Free Around the World in 80 Dates by Jennifer Cox Page A

much to be done.
    Logging on, I found the usual deluge of dating detail emails. Italy was demanding decisions. I was meeting Umberto, a guy who ran a “traffic dating” website. (Stuck in a traffic jam and fancy the driver two lanes over? Note down their license plate, search for it on Umberto’s website, and send them an email suggesting a date.) Umberto wanted to know, were we meeting in Siena or Rome?
    I was going to Verona to do the balcony scene with Romeo. The people who looked after Juliet’s house wanted to know my medieval dress size.
    Meanwhile, over in Paris, I was going on a Skate Date and the guy I was to skate with wanted to know my foot size.
    There was also a two-day-old email from Anders:
    I have heard the weather shell be sunny on friday so you dont need any warm clothes, i will recemend jeans, maby a windbreaker, and of course bikini (leasure).
    Hmmmmm.
    I worked my way through the emails. I also surfed the Net trying to work out if it was feasible to get from Paris to Berlin by train, and if not and I needed to fly, could I go direct or did I need to backtrack via London? I’d forgotten to pay my credit-card bill and had left my online password in my Palm Pilot at home (in a misguided attempt to travel light), so I needed to call the bank and sort that out. I also checked my answering machine in London. My sister Toz had called: What day was I arriving at her house for the bank holiday weekend? Gareth had rung from Wales to make sure I was still on for the hike over the bank holiday weekend. On my cell, Cath had texted to see if we were still on for Norfolk over the bank holiday weekend. Obviously, while I meticulously cross-checked my dating schedule, I’d forgotten to pay the same attention to my home life and had now triple-booked myself. I couldn’t face hearing all those irritated voices now, so made a mental note to call them later.
    I looked at my watch: 4 p.m. No time to catch a nap, I had to get ready. An hour later, hoping I didn’t look as hungover and sleep-deprived as I felt, I grabbed my bag (including the dreaded bikini) and made my way down to reception.
    I had no idea what Anders looked like, but felt sure I’d know when I saw him. As I looked discreetly around the lobby, the door crashed open and a large woman in a tailored black jacket stormed in. She pointed at me. “You are Jennifer?” she boomed, as if daring me to disagree.
    I nodded, hesitating in my confusion. Where was Anders?
    â€œThen you come with me,” she commanded, turning on her heel and striding back outside without a backward glance.
    It wasn’t quite what I had expected. Unsure of exactly what was happening, I walked slowly out the open front door after her. Scanning the street, I spotted her waiting in the driver’s seat of a taxi, engine running. She motioned impatiently for me to get in. I knew Ann-Charlotte was in on this, plus I had done crazier things making travel programs (on one national radio show, listeners were invited to show me, unaccompanied, around their home cities. As I climbed into a strange man’s car in Istanbul, I remember wondering if we had really thought through the personal security implications of the program and if I’d ever be seen alive again).
    We drove south out of town through the busy port area. The shipyard was hard at work, huge cruise liners moored alongside fleets of fishing boats, proving that Gothenburg was wise or fortunate enough to have more than one industry paying the bills. The industrial warehouses looked successful enough, for now, to resist the yuppie developments claiming more vulnerable waterfronts around the world, from Auckland and Sydney to Vancouver and London.
    My taxi driver chatted as she drove but I wasn’t really listening. I was thinking about how I was being played. Anders was keeping me guessing: He obviously liked to be in charge, calling all the shots. “Let him,” I said to