Kitabı oku: «The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea», sayfa 3
‘My best friend has been saying exactly the same thing about me this afternoon.’
He does a soft snort. ‘Ah, at least we can revel in our trust issues together. Which is, of course, a totally normal thing to talk to a complete stranger about. I don’t talk to many people, as you can tell because I’m so bad at it.’
He’s self-deprecating and rambly in the most adorable way. And I just … don’t want to stop talking to him. ‘Well, that’s three things we have in common – trust issues, full names we don’t use, and being bad at talking to people. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job so far. This is fun.’
I can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Maybe it’s because you’re on my phone. I feel like I’m talking to myself.’
‘Yeah, that must be it.’ I’m sitting here smiling at my empty living room, which is not something that usually evokes a smile. ‘How’d you manage without your phone today? Must’ve been tough – we’re so used to always having them on us.’
‘Oh, you have no idea. My train timetable was on it, directions, and the bus timetable to get into Pearlholme. I didn’t even know the time because I rely on my phone instead of wearing a watch. I had to do the unthinkable. I had to stop strangers in the street and ask for directions.’
‘Oh no, how did you cope?’ I struggle to hold in a giggle.
‘It was terrible! I had to make actual eye contact and everything.’ He makes the noise of a shudder. ‘Who does that in this day and age? It’s what Google Maps was invented for – to prevent the rare occasion that you might have to speak to a random human being you don’t actually know.’
‘I remember that. It was always so annoying when you’d ask someone and they’d tell you the way, and you’d follow their directions and you were clearly in the wrong place, so you’d ask someone else and they’d tell you completely the opposite direction from what the first lot had told you, and then you’d have to drive back past the first lot and wonder if you could casually push them over a bridge or something.’
He groans. ‘I better not tell you that one of my favourite pastimes growing up was trolling people who asked for directions. They’d ask if I knew where a place was, and I act all authoritative and say, “Oh, yes, I live right near there; it’s this way, take a left and turn down the lane.” I’d direct them to, like, the middle of the nearest cow field. It was great!’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I grew up in a tiny village and life was boring.’ He pauses. ‘From the tone of your voice, I take it the correct answer is “because I was young, cruel, and incredibly immature, and got my jollies off by making other people’s lives a misery”?’
‘That’s better,’ I say, unable to contain my laughter. He’s naturally funny but none of it seems forced. He seems like an old friend I’ve known for years.
A really hot old friend, obviously.
‘I nearly had to go full-on retro and call the speaking clock to find out the time.’
‘With what?’
‘I hadn’t even thought of that!’ He laughs. ‘See? That’s how weird it is not to have a phone on you. I suppose I’d have had to find a relic of an old telephone box. Anything would be better than having to ask a stranger again. Starting conversations with strangers once in a day is more than enough.’
‘So what phone are you on now? Did you have to borrow one?’
‘No, I bought this ancient pay-as-you-go thing for fifteen quid. It’s one of the old clamshell flip phones, if you can remember them. Colour screens had barely been invented and there’s so much glare that you can’t see it in daylight. Most people haven’t seen one since 2003 but they like to keep up with the times around here.’
‘And you managed to get that in Pearlholme? From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound modern enough for a phone like that.’
‘Flipping ’eck, no. There’s a slightly bigger village about five miles away. I got the bus there and found it in the chemist of all places. And when I got on the bus, the bus driver said, “You’re the bloke doing up the carousel on the beach, aren’t you?” and he refused a fare because the carousel will be good for the area. That’s how archaic it is round here. I’d only been in town long enough to collect my key and dump my bags at the cottage.’
‘I grew up in a village like that. I used to hate it, but sometimes the crowds of London make me miss it.’
‘Me too. I’m from a village in South Yorkshire. I haven’t lived there for a long time though.’
‘Yeah, your accent kind of gives that away.’ I try not to sound as spellbound by his accent as I am. I could quite happily sit here and listen to him read the phone book. ‘I’m from Nottingham but it reminds me of home.’
‘I hate London. You never really escape the feeling of loneliness there despite the fact you’re constantly surrounded by people. I love going on jobs like this where I can get away for a while.’
‘I’m so jealous. My office is a cubicle the size of a matchbox, and my choice of view is a white wall or a white wall with the scars of a thousand drawing pins being stuck in it over the years. Your job sounds like heaven.’
‘I’m really lucky,’ he says. ‘If you ever want to get away, you should come up here. It’s beautiful.’
‘I’ll add it to my list of destinations for holidays I’ll never take,’ I say, feeling more desolate than is normal when talking about holidays.
He sighs and the line goes quiet, but it doesn’t feel awkward. I used to talk about nonsense to fill up uncomfortable silences with ‘poor Andrew’, but I feel content just listening to him breathe down the line.
It is a bit weird though.
‘So how am I going to get this phone back to you then?’ I say eventually. I don’t want this conversation to end, but it seems stupid not to mention anything about it. ‘I can keep—’
‘Why don’t you come and find me? It’s kind of your fault that I lost it in the first place because I was distracted by you—’
‘Oi! You can’t blame me.’
He starts laughing, letting me know it was just a joke. ‘Well, you want to give it back so badly, come up to Pearlholme and give it back. It’s the most gorgeous village – you’d love it here.’
‘I can’t, Nathan, I’d never get the time off work and it’s a long way and …’ I trail off, feeling like I’m scrabbling for excuses. In reality, my heart has leapt into my throat and is hammering like a pneumatic drill. The idea of getting away, of going to a beach, a vintage carousel, and … him. The idea that he might actually want to see me …
‘Yeah, of course. Sorry. It’s been a long day of travelling. I’ve lost my grip on how funny my jokes are. I didn’t mean owt by it.’
‘I mean, I would, but …’
‘No, no, I was just messing about. No one would be that much of an idiot. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll look after it for me.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘I’d better go before I make an even bigger fool of myself. It’s getting late and I’ve got to start work at first light tomorrow. I need to strip the carousel to pieces and assess exactly what kind of condition it’s in and what needs doing, and that macaroni cheese is bubbling away, ready to come out of the oven.’
‘Thanks for ringing.’ I try not to think about how jealous I am of his quiet cottage, homemade meal, garden, tea, and sea view. Nothing has ever sounded more appealing. I squeeze the phone tighter, hoping that I can somehow cling on to him a bit longer. ‘I’m really glad you did.’
‘Me too,’ he says softly, and I can hear that smile in his voice again.
He doesn’t say anything else and I get a sudden flutter that maybe he’s doing the same thing as I am, hanging on that little bit longer.
This is all too weird. I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone so easily. It’s like something from a film, like those first exciting emails between Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, and I’m sure I’ve got the same sappy smile on my face.
‘I suppose I’d better say goodnight,’ I say, feeling abrupt, but the longer I hang on to this call, the more real it seems, and this … whatever this is … how can it be real? Life doesn’t happen like this. You don’t smile at a stranger on a train and then they turn out to be the perfect match.
‘Yeah, me too,’ he says. Am I imagining how sad he sounds?
I could so easily ask him something else, anything else, just to stay chatting to him a bit longer, but I give myself a shake. ‘Goodnight, Nathan. It was nice talking to you.’
Nice? It’s the best evening I’ve spent in months. Years, maybe. Nice is how you describe the questionable jumper your nan knitted you for Christmas when she asks if you’ve worn it, not a warm, funny conversation with a gorgeous, sweet guy.
Even though I’m not interested in guys, no matter how gorgeous or sweet they are.
‘Night, Ness,’ he says. ‘And thanks again. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’
‘Don’t let the sand fleas bite in that gorgeous cottage of yours.’
I can hear his laughter fading as he hangs up, and it makes me smile. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s made me smile tonight. He’s better than anything I could’ve chosen on Netflix.
And no matter how not-interested I am in men and relationships, I grab my charger and breathe a sigh of relief when it fits his phone. I don’t even know why I’m so relieved, but I know I want to keep it charged in case he phones again.
* * *
About an hour later, after I’ve warmed up my microwave meal – living on the edge because the packet said ‘do not reheat’ – Nathan’s phone jingles again. I trip over my own feet as I rush embarrassingly fast to get the message, still convinced it will be his girlfriend wondering where he is.
