Just the Way You Are

by Lynsey James

  Writing the article while my brain was working overtime was pointless, I silently reasoned. It was like going swimming on a full stomach: inadvisable and potentially very dangerous. Who knew what sort of rubbish I’d come out with when I couldn’t give it my full attention? With that quandary resolved, I abandoned the article and opened MistySparkles27’s message from yesterday. Although I didn’t plan on doing anything about it, she still deserved a reply.

  Hi Ava…

  Before I could read any more, a shadow cast itself over the screen. I sighed wearily; I knew who this would be before I even turned around.

  ‘Can I help you Maddie?’ I asked with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  ‘I highly doubt it,’ came her smug reply. ‘I just wanted to see if you were still working on your quaint little Valentine’s Day story.’

  ‘If you mean the story that actually has substance, depth and warmth to it, then yes I am still working on it. Are you still swanning round Manchester pretending to be Cinderella?’

  ‘Oh I don’t pretend dear, I really am the Northwest’s answer to Cinderella. I’ve got the dream job, the fairy tale prince; all I’m missing is an ugly sister. You can fill that role if you want to?’

  I rolled my eyes and folded my arms. No way was she getting the better of me, especially not with a cheap throwaway remark like that.

  ‘I don’t know Maddie, you’re so multitalented maybe you could play both roles yourself?’ I suggested.

  Her lips curled into a disdainful smirk. In all the years we’d been verbally sparring, she’d never been quite as quick as me and I knew she hated it.

  ‘Whatever. I take it since you’re sitting on your arse doing nothing that you don’t know about the pitches?’

  ‘What pitches?’

  ‘Oh I couldn’t possibly tell you that, might give you an advantage. Who am I kidding, of course it won’t! Paddy sent us both an email saying he wants us to pitch our Valentine’s feature ideas to him and Miranda at the end of the month.’

  Fear flooded me; surely this couldn’t be true?

  ‘Oh those pitches! Yeah I’m totally prepared for it,’ I said, maintaining an air of cool togetherness when inside I was crumbling to bits.

  Maddie didn’t look impressed to see that I was apparently on top of things. She stormed back to her desk and pouted miserably as she typed furiously on the computer.

  ‘Hey, what was all that about?’ Fran took a seat back at her desk and handed me a cup of chilled water from the cooler.

  I threw my head onto the desk, my arms acting as a giant cushion. ‘I’m in deep shit, that’s what all that was about!’

  It was MistySparkles27’s turn to be put on the backburner as I frantically searched my inbox for Paddy’s email. I waded through hundreds of emails from people who’d commented on my blog wishing me well or sharing their similar stories but I still couldn’t find the one about the pitches. Finally, I spotted it. It was sandwiched between two lovely comments from a woman who lived in Torquay.

  From: Paddy.Mccann@sleek.com

  To: Ava.Clements@sleek.com

  Subject: Feature Pitches

  Dear Ava,

  Now that you and Maddie have had a little time to research your Valentine’s story ideas, I’d like you to pitch them to Miranda and me on Thursday 30th November. I’ll be expecting a five minute pitch in which you outline your feature idea, name your primary and secondary sources and also tell us how this will fit in with the magazine’s existing content. Please also bring your research materials to back up your topic.

  Kind regards,

  Paddy McCann, Editor-in-Chief, Sleek magazine

  I rolled my eyes; did he really have to sign off every email with the whole editor-in-chief bollocks? I already knew who he was; I didn’t need his title shoved in my face every few minutes. The contents of the email also meant I had yet another problem to deal with, as if my current lot wasn’t enough. Not only did I have to track down Mr Writer and Leo Browning, I had to somehow conquer my fear of public speaking and deliver an amazing to pitch that would wow Miranda and Paddy.

  No pressure then.

  The next morning, I finally got around to responding to MistySparkles27. My heart leapt into my mouth when a reply came straight back.

  Hi Ava

  You don’t know me, but I’ve read your blog and I have to say, I nearly cried! What a beautiful story; I’d love to see you find him and finally get your happy ending!

