go abroad, then yes, you need to charge the client a travel fee,” I explain kindly to Laura, my new booking manager. “Stephanie will need to spend time traveling so this needs to be invoiced.”
“Perfect, I’ll do that now,” she answers from the other side of the line and I can already hear the sound of her keyboard as she starts typing. “Talk later.”
“Alright. Bye.” After hanging up, I throw the phone in the cup holder of my car and glance at my watch, keeping an eye on the road as I turn right.
Crap. I’m late again. I park quickly in front of the building entrance, my heart already thundering anxiously fast as I turn off the engine.
Well, here we are.
Heaving a long sigh, I take the gifts for my sister and Mama that lie on the empty seat beside me, and, a bit apprehensively, force myself to exit the car.
I hate birthdays. Especially Mama’s, but my thoughts are immediately swept away by a strong gust of wind as I stand outside. Goodness, how come it’s so windy in August? It’s never been like this before.
Alright, let’s get this over with….
I lock the car, and, for the sake of precaution, double-check if there’s anything left inside that could draw attention. Despite growing up here, in Bijlmer, I don’t trust this neighborhood—it’s on the outskirts of Amsterdam, and it reminds me too much of my childhood, which is something I’d rather not recall.
Each time I leave the Porsche here, I feel tempted to call the cops so they can keep an attentive eye on it while I’m upstairs. I don’t trust the curious strangers approaching me while I walk toward the building entrance, a shopping gift bag on each hand. I give them a small smile for the sake of politeness, but my heart is growing tighter at every click of my heels.
As I pass through the two young men, I hear one of them whistling at me and the other chuckling. Instinctively, I speed up my pace in direction to the double doors without looking back. It’s only 5 p.m., but this area is terrifying even in broad daylight.
Why can’t Lili move out from here? I ask myself once more as I get inside and read, Lift out of order. This sign has been on and off since I’m six—since I moved here with my parents. Lili was still in Mama’s womb when we landed in the Netherlands for the first time. I can still remember walking down the streets of Amsterdam in awe of how empty it was. Mind you, when you come from Shenzhen, a city with twenty-five million inhabitants—filled with people constantly screaming or chattering—Amsterdam looks like a Chinese village in the mountains of Zhengou.
As I start taking the stairs, I curse under my breath at my lack of endurance. I really should quit smoking once and for all. It’s a ritual I tell myself each time I come here, especially as I reach the second floor and need to stop to get my breath back. Standing still, I support myself against the concrete wall and breathe slowly in and out.
Alright, two more floors to go.
Damn it. How can Lili go up and down these every day without problems? And worse, how can she carry her groceries up to the fourth floor without a lift? I rub my face as I finally work up the courage to continue forward. Crossing the third floor’s barrier, my shoes start to set my feet on fire. I should’ve switched my stilettos to a pair of comfortable flats before coming here, but alas, I was already so late.
Reaching the fourth floor, I’m startled by my iPhone's ringing. Recognizing the ringtone, I immediately know it’s Karl calling. I wonder if he’s calling to cancel our dinner date for 8 p.m. Truthfully, that would be great, I’m already so tired today. I pick the phone and answer him.
“Hi, sweetheart, how are you doing?” His tone is as fake as his relationship with his wife. Or should I say ex-wife? Though I haven’t really been following the news about his divorce.
“Hey, so great to hea r from you,” I tell him, my voice just as sweet and bubbly. “It’s Mama’s birthday today, so I’m paying her and Lili a visit.”
“Are you serious? That area is so dangerous. Please tell me it’s a driver who’s dropped you there.”
A quick chuckle escapes me at his tone. “Um…”
“Your Porsche is done. R.I.P.” While Karl sounds truly worried for my car, I can’t help but laugh instead.
“I’m only staying here for two hours then I’ll head downtown for our dinner. It’s at eight, right?”
A gush of air rolls off his lips. “The guys postponed the dinner for tomorrow. They are too jet lagged to go out tonight.”
“Oh, no,” I feign sadness. “I was looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me too, Roxie. Do you think you can make it tomorrow?”
I don’t answer. Silence will make him more vulnerable.
“Like… I know it’ll count still if I cancel your service a few hours before the appointment, but I’m okay with paying the five hundred euros fee. I really need you to come tomorrow.”
“I have other plans for tomorrow,” I say quietly, the shopping bags starting to feel their weight on my hands.
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sure you do. But this is really important for me. I swear, if you can charm them, do you know how big of a deal it would be?”
My lips curve slightly up and I simply mumble a brief, “I know.” I consider putting my bags on the floor to alleviate my wrists for a moment, but I fear that someone might snatch them up as they pass by.
“I already called the restaurant and changed the booking for tomorrow. Please Roxie, make it happen. We have been together for fifteen years now. I’m your oldest client.”
“And my favorite,” I coo. Which is true since Karl is the one who pays me the most. “If I charm them and they sign the contract with your company, I hope you’ll keep your promise.”
“I will, babe. I’ve always kept my promises with you, haven’t I?”
I pause, considering his words. “I think so.”
Abruptly, I hear a squeak and the door in front of me opening. A petite woman emerges out of the darkness in sweatpants and stands still in the doorway.
“Alright, I have to go. Count me in for tomorrow, then. I’ll ask Poppy to send you the invoice for the cancelation fee.”
“You’re the best, sweetheart. Thank you.”
“Bye.” And I hang-up, my eyes already meeting my sister’s intriguing face as she wonders who I was talking to. “How are you?” I ask, putting on a friendly tone, despite her annoyed expression.
I hear nothing but an exasperated breath before she returns back inside. Unfortunately, I can’t say it’s the first time she's behaved like this. Her annoyance has become regular when I come home. It’s almost as if my presence has become a source of distress for her.
Despite her attitude, I follow her into the old, family apartment and close the door behind me.
Standing in the entry way, I watch Lili, as she’s already found her place back in the modest dining room, clearing away the remaining dirty plates from the table.
“Are you okay?” My question hangs in the air and Lili pays no mind to it.
Each time I come here, Lili is always either stressed, annoyed, grumpy, or moody. She’s younger than me and yet she has the energy of a woman who’s tired of life.
“Do you know what time is it?” she asks, finally facing me, two plates in each hand.
I cut eye contact with her for a moment, reminding myself I didn’t manage to arrive in time for lunch. “Eh, I’m sorry—”
“Never mind,” she grits between her teeth, before storming into the kitchen.
I pace slowly through the barely lit hallway, my eyes traveling across the many frames hanging on the wall with pictures of Lili and I, and others with Mama. The familiar portraits makes me smile but there’s one in particular that perks my attention and I stop in front of it. It’s the one taken at my graduation at the University of Amsterdam with my English degree in hand. Damn, my hair was long and black then. I can’t help shaking my head at the terrible haircut I had. What a big difference with my current short, wavy blonde hair—Marilyn Monroe style, just the way I like it.
Reaching the kitchen, I stand by the doorway and observe Lili scrubbing lightly at the plates before throwing them into the dishwasher. She is wearing a comfortable pair of gray sweatpants and a cheap t-shirt. Her black hair is pushed behind into a messy bun, and I can still see the traces of makeup on her jawline that she must have worn during the day for Mama’s birthday.
“Do you need help?” It’s the only thing that comes to mind to say.
She stops her task, her head turning in my direction and her eyes zoom at my hands, still holding the gifts. A snort escapes her and her attention returns to the plates.
“Fine,” I breathe, knowing exactly why she’s behaving this way with me. “I’m sorry for the delay, but—”
“But what?” Her loud tone and deep frown nearly startles me. Lili is now facing me again and I notice the dark circles under her eyes. “There’s no excuse to have missed her birthday. You know she only agrees to see you when it’s a family event and yet you missed it.” Her rebuke makes me swallow the lump in my throat just as fast. Her eyes dart down to my hands for a second, before she exhales loudly in return and adds, “Mama doesn’t want anything from you.”
“I know that,” I say, keeping my voice low. Then I take a few steps in her direction and proceed. “Lili, I’m so sorry for my delay, but one of the girls couldn’t make it at the very last minute, so I had to go on her behalf and—”
“Argh…” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head in disgust. “When are you gonna stop with this lifestyle?” Her eyes narrow on me, and she frowns instantly. “Don’t you have enough money yet?”
“It’s my business and it’s giving me a nice, steady income,” I riposte back. “So no, I don’t intend to stop anytime soon.”
“Are you still having sex with them though?” Her question is so intrusive that my whole body tense.
“That’s private,” I refute defensively.
But Lili doesn’t seem to mind. “You promised me at thirty you will stop it, that was five years ago!”
“And I have,” I lie; I have just stopped accepting new clients.
She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Really?”
“Yes, now I’m just overseeing the other girls and the management of the agency, that’s it.” Well, not really, there are three clients I’m still seeing on a regular basis since they are my personal favorites—Karl is one of them.
I raise my hands, showing her the gifts. “Tell Mama that it’s you who bought them.”
She creases her brows, looking at them. “What is it?”
“Open it,” I instruct, reveling in her curiosity.
Lili reaches for a dishcloth to dry her hands and then takes the gifts, heading to the dining room again. There, she puts the bags on the wooden table, opens the first one, and pulls the beige box with a bow out, observing it attentively as it lies between her hands.
“This one is for Mama,” I say as Lili opens the box, her eyes alighting on a brand new Burberry cashmere trench coat. “And the other one is for you.”
Without saying a word, Lili takes the other box and opens it. Her eyes glitter and I can even feel her joy as her fingers start slowly running through the fabric of her brand new coat. In a quick move, she takes it out completely and checks the length and size.