It’s him again, a picture this time. I smile as I open it. He must be standing on the beach, and he’s taken a photo of the sun setting over the ocean, almost pink sky and darkening clouds as the sun sinks into the sea, a jagged cliff to one side.
It’s the most perfect view I’ve ever seen.
The phone jingles with another text message, and I smile again as I read it.
This is my office. Not a drawing pin scar in sight.
Two seconds later, it jingles yet again.
And yes, that was taken with the bona fide VGA camera on this awful flip phone. That should go some way towards showing how beautiful it is here – it even looks good in 0.03 megapixels.
What is it about this guy? Everything about him makes me smile.
And everything about him makes me want to throw caution to the wind and go to Pearlholme. But that would be stupid, right? I mean, it does look like a gorgeous place, maybe I really will add it to my list of potential holiday destinations, and Mum and Dad aren’t too far from there; maybe I’ll pop by next time I go up to visit them, see the carousel after it’s restored and Nathan’s long gone.
I couldn’t go up there now, while he’s still there. That’s another thing that would only happen in one of Daph’s beloved romantic comedies. Not in real life.
Chapter 4
‘Gimme that.’ Daphne whips Nathan’s phone from my hand before I’ve fully pulled it out of my trouser pocket.
‘He texted you goodnight at half past ten last night and he put two kisses. If that’s not a sign that he’s into you then I don’t know what is. Do you know how hard it is to get a goodnight text from a guy? Gavin doesn’t even text me goodnight when he’s away and we’ve been married for three years.’
‘Everyone puts kisses these days. It’s habit. It’s a nightmare when you send a professional email and accidentally sign off with a couple of x’s. I’ve done it loads of times.’
‘I see you did it last night too.’ She raises an eyebrow.
‘Well, he texted me goodnight – it would’ve been rude to ignore him, wouldn’t it?’
‘And he put kisses so you just had to put them back, right?’
‘You’re reading way too much into—’
‘And how long did you talk to him for last night?’
‘About half an hour—’
She’s into the call log before I can finish the sentence. ‘An hour and thirty-one minutes! Ness, you’ve never talked to a guy for that long before! You dated “poor Andrew” for three years and you probably didn’t talk to him for that long over the whole course of your relationship combined.’
‘Which is a great clue to why it went wrong. And I didn’t talk to Nathan for that long. It was nowhere near that.’
‘It says it here in black and white.’ She taps a nail on the screen. ‘And it’s Nathan now, is it? Not Nathaniel?’
‘He doesn’t go by Nathaniel. He prefers—’
‘And this is where he wants you to go.’ She zooms in on the beach photo and stares at it longingly, while I wonder why I’m bothering to tell her anything when she’s going to draw her own conclusions from the phone anyway. ‘It’s beautiful. I’d be there in a heartbeat.’
‘He doesn’t want me to go there. It was a joke. I mean, he seems lovely and everything, but it’s just so—’
‘I know you, Ness. You only make those kinds of excuses when you really want to do something but you think you can’t. Like that guy from Gavin’s work I tried to set you up with last year. He friended you on Facebook and you liked the look of him but you found a snake-length list of excuses not to go on a date, even though there was a very good chance that you’d have had a good time.’
‘This is not like that. There’s no dating. The only thing he wants is his phone back. He’s probably married anyway,’ I say, even though I know Daph’s right. It’s just another excuse. No part of our conversation last night made me think he’s married.
Daphne snorts. ‘No way is the guy on the other end of that flirty, adorable conversation anything but single. He furtively wheedled husband info out of you, Ness. And he didn’t even try to arrange any other way of getting his phone back. Assuming he assumes you aren’t going to Pearlholme, he’s got an excuse to call you again, hasn’t he? You talked for hours with the intention of giving his phone back but you seem to have talked about everything other than giving his phone back; therefore you’ll just have to talk again, won’t you?’
My mind drifts at the thought of talking to him again and I don’t realise I’m smiling until Daphne smacks the desk.
‘Oh my God, you actually like this guy, don’t you? Like, really like like?’
‘No! And that’s far too many likes for one sentence. I don’t even know him, he’s a total stranger, and it’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s the love story you’ve always wanted.’ She clasps her hands together and holds them to her chest.
‘It’s not what I’ve always wanted—’
‘It’s just like Sliding Doors but with hopefully less dying. It’s why you broke up with “poor Andrew” for no good reason—’
‘It wasn’t for no good reason.’
‘It’s why you refuse every date I find for you. Because you’ve subconsciously known that something better was coming. Because you’ve been waiting for this. For Nathan.’ She waggles her eyebrows and my face betrays me by smiling at the mention of his name.
Daphne’s face suddenly straightens. ‘You actually want to go, don’t you? To Pearlholme? You want to follow this complete stranger halfway across the country, and you’re telling me that you don’t like him?’
‘Of course I don’t! I’m not going all the way up to North Yorkshire to return his phone. I’ll do exactly what I thought from the start – post it to him. Problem solved. End of story.’ I reach over the desk and try to grab his phone from Daph’s hand but she pulls it out of my reach. ‘Give it here, I’ll text him for his address now.’
‘Oh no, you won’t.’ Zinnia appears in the doorway of Daphne’s office, sounding so much like a pantomime villain that I half-expect her to follow up with a rousing ‘it’s behind you’. How long has she been standing there again? Is her entire job description to lurk outside doorways and eavesdrop on the staff? How does a woman in four-inch heels move so silently?
‘What?’ Daphne and I say in unison. I absolutely do not feel that little flutter in my chest again.
‘Viral.’ Zinnia shoves her iPad into my hands. ‘Eighteen thousand views and counting. This is wonderful, Vanessa. Even better than I expected.’
My eyes scan the screen, unable to believe what I’m seeing. The page of statistics in front of me is a jumble of numbers and graphs, but sure enough, on the page views line, it says 18,267. That can’t be right.
‘This is an amazing story,’ Zinnia says. ‘I was telling my husband about it and even he was interested, and the most romantic thing he does is plunge the sink when it’s blocked. I couldn’t stop thinking about it while I was lying in bed last night, and our readers are obviously thinking the same. Look at the comments.’
I tap the screen to close the statistics and go back to the article, which I spent most of yesterday afternoon looking at when I was supposed to be fact-checking – surely most of these views are me? The social media sharing buttons along the bottom of the article have numbers showing the amount of times it’s been shared, and they’re all well into the thousands. There are a couple of hundred comments as well. Too many to take in. They’re all saying things like ‘OMG, don’t leave it there!’ and ‘I HAVE to know what happens next!’
This is unreal. Even Daphne’s articles don’t get this kind of response. This is what I’ve always dreamed about, but my dreams have never included writing something with even half this amount of comments and shares. I can’t believe this is happening.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Zinnia says excitedly.
Daphne and I share a wary glance. Zinnia getting excited is generally a sign of an impending apocalypse or something equally welcome. Even the Botox gives way to a slight forehead wrinkle.
‘This whole thing is like something from a film. It’s exactly the sort of feel-good story that everyone needs. And it’s only getting better. Now we’ve got the perfect phone call in which you discover you’ve got so many things in common, an adorable vintage carousel – carousels are romantic without even trying – and the invite to this idyllic little village …’
‘He didn’t invite me; it was a joke. He doesn’t actually want me to go.’ I feel like I’m repeating myself. ‘I’m just going to put the phone in the post—’
‘You’re going to Pearlholme.’ Zinnia doesn’t let me finish the sentence. ‘Yesterday I was planning on getting Daphne to write the second part, documenting your first meeting with the mysterious Train Man, but I didn’t expect this incredible response. People want the second part of your article and they want it now. Daphne’s too pregnant to be sending to some obscure little village in the back end of beyond. This is your story, Vanessa, and you’ve done well with the first part. You’ve captured the public’s imagination and I believe in rewarding good work where it’s due. It’s only right that you should be the one to write the rest of it.’
‘What’s the rest of it?’ I ask. I’ve got butterflies again for an altogether different reason now. This is amazing. Writing something that people connect with is what I’ve always wanted.
‘We’re going to run a massive campaign to find Train Man.’ The Botox makes Zinnia’s smile look more like a grimace.
‘He’s in Pearlholme,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it won’t be too difficult.’
‘Oh, we don’t worry about a little detail like that.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Over the course of a few issues, we’re going to run a real-time crusade to find the mystery man. It guarantees repeat readers coming back for the next part. You’ve already started the ball rolling with that fantastic closing line, so in part two, we’ll publish some key clues to his identity and get our readers involved in discovering who he is. I’m picturing big, flashy “have you seen this man?” headlines. We’ll ask for their help in finding him. Of course, you’ll have already been to Pearlholme and found him by then, but we won’t tell them that. Now, I’ll have the shopping list and that photo of a carousel horse with his foot in it. They’ll make excellent titbits on the trail of breadcrumbs we’re starting, and I’m going to get the art department to mock up some “wanted” posters that we can start splashing all over social media.’
‘You can’t use his photos, you need permission.’ I know that because triple-checking photograph permissions is one of my most mind-numbingly boring jobs.
‘We’ll blur the photograph and change a few items on the shopping list. No one will ever know …’ She moves on without taking a breath. ‘You can write about how you’ve been hunting for him every morning on the train but haven’t seen him since, and then in part three you can tell all about this darling little village and meeting up with the gorgeous Train Man, and then for the final part, you can write about falling in love with him and living happily ever after, and we’ll end with a lovely photograph of you two together on the carousel as we finally reveal the identity of this mysterious carousel reconstructor and end with a perfect balance of old-time nostalgia and a modern feel-good happily-ever-after.’
‘What if I get there and he says, “Thanks for the phone. Have you met my wife?”’
‘He won’t,’ Daphne says. ‘Don’t forget, if he bought a pay-as-you-go phone then he paid for that call.’
I go to deny it, but it’s a nice thought. We did chat for ages last night, and it never occurred to me that he must’ve been paying for it by the minute.
‘You’re doing that smile thing again,’ Daphne says. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw a smile like that on you. He must be really special.’
I force the corners of my mouth to turn downwards, which is harder than it looks. ‘My smile has nothing to do with him.’ I wave the iPad towards her, even though the screen has turned itself off by now. ‘And speaking of Nathan, what about him? He might not agree.’
‘Oh, we don’t worry about that either,’ Zinnia says. ‘Who cares whether he agrees or not? He’s just fodder for the article. You’ll keep him anonymous until the very last moment, by which time you’ll have made him like you enough to agree to the final unmasking.’
‘I’m not very good at making people like me.’
‘Well, I didn’t like you very much, Vanessa, but this wonderful story has certainly changed my opinion of you. But don’t you dare start worrying about him and what he wants. This is about you and what you want. You want a career writing features for us here at Maîtresse, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then this has nothing to do with Nathan. You use him to get what you want. Keep him anonymous so it won’t affect him in any way. If the absolute worst comes to the absolute worst then we’ll hire a model who matches his description.’ She casts a critical eye over me from my frizzy hair to the scuffed toes of my shoes. ‘On second thoughts, maybe two models would be ideal to play the parts of Vanessa and Nathan, and then we won’t have to worry about your hair, that outbreak of blackheads on the side of your nose, or what he wants or doesn’t want. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The point is that we’re selling a story here. You’ve given us a great starting point, but it’s our duty now to make that story the best it can be. If we have to embellish a bit, then so be it.’
I nod along but something about the callous way she talks doesn’t sit right with me. If she’s going to make it up anyway, what’s the point in me going to Pearlholme at all? I could just invent the whole thing, and it sounds like that’s what I’ll end up doing anyway, because there is no chance at all that this is going to go how Zinnia expects it to. I’m going to go there, hand him his phone, and that will be that. He’s not going to fall in love with me. I’m not going to fall in love with him. Love doesn’t happen like that unless you’re reading a movie script.
‘Do this well, Vanessa, and it’s the start of a new career for you. And I don’t just mean while Daphne’s on maternity leave. People are falling in love with this story. They’re going to keep coming back to see how it pans out. When it ends, they’re going to want to read what you write next. This will be the start of great things for you here at Maîtresse. At your age, and with your lack of experience, you won’t get a better opportunity than this, so don’t mess it up, okay?’
She makes me feel like I’m ninety-four rather than thirty-four, but I know she’s right too. I was a temp before I started here. I have no experience of writing for magazines and that’s my dream job. I’m never going to get a better chance than this. ‘What about my job now? If I’m going to Pearlholme, I won’t be here.’ I excel at stating the obvious. ‘How much time do I get there?’
‘Take your laptop. You can do your usual work remotely. I’ll make sure every article is emailed to you, and as long as you can drag yourself away from gorgeous men and golden sands long enough to work from there …’ She thinks for a moment. ‘Take three weeks. Allow yourself to really feel something with this guy. Readers will see through it if you just make things up. You have to start with something real. You have to see if the connection on the real train really meant anything. Not just for yourself and Train Man, but for the thousands of readers following your story now.’
I gulp. No pressure then. I obviously don’t look grateful enough to Zinnia because she whisks her iPad back out of my hand and points the corner of it at me threateningly. ‘I’m doing you a huge favour here, and taking an enormous risk on someone who I’ve only ever seen one article from. The next parts had better be as good as the first. Not only do you get a chance to see if a flirtation means anything, but you also get a chance at the career you’ve always wanted in the process. Most people would be overjoyed to be given this chance. You can thank me for being an amazing, wonderful, understanding boss anytime now.’
She’s probably joking but the unnaturally smooth face doesn’t give me enough of a hint.
‘Thank you, Zinnia,’ I chorus dutifully, trying for my best overjoyed face. I probably look more like I’m about to sneeze.
‘This is amazing!’ Daphne squeaks. She’s still got Nathan’s phone in her hand and is going through it, bluetoothing his photos of carousel horses to her computer.
‘Forward those to both of us,’ Zinnia says. ‘And have a look through for anything else that can be used in the article – and, Vanessa? I’ll go over our publishing schedule and email you the deadlines for each part. Good luck.’ She salutes me as she glides out the door, leaving me wondering how much luck I’ll need. Zinnia doesn’t believe in luck, which makes me wonder about quite how bad an idea this might actually be.
‘This is a fantastic opportunity,’ Daphne says when she’s gone. ‘I often write about real-life couples who met in weird and wonderful ways, and now you’re one of them. It’s so exciting!’
It is exciting, but I’m terrified too. That phone call last night made me feel fluttery and excited, something that I’ve seen on TV but never thought could actually happen to real people … What if I get to Pearlholme and discover that it all meant nothing? What if Nathan’s nothing like I think he is?
‘I’m proud of you, Ness,’ Daphne says.
‘I haven’t written anything yet.’
‘Not about the article. That’ll be fab, no matter what you do with it. I meant about actually doing this – wanting to do this – you’re really putting yourself out there and taking a risk. I’m always saying that you need to do more of that—’
‘And I’m always telling you to shut up.’
She grins. ‘I know. And you’re about to prove that I was right all along. You will throw yourself into this, won’t you?’
I go to answer but she cuts me off.
‘Don’t find excuses not to do stuff. If he asks you out, go. What have you got to lose?’
I shake my head, because I know she’s right but she’ll probably explode if I admit it. I’ve not wanted another relationship since I broke up with ‘poor Andrew’, and I’ve had an excuse for every potential date Daphne has tried to find me even if they looked promising. I’ve hidden away and pretended to be happy when I’m sad. I’ve told people I enjoy my own company when I’m lonely. I work late every night so I have fewer hours to stare at the damp-stained walls in my flat.
But things felt different with Nathan. Even in one phone call, I didn’t feel the need to pretend to be something I wasn’t. I didn’t pretend to be okay. I even told him I was eating a microwave meal and I never tell anyone that in case my mother finds out and immediately starts marching down the M1 with a stack of Tupperware containers under each arm.
I can’t ignore the fizzle of excitement. And it’s not just because people have read my story and now I’ve got a chance to make a real career here. It’s because of Nathan. This is so out of character for me, but there’s something about him that makes me want to find out whether months of eye contact and smiles on the train really did mean anything, because for just a moment when I spoke to him last night, it felt like they did.