  That’s kind of why I’m emailing actually… I think I might know who he is. I was at Manchester University at the same time you were and I remember a really good friend of mine talking about sending love letters to a girl called Ava. When I saw your blog, I just knew it had to be you! So, I want to do my part for true love and put you two in touch. I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to meet up soon. He’s going away on a short business trip next week but will be back early in December. Does that sound OK?

  Lots of love

  Lisa Mackintosh aka MistySparkles27

  ‘Does that sound OK?’ I repeated in a voice that barely rose above a whisper.

  My head and heart began to fight each other; practicality versus emotions. Here was someone offering me the chance to meet the man who could be the love of my life. I didn’t know if she was genuine or what this guy would be like. It was like taking a step forward in complete darkness. You don’t know whether you’ll fall or not. Eventually, I decided to let my fingers make the decision. Whatever I typed next would either close the book on Mr Writer or keep it going.

  I typed back that I’d love to meet him when he got back from travelling and thanked her for getting in touch. Her name looked pretty familiar; I was sure Lisa had been a Psychology student when I’d been studying Journalism. I had no idea what I was thinking, saying yes. I’d made the concrete decision to abandon Mr Writer and focus on trying to bring someone real into my life, based on Ivy’s story. However, if I was going to write him off completely, I didn’t want any more what ifs hanging in the air, haunting me for the rest of my life.

  Then it hit me: after two disastrous meetings with potential candidates, I was finally going to meet the man himself. Was I mad for making a U-turn on my decision or would it be the best thing I’d ever done? I didn’t know. Then again, sometimes taking a step into the unknown, not having all the answers, can get you more than you ever dreamt possible.

  ‘Just be careful,’ was Fran’s sage advice when I told her. ‘And maybe don’t jump up and down and squeal in his face when you meet him.’

  I sat down and tried to make myself look like a relatively normal person. I’d been so excited to share my news with her that I’d done my version of a happy dance and sounded like a chipmunk on helium.

  ‘Good tip,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want him fleeing the country and changing his name to avoid ever seeing me again. I’m wondering if I should still try and get in contact with Dean Smith though; if I’m meeting this guy next month, I probably won’t need to.’

  Fran raised an eyebrow at me and crossed one ridiculously long leg over the other. ‘Don’t you watch Catfish? You’ve got no idea if this guy’s genuine or not. All you’ve been told about him is he’s going away on a business trip soon and that came from someone else! What’s the harm in finding Dean Smith as a backup plan? It can’t hurt can it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Suppose not, although I’ve got a good feeling about this guy Lisa Mackintosh knows. This could be it Fran; the guy I’ve been trying to forget since university could be sitting in some swish office right now, dreaming about the day we finally get to meet!’

  I knew that to any normal, sane-minded person, I sounded like a bloody lunatic but I didn’t give a stuff. At last, after so many mishaps, everything looked like it was coming together.

  In my lunch hour, when I probably should’ve been working on my pitch, I paid Max a visit at his flat. It was his day off and I wanted to clear the air between us. The fact it provided me with a perfect distraction from my upcoming
pitch was just an added bonus really.

  I stood outside the front door, palms sweating and pulse racing. I was dreading how this conversation would go; I hoped it’d let us get back to normal and banish all the tension between us but I knew there was a chance it could go the other way. After much fretting, I softly knocked on the door.

  A few seconds later, Max appeared. His just-got-out-of-bed hair, slightly crumpled navy T-shirt and grey jogging trousers made him look dishevelled but there was still the trademark warmth in his eyes. He managed a smile as he leaned on the doorframe.

  ‘Hey Munchkin. Come on in.’

  He stepped aside and I took tentative steps into his flat. Set on the top floor of a converted loft, it had high ceilings, beautiful exposed brick walls and golden oak floors. I made my way to the living room and perched myself on one of the comfy brown tub chairs. Max sat unusually far away from me on the matching L-shaped sofa. There was a stiffness in his shoulders and back; I’d never seen him look so tense before.

  ‘So…’ I allowed my eyes to wander around the room, not settling on one particular thing.

  ‘So…’ Max chuckled and began lightly drumming his fingers on his thighs.

  ‘Look –’

  ‘I’m –’

  We laughed as our voices jarred in the air; the ice between us was definitely broken. I moved myself over to the couch beside him and he shuffled up to make room for me.

  ‘So about what happened between us…’ I finally felt brave enough to look up and meet his eyes.

  ‘Look Ava, I misjudged the situation and I’m sorry. You were vulnerable after everything that happened at the Halloween wedding and you needed someone to be there for you. I crossed a line and I shouldn’t have. Friends?’

  He put his hand out and I shook it but felt a bit miffed. When we’d been at Teacup, he’d come over and started to make an impassioned speech before I’d shooed him away. Before I’d come round to see him, I’d kind of expected him to do the same thing, obviously a longer version since I wasn’t going to interrupt him. Now it seemed like Max didn’t care about what had happened between us.

  So why did I?

  ‘I hate that I can’t be mad at you for very long,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Oh shut up, I can’t help that I’m charming.’

  He pulled me in for one of his signature hugs but let go very quickly. I could tell he’d realised this was how things had kicked off the night we kissed.

  ‘Anyway, what’s happening with you and Amira?’

  Doh. I’d wanted to bring the conversation round to something neutral and had failed miserably. I deserved a slap.

  ‘She still wants to get back together with me, judging by the eight voicemails she’s left me. That’s another thing I wanted to say; I’m so sorry about the whole her-coming-round thing. I had no idea she was going to do that and I meant what I said last weekend: I told her to get lost. I wanted to spend the night with you, not her…’

  He trailed off when he realised what he’d said. His cheeks flushed so much I could’ve fried eggs on them.

  ‘Do you not want to give her another chance? Maybe she’s really sorry about what she said.’

  Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! What the hell are you doing?

  ‘She made herself pretty clear, if you ask me. I’m not good enough for her. She’s probably just lonely and wants the company; she suggested we meet up and talk but I’m not having any of it.’

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief, not really knowing what I was relieved about. I guessed it was because my best friend wasn’t getting back together with a complete witch who was wrong for him. Yet it felt like more than that. I put it down to a crazy-ass few weeks.

  ‘You’ll find someone lovely one day,’ I said, echoing what he’d said to me a few weeks before.

  He smiled and nodded but didn’t look remotely convinced. I guessed the Amira thing had hit him harder than he wanted to let on.

  ‘So will you; even if this Mr Writer thing comes to nothing, there’ll be tons of guys wanting to go out with you. That guy you work with, what’s his name, he seemed to like you if I remember.’

  ‘Nate. Yeah he’s nice and he sent me a bouquet of flowers to ask me out on a date but I haven’t arranged anything with him yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I shrugged and pulled a confused face. ‘Don’t know really. I’ve been busy with all this Mr Writer stuff, trying to find a happy ending for Ivy and Leo and writing my Valentine’s Day story. I’ve got to pitch it to Miranda and Paddy at the end of the month. God knows how that’ll go, after what happened last time! I’m not exactly Oprah when it comes to public speaking am I? I can’t see them finding reuniting two teenage sweethearts as beautiful as I do. They’ll probably lap up Maddie’s “modern Cinderella story”.’

  ‘Will you stop putting yourself down and assuming the worst! OK, so you had one bad experience pitching an idea, doesn’t everyone? You might go in there and blow them away with your idea, which I think is great by the way. Man up, Clements!’

  ‘Yes sir!’ I did a little salute then rose from my seat. ‘I’d better get going before Miranda realises I’m gone and throws a fit. Who am I kidding, I could run naked through the office and she probably wouldn’t take any notice!’

  ‘There’s a thought!’

  Max’s joke fell a bit flat given recent events between us, but we both managed weak smiles as we walked to the door.

  ‘See ya Munchkin.’

  He opened his arms and took me into them. He smelled fresh and clean and was warm to the touch, like newly washed towels that were toasty warm when you took them out the dryer. The hug lasted a little too long and we both felt the awkwardness that it brought. We broke apart with sheepish grins and stared around ourselves like that would somehow put things back to normal.

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Laters.’

  I went down the stairs like a bat out of hell, as a familiar fizzy feeling whizzed through my veins. I batted it away; that feeling could only lead to trouble.

  Get a grip Ava.

  When I got back to work, I saw an email that made my heart skip a beat. It was from a man named Ian Browning.

  Dear Miss Clements,

  I saw your post on Friends Reunited about looking for a Mr Leo Browning: he’s my father. I’d like to meet up with you to talk about it. Call me to arrange a convenient date and time. You’ll find appropriate contact details listed below. I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely

  Dr Ian Browning

  Chapter 17

  I arranged to meet Dr Ian Browning on a cold day in late November. A thick grey mist hung over Manchester and the air carried a chill that made you tighten your scarf and button your coat. Christmas was now only six weeks away and most of the shops had elaborate festive displays adorning their cosy windows. Christmas trees decorated in red and gold, flanked by smiling snowmen and jolly-looking Santa Claus figures were beautiful reminders that the festive season was on its way.

  I pulled up to Dr Browning’s swish city centre practice just after lunchtime. It was a busy Monday morning and scores of people were using their lunch hour to start their Christmas shopping. Packed pushchairs laden with bulging bags, groups of girlfriends wearing knitted hats designed like various woodland animals and mums trying to negotiate screaming toddlers around the shops had all descended on Manchester city centre this afternoon. I got out of the car and narrowly avoided a collision with a loved-up young couple that were too busy sucking each other’s faces off to take notice of the world around them. I rolled my eyes, not that I was remotely jealous of them. I’d never been so into someone that I felt compelled to snog his face off in public. Maybe that was what I’d been missing out on.

  I went through the revolving door and into the bright, airy reception area. The floor was made of white marble and an abundance of natural light came from the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. I approached the curved oak reception desk wh
ere a smiley blonde lady wearing a white blouse was sitting.

  ‘Hi, welcome to Browning and Wiseman Medical Practice, how can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Dr Ian Browning,’ I replied.

  ‘Are you his one o’clock mole removal?’

  My face flushed. ‘No I’m not!’

  ‘It’s all right Shannon, I’m expecting her.’ A soft Liverpudlian voice came from the top of the stairs and I saw a greying man of around forty-five coming down to meet me. He was wearing a white lab coat and, as he drew closer, I could see the lines and angles of his face.

  ‘Ava Clements? I’m Dr Ian Browning.’ He stuck a hand out and I shook it. ‘Shall we?’

  He gestured towards the practice canteen and I followed him to a seat in the middle of the room. His entire body language – folded arms and hunched shoulders – betrayed his hostility.

  I decided to break the ice and speak first. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Dr Browning…’

  He jerked his head to look up at me and scowled. ‘OK, let’s cut the small talk. The only reason I asked to see you was to tell you to drop this reunion bollocks. My dad’s in his seventies now, he doesn’t need some do-gooder raking up stuff that happened fifty years ago. On his behalf, I’m telling you he’s not interested. Understand?’

  I squared my shoulders and matched his glare with one of my own, leaning over the table to show I meant business.

  ‘With the greatest of respect Dr Browning, isn’t that your dad’s decision?’

  ‘In the last couple of years, he’s lost his wife – my mother – and had a heart attack and stroke. He’s only just starting to get back to normal now and I won’t have his recovery ruined by some third-rate Cilla Black wannabe. You said on the advert you’re a journalist so you’re probably only looking to fill some column inches. Well, you won’t be using my dad to further your career, that’s for sure!’

  ‘You really think this is about finding a story to stick in my magazine?! You couldn’t be more wrong. This is about reuniting two people who never should’ve been parted in the first place.’