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‘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.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_b9ff4082-1fdf-549f-9bdf-6c788cb6b130)
In London, the June weather is so muggy that every breath feels like hard work and the skies are overcast and dull, but as I sit in the window seat of a refreshingly empty carriage on a train that’s trundling north, the clouds outside the window turn from grey to white and the sky brightens until it’s blue.
I went to bed early last night because I knew I couldn’t miss getting the earlier train than usual, and I left Nathan’s phone on the kitchen unit overnight because if it was any nearer then I’d never be able to resist the temptation of constantly checking to see if he’d rung. When I got up this morning, there was a missed call from his pay-as-you-go number, followed by a text message.
I tried to call but either I missed you or I bored you silly last night and now you’re avoiding me – completely understandable! xx
Another two kisses. Daphne’s waters would probably break with excitement.
I want to reply because seeing that message this morning made the butterflies start doing bungee jumps again, but I still haven’t summoned the courage to, because I’m too nervous to tell him I’m on my way to Pearlholme. He must have been joking when he said it, but how can I tell him I’ve taken him seriously without sounding deranged?
The nearest station to Pearlholme is not like any train station I’ve seen before. It looks like a quaint little bungalow, but with sliding glass double doors and a railway sign outside. The air is clear and there’s a warm breeze that makes me inhale deeply and I don’t feel like I’m going to choke on exhaust fumes.
There’s a tiny car park outside the station and a couple of bus stops on the opposite side. I remember Nathan saying he got the bus so I wander across to them, dragging my suitcase behind me. I’m staring at the timetable, running a finger down the list of place names I don’t recognise, wondering if I’m even in the right place, when I spot a man selling newspapers standing on the corner of the car park.
‘Excuse me?’ I walk over to him, thinking of Nathan’s joke about asking strangers for directions. ‘Do you know if I’m in the right place to get the bus to Pearlholme? I can’t see it listed on any of the timetables.’
He gives me a toothy grin. ‘Pearlholme’s much too small for that, love. It’s on the route but it’s an unnamed stop that’ll take you to the edge of the village. It’s the number five bus you want, and you’ll need to get off outside a pub called The Sun & Sand.’
‘Brilliant, thank you.’
‘You’ve not long missed the bus though. It went through about twenty minutes ago, and they’re only every two hours.’
‘Oh, great.’ The journey has gone well so far; something had to go wrong at some point.
‘It’s only about half an hour on foot and it’s a lovely walk.’
I glance in the direction he points, wondering how lost I could manage to get on this walk because the chances are pretty good that I’ll never be seen again. But the weather is gorgeous and I have been sat on a train for the past three hours, and the station behind me looks like you’d struggle to occupy five minutes in it, let alone an hour and forty of them.
‘You’re Pearlholme’s second tourist this week,’ the man says. ‘They must be doing something right.’
I can’t resist asking. ‘Was the other one a tall guy with dark hair?’
‘Indeed he was. If you’re looking for him, he’ll be on the beach doing up the old carousel that’s been found. From The Sun & Sand, you can either take the back road into the village or the front road along the promenade and the beachfront. You can’t miss the carousel from there.’
Wow. Nathan was right, they really do know everyone around here. ‘Thanks.’ I give him a smile because of how much he reminds me of where I grew up, where you couldn’t walk up the road without someone asking where you were going and why you were going there.
‘It’s beautiful at this time of year,’ he says. ‘Gets a bit busy once the summer holidays begin, but this time of year is ideal. You’re not staying at The Shell Hotel, are you?’
‘I managed to get a room there at the last minute,’ I say, smiling again.
The man visibly cringes and I feel my face fall. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’ He gives me a smile that looks completely false.
‘That question did not have an “I’m sure it’ll be lovely” tone to it …’
He huffs and his shoulders slump. ‘The village itself is exquisite, but the hotel … not so much. I best not say more than that, love, I don’t want to put you off.’
‘All the cottage rentals were full. I thought I was lucky to get a room at the hotel.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Lucky.’
He doesn’t sound like he means lucky. Or like he’s going to enlighten me any further.
I thank him for his time and buy a newspaper because it seems like the polite thing to do, and set off in the direction he points me in, after assuring me that it’s a straightforward road.
I feel like I’m cutting school as I drag my suitcase down the wide pavement, like when you used to go on an errand for your teacher and walk through the empty school grounds when everyone was in lessons. It always felt a little bit naughty and a little bit thrilling, and it always made you feel a little bit more grown up than everyone else.
The road gradually shifts from residential houses to a tree-lined country lane, branches heavy with white flowers hanging across the pavement, hedgerows spilling over with pink wild roses, and the odd pretty cottage dotted among them. There’s hardly any traffic, and the occasional car that does pass is pootling along so slowly that I can overtake them on foot. I’m enjoying the walk so much that I’m surprised how quickly the time has passed as the pub comes into view.
I stop and read the blue lettering on a sand-coloured board above the door. The Sun & Sand. Even the name makes it sound nice. There are tables and chairs outside, a wide green lawn, and two huge but neatly trimmed trees on either side, weighed down with not-yet-ripe green cherries. It looks like the kind of image you’d see on the front cover of a romance book about a woman who moves to a tiny village to run a pub and falls for the handsome builder who comes to mend the roof.
It would be so easy to take the front road and walk along the seafront and find the carousel and Nathan, but I decide to be sensible and head to the hotel first. It’s not even two p.m. yet. There’s plenty of time for that when I’ve had a quick wash and change after travelling all day.
There’s a woman trimming the hedge outside The Sun & Sand who calls over as I go to walk away. ‘Where are you looking for, love?’
‘The Shell Hotel?’ I say, not used to this number of people keen to help you find your way around.
She makes the same face the newspaper man made. ‘Are you an inspector come to shut them down?’
‘No, just a guest.’
‘Oh, lovely.’ She sounds just as false as the newspaper man. What is it about this hotel?
‘It’s that way.’ She points down the second road that clearly heads into the village. ‘It’s right on the other end of the village, just follow this road and go downwards when you come to the fork. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’ I set off before the idea of this hotel sends me running straight back to the train station.
‘Come back anytime,’ she calls after me. ‘We do the best chips in Pearlholme! The fish and chip shop on the seafront will tell you otherwise, but we all know which one of us is right!’
It makes me smile as I wheel my suitcase behind me, through a narrow, cobbled street that seems barely wide enough to allow even the smallest of cars. This street must be the main residential street, and its rows of brick cottages fit perfectly with the uneven cobbles of the road. Each cottage looks like it could tumble down at any moment, but they all have perfectly neat front gardens, separated from the cobbled street by a haphazard brick wall covered in trailing purple aubrietia flowers. Each one has a path of stepping stones up to their door, a neatly trimmed lawn, and borders full of flowers. Even the birdhouses on tall stands at the end of each garden are miniature replicas of cottages, and birds who are happily pecking at seed inside their tiny bird cottages fly off in groups as I walk past, my suitcase bouncing along the cobbles behind me.
