Free The Light of Amsterdam by David Park

every new member and to do with insurance. Presumably if she hurt herself or did some deep personal damage she alone would now shoulder the blame. The young man was called Paul and he called her Marion as if they were lifelong friends and he saturated her with instructions and facts that she couldn’t possibly absorb so she constantly had to nod to show that she was taking it all in. He had a little twined coloured wristband and the tips of his hair were flecked with blond like a paintbrush that had been lightly dipped in gold leaf. He was talking about building things up, about taking everything gradually, of finding what she was comfortable with, and she wanted to tell him that she’d found that out a long time ago and none of it had anything to do with her body. She didn’t believe in miracles and so despite the fervour of those all around her, including the young woman who ran ever faster towards her own image in the glass in what looked like a desperate attempt to meet the person she wanted to be, she did not believe that whatever she performed in this place would remap the landscape of her body. She was a formed continent, and only her dignity felt a sense of erosion as he led her to some kind of rowing machine and made her sit on the seat with his hand on her shoulder.
    Before they were married, when he was still courting her, Richard took her out in a rowing boat one Easter Monday in Portrush. He just assumed he could do it, the way he could do everything he put his hand to, and when she laughed at his incompetence, at their first circular motions, he got a little peeved and then embarrassed. His pride was hurt and it made him try even harder until he found the knack. All these years later it felt as if he was punishing her as she pulled at the handle and her seat scuttled forward and a young man told her that she was doing well. He was patronising her with his praise and she longed for the whole initiation to be over so she could find anonymity in a quiet corner.
    â€˜I think that’s about everything for the moment,’ he said eventually, putting his hand under her elbow as she inelegantly levered herself back to her feet. ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask, anything you want to know about?’
    She looked at him and for a second she wanted to ask if there was anything about her at all that he might possibly have found attractive, if during their time together, when he was standing close and touching her arms or shoulders, there was even a moment when he felt aware of her. But behind the bland functionality of his smile she saw an impatience in his eyes and knew that there was somewhere he’d rather be – probably joking with the young girl at reception as she studied her text messages and swapping stories about what they’d done at the weekend. The girl with the blonde hair and the tiny diamond on the side of her nose that shone like a spot of moisture or a snowflake frozen into hardness and who, too, possessed that sense of cold confidence.
    After he was gone she looked at herself in the mirror as she sat on a cycling machine and pedalled slowly, never getting any closer to where she wanted to be. She still had the brightness of her eyes, she told herself, and the blessing of good teeth and healthy hair. Tilting her head so that her neck tautened the small fold of flesh under her chin she pedalled a little faster as if the increased speed might slip away some of the pounds that had settled on her hips and which also cushioned the thin hardness of the seat. She tried to look elegant as she pedalled, straightening her back and seeking to maintain a steady rhythm. She hadn’t been on a bike since she was a teenager and as she stared at herself in the glass, encouraged by the fixed way those around her did the same, she searched for any sign of that girl she once was.
    A group of them had ridden along the coast to Groomsport where one of the girls had a family caravan.