‘Well, get it unlocked, woman. How else are you going to get it back to him and feel the sparks of your fingers brushing as you stare deeply into his eyes and fall in lurve?’
Zinnia is probably a typical magazine editor; picture Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, but with more hair product and brighter clothes. Thankfully she’s a bit nicer than Miranda Priestly, and she runs a fortnightly women’s magazine instead of a haute couture fashion mag, but she only employed me because Daphne persuaded her I had all the qualities needed in a fact-checker, like being fastidious and meticulous, when the only thing I’m fastidious about is making sure there’s not a scrape of Nutella left at the bottom of the jar and I’m definitely not meticulous about setting my alarm in the mornings, and the more days that I underestimate the amount of time it takes to commute through London, the more likely Zinnia is to realise that Daphne was just trying to help her best friend get a job and I’m not actually that good at being a fact-checker. Or at getting here on time.
‘You’ve got articles to check piling up on your desk, Vanessa. You could’ve finalised three stories in the time you’ve spent running around train stations this morning. Either get that unlocked and give me something that Daphne can write about, or forget it and get back to work.’
I should forget it. I should’ve handed it in at lost property in the station and been done with it. I lean over and pull the flat, black phone towards me. ‘I suppose I could ask the IT guy to look at it.’
‘Gosh, this is so romantic.’ Zinnia clasps her hands together. ‘Maybe you’ll have some sort of spiritual connection and you’ll just subconsciously know his password.’
‘Oh come on, it’s asking for a four-digit code. There are endless possibilities and the phone will probably lock us out after three attempts.’ I pick it up and run my fingers across the blank screen. I would love nothing more than to have a look through it and prove to them both that he’s undoubtedly married and his best quality is probably trying to pick up women on trains that his wife doesn’t know about. I need to forget all about Train Man and his phone. Besides, he was around my age and gorgeous, there’s no way he’s going to be single too. I don’t know what they’re expecting to come out of this.
Daphne gets up and waddles around the room in another attempt to get comfortable. ‘Try 1234,’ she says with a laugh.
I type the numbers in. ‘As if anyone would be that stup—’
The phone makes a jingling sound and pings into life.
Daph bursts out laughing. ‘Seriously? The man deserves to have his phone stolen just for that. What’s his credit card PIN – 5678?’
I suddenly feel really bad. Whoever Train Man is, this is his private phone. He wouldn’t want a random stranger going through it, and I feel like some kind of criminal mastermind to have managed to unlock it. I’m going to be hacking the government next. Even though the government’s security systems are probably slightly more complex than 1234.
‘What did I tell you?’ Zinnia sounds gleeful. ‘Get into his pictures, quick. I want to see this dashing romantic hero.’
‘What’s that?’ Daph peers over my shoulder.
‘A train timetable,’ I say, looking at the jumble of numbers and times still onscreen from the last time he looked at it. ‘And not for the tube.’
‘So he was catching another train. Maybe that’s why he ran off so quickly.’
‘He did look worried about something. And he did keep checking his phone. Maybe he was looking at the time. Probably to check that his wife wouldn’t be home before his latest bit on the side left.’
‘Nah,’ Daph says. ‘Things like this don’t just happen. He’s obviously single and looking, just like you.’
‘I’m not looking.’
‘I’m looking for you,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Same thing.’
‘Anyone would think you didn’t have enough on with swooning over your own husband and a baby on the way.’
‘Girls, pictures,’ Zinnia says before she can respond. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had this conversation anyway. It always goes the same way. Daph says I’m over the hill, I tell her there is no hill to be over because whether I’m thirty-four or fifty or seventy, I’m not interested in another relationship, and she says she thought the same thing until she met Gavin, and if I’d just put myself out there and give it a chance, I might surprise myself and meet someone. I tell her how much I enjoy my own company and how nice it is to be single after spending so many years in a loveless relationship, and she tells me that was just one relationship and others will be different, ad infinitum. I can finish the conversation in my head without Daph saying another word, until she walks off muttering things like ‘spinster’ and ‘cat lady’.
I’m obviously not moving fast enough because Daphne plucks the phone from my fingers and starts playing with it. ‘I hope he takes a lot of selfies. I’m desperate to see this guy.’
‘We shouldn’t be going through his phone,’ I try to protest.
‘We’re not. We’re looking for a way to get it back to him. Via his photos. Ooh, and his notes. Oh, and we have to check his messages because there might be some vital bit of contact information in there.’
‘And we’re just nosy,’ Zinnia adds.
Like I hadn’t figured that one out for myself.
‘Like you don’t want to know too,’ Daph says.
‘Nope. I’m not looking. I’m not interested. I just want to get the phone back to him.’
Daphne makes various noises as she fiddles with the phone and I fight the urge to see what she’s doing.
‘Okay, well, he’s not big on selfies, but we’ve got bigger problems than making eye contact on public transport. Are you sure he didn’t strike you as a bit of a weirdo?’
‘No, why?’ I instantly imagine she’s found a folder full of dick pics ready to send to unsuspecting women or something. No wonder he smiles at people on trains – he’s probably assessing them for how happy they’d be to receive an unsolicited photo of his manhood.
‘Nothing about him screamed weird fetishist or anything?’
‘No. Why, Daph?’ All pretence of not being interested falls away as I jump out of the chair and try to see over her shoulder.
‘Well, he’s got a real thing for wooden horses. Look at this. His phone is absolutely full of photos of bits of wooden horses. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?’
‘They’re carousel horses.’ I peer over one shoulder and Zinnia peers over the other as Daphne scrolls through his photos at the speed of light, each one showing similar pictures of wooden carousel animals in methodical stages, from perfectly painted to varying states of decay.
‘And what’s that? It looks like parts of a rollercoaster, and what the— Ooh, is that him?’ She shoves the phone at me, showing a picture of Train Man in the distance, his arms outstretched on a sparkling carousel.
‘He’s definitely got some kind of weird fetish for those things,’ Zinnia says.
‘Or maybe he just likes that godawful old movie that you love.’ Daphne elbows me in the ribs, knowing full well I can’t retaliate while she’s pregnant.
‘Aww, stop mocking Carousel. It’s a lovely film. One of the best.’
‘Yeah, if you like things that are nonsensical, boring, and old. And then you have the nerve to complain that I like modern romcoms. Judging by these photos, I bet he loves that movie. Talk about your perfect match.’ She takes the phone back and scrolls further through the photos, picture after picture of wooden things, half-finished paint jobs on carousel horses and other animals, and a few of various scenery, beaches and mountains and hills. Train Man must get around a bit.
‘Well, he’s definitely not vain – he’s never taken a picture of himself in his life. Although he’s got half his shoe in with one of these horse legs, which tells us so much.’ Daph gives up and scrolls back to the photo of him on the carousel, zooming in on it and bringing the phone almost to her nose. ‘He looks handsome, though. Good
hair.’
‘He had good hair on the train this morning.’
I don’t realise I’m smiling involuntarily until I catch the knowing look on Zinnia’s face. I blush and tuck my own shoulder-length lank hair behind my ear. ‘Unlike my messy split-endy thing that needs a trim.’ I always feel self-conscious of my hair around Zinnia, who never has a strand out of place. Mine still hasn’t recovered from an ill-advised home highlighting kit where the streaks went orange so I dyed over them with a brown that was supposed to match my own colour but ended up going lighter because of the orangeness. Daph calls them lowlights; I call them ‘can’t afford to go to the hairdresser’s’.
‘You hate taking selfies too,’ Daphne says. ‘I can already tell this guy is perfect for you. Now, what next? Text messages?’
She’s gone back to the home screen and is fiddling around in his message folder before I’ve even started to protest. ‘We’re just looking for vital contact information so we can get it back to him.’
‘And evidence of a girlfriend because so far there’s nothing,’ Zinnia adds. ‘He must be single or there’d be some photos of a girlfriend, boyfriend, or otherwise on there. My phone is packed with pictures of my husband.’
‘And mine’s packed with pictures of Gavin measuring things against my ever-expanding belly to show how big it’s getting,’ Daph says. ‘Well, this morning someone called Jack texted telling Train Man “not to miss that bloody train”. His parcel was “now with his local courier for delivery” last Thursday, he wished someone called Susan a happy birthday last week, and someone sent a message a fortnight ago asking if he wants to go on a fishing weekend in July, but he hasn’t responded.’ She glances at me over her shoulder. ‘This is just as boring as your phone.’
‘Still no girlfriend,’ Zinnia says. ‘Tell me this isn’t looking more and more promising.’
‘There’s nothing here,’ Daphne says. ‘Funny pictures someone’s forwarded him, the odd joke between mates, but absolutely no sappy love messages. Not even an “on the way home, see you soon” – and even I text Gavin one of them when I leave work every night.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not interested.’ I ignore the flutteriness again. There must’ve been something wrong with that cereal this morning. Nothing more.
‘Right, notes. He could have written his address in there in case his phone ever got lost.’
‘Daph! This is his private property!’
‘Oh my God, Ness. He’s a vegetarian too. He’s literally the male version of you. Look, last week’s shopping list.’ She waves the phone in front of me. ‘Halloumi cheese, Quorn sausages, veggie bacon, Coco Pops, Nutella, and Cadbury’s Fingers.’ She sighs happily. ‘Any guy who buys Cadbury’s Fingers is a keeper. They’re your favourites.’
