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‘I must be creating such a good picture of myself here. All I do is moan about my flat and talk about work. Sorry, I’m sure I’m not usually this boring.’
‘It’s not boring at all. Pretty much all I do is work and moan about my flat too. At least your job is a lot more interesting than mine.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a fact-checker for a women’s magazine. I have to double-check everything that proper journalists write so we don’t publish anything that’s untrue. I want to be a journalist and I thought I’d get a chance to prove myself there, but it’s been years now and all I am is basically a proofreader who does a lot of googling and phoning around to confirm quotes. I work a lot of overtime because I have nothing better to do and I keep hoping my boss will notice how dedicated I am.’
‘I can’t complain about my job. I work a lot of overtime because I love old carousels and mainly because if I’m working then I’m not sitting in my crappy flat thinking about how many places I’d rather be.’
‘I know that feeling too,’ I say, looking at the window, which gives me a marvellous view of the building next door. I can imagine what his view in that gorgeous cottage is like. ‘Do you do anything other than carousels? There were some pictures that we— I— couldn’t work out, they looked like bits of rollercoaster?’
‘I’m glad you were so thorough in your search for my address.’ He still doesn’t sound annoyed by it. ‘And yes, I’m not strictly carousels, although they’re my speciality. I’m just a repairman in general, really. My firm restores all sorts of old things, from organs to engines to fairground rides, and yes, they were bits of rollercoaster but not rollercoasters as we know them now – the old wooden scenic railways that were popular in the early 1900s, the kind of thing anyone from a baby to a granny could enjoy a ride on, a real throwback to days gone by. I take a lot of pictures because you can rarely get parts in this day and age, and we usually have to find something similar and adjust it or make the parts ourselves.’
He suddenly stops himself. ‘I’m sorry, I must be boring you senseless. I’m not usually this boring, honestly. And the fact I’ve said that twice tonight probably doesn’t bode well. You’re not busy, are you? I’ve been rabbiting on for ages and never asked you if I was interrupting something. You’re probably sitting down for a nice dinner with your husband, and—’
I laugh at the mental image. ‘No husband. I was sitting down with a microwave meal and Netflix. How’s that for busy? Talking to you is much more interesting.’
He laughs too. ‘You obviously don’t know me well enough yet.’
I try to ignore another little flutter of butterflies at that ‘yet’.
‘And you’ve just described my average evening. Netflix and a sarnie. Sometimes I stretch to something really strenuous like cheese on toast.’ He says it with a French accent, like a posh chef describing a gourmet meal, and it makes me laugh again, and I realise that I’m gripping the phone tighter because I don’t want him to go yet. ‘My brother bought me a chef’s blowtorch once. God knows what he thought I was going to cook with it. Beans on toast on fire?’
‘You know what I don’t get?’ I say, trying to stop myself laughing again. ‘Instant mashed potatoes. You sprinkle a little bit out of the packet into the bottom of a mug, and it makes six bowlfuls.’
‘Oh, I love instant mashed potatoes,’ he says. ‘They’re like the ultimate comfort food, and I can pretend they’re healthy because they’re vegetables. Powdered, reconstituted vegetables, but still. I’m spoiled tonight because the landlady at the cottage made me a macaroni cheese and left it in the fridge. At least I now know why she asked if I had any allergies. I wondered if she was planning on filling the roof with asbestos and painting the walls with lead or something. I’m just waiting for that to come out of the oven and I’m going to eat it in the garden with a cup of tea.’ He pauses. ‘You probably thought I was thirty-six this morning, but now I reveal I’m really an eighty-year-old woman in disguise. No wonder I like it in Pearlholme so much. Everyone seems to be elderly around here. You should’ve seen my landlady, bless her. She looked like she could barely carry the key when I collected it. God knows how she’s still managing to cook huge casserole dishes of food.’
I laugh yet again. I’m not good at talking to strangers, which is probably quite weird for someone who spends a lot of time phoning strangers to confirm facts and double-check quotes in articles, but there’s something about him that puts me completely at ease. I’m often on edge in my flat – you can usually hear the shouting of neighbours or fights in the hall, and it never feels safe here, but his warm accent on the other end of the phone settles something inside me.
‘Thanks for picking up my phone this morning. I’m glad it was you. I mean … I saw you … We’re usually much further apart … and I was in such a hurry … and I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say. Just thank you for grabbing it and trying to get it back to me. I assumed I’d been pickpocketed. I always think the worst of people and don’t really trust anyone, so …’
‘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 (#ulink_f9f855d0-5917-5db7-a5ae-3773c267b4e1)
‘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.