‘He’s probably buying them for his wife,’ I say, even though warmth floods my insides. I’m not interested in men, but if I could invent a perfect one, that would be his shopping list. ‘Besides, Cadbury’s Fingers only mean he’s a keeper if he bites both ends off and sucks tea up through it like a straw until it goes all melty and gooey on the inside.’
‘No address then?’ Zinnia asks. She’s all about yoga and detoxing teas. She doesn’t approve of chocolate. Daphne and I regularly joke that it’s all a front and she often leaves abruptly so she can get back to the bar of Galaxy hidden in her desk.
‘Nothing. What shall we do? Call the last number he dialled and see if they know how else to get in touch with him?’
‘Oi!’ I finally do protest. ‘I’m the one who found the phone. I should be the one doing this. It’s not right for us all to gather round it like some kind of soap opera.’
‘Yeah, and I’m pregnant so you can’t hit me to get it back.’ Daph ducks behind Zinnia and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘Right, call log.’
I sigh as I watch her go through the phone. ‘Again, no repeat calls to any specific number. No late-night booty calls. Here, last number dialled was local. I’ll ring it.’
She presses the dial button and puts the speaker on.
‘Cheap N Easy Pizza is closed at this time. Try again after five-thirty,’ a tinny voice comes through the phone.
Daph hangs up and bursts out laughing. ‘The last thing he did was get a takeaway pizza. Ness, he’s literally you. When did you last have a takeaway pizza?’
‘The weekend,’ I say, trying not to blush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with takeaway pizza. Not all of us have husbands who like to experiment with cooking gourmet meals for us, you know.’
‘Not for my lack of trying to find you one,’ she mutters. ‘And I bet he even likes pineapple on it too.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with—’ I start to protest but Daph drops her arm and I see an opportunity to snatch the phone out of her hand. ‘Ah ha!’
‘Okay, how are you going to find him then?’ Zinnia asks. I’m surprised she’s getting so involved in this. She loves anything to do with love, but she’s not usually got much time for me. I’m supposed to be a fact-checker for Maîtresse but my heart’s not in it. She knows it and I know it, and I’m not fast enough, thorough enough, or dedicated enough for her to like me.
‘There’s not even any social media,’ Daphne says. ‘I’m getting a bit worried here, Ness. Where’s his Facebook app? No Twitter? No Instagram? You are sure he isn’t a technophobe ninety-year-old, aren’t you?’
‘Well, maybe he just likes to keep things private. Not everyone’s on social media. Some days, I think we’d all be a lot less stressed if we weren’t. I don’t have the Facebook app on my phone either.’
‘See?’ Daph holds her hand up. ‘Perfect match.’
I sit there and scroll through the photos. He’s certainly got a thing about carousels. Almost all his photos are of them. There are photos taken of aged photos depicting them in olden days, pictures of broken parts of various wooden animals, paint-chipped poles, carousels in fairgrounds, one on a pier, and there are other rides too. I spot what must be joints of a rollercoaster and possibly some tracks, what looks like antique furniture and old steam engines. I linger on the distant photo of him standing on a carousel for longer than could be considered normal. My heart is pounding harder just at the sight of him in a zoomed-in photograph.
I have to stop thinking about it. The sooner this phone is out of my hands, the better. ‘Why don’t I try texting someone on his contact list and ask them how to get in touch with him?’
‘I volunteer my services while you go and get on with work,’ Daphne says quickly. ‘I’ll find someone who can get in touch with him and verify his relationship status.’
‘Chop chop.’ Zinnia taps her wrist like I’m on a schedule.
I scroll through the messages again but Daph’s right, there don’t seem to be any ongoing conversations or anything other than perfunctory messages and courier confirmations, so I go to his contacts list instead, hoping it might be in some kind of most-contacted order but it’s alphabetical.
‘Just text the first one,’ Zinnia says, and I get the feeling this has gone on too long for her. She’s efficient and doesn’t believe in wasting time, which is probably why she’s the editor of a popular women’s magazine and I’m the person who phones round publicists trying to find two sources to confirm that Brad Pitt’s name is actually spelt Brad Pitt. Nothing is too pedantic in fact-checking.
I slide my finger back up to the top. ‘Okay. Alan it is. Let’s hope he’s a good friend of Train Man.’
Hello, I type out. I found this phone on the train this morning and I’m trying to get hold of the owner to give it back. Do you know how I can contact him?
‘Now we wait.’
Daph starts talking about the baby pressing on her bladder, but within minutes, the phone lets out a low jingling noise and lights up in my hand.
‘Oooh!’ we all say in unison.
I unlock the phone and blink in surprise at the reply. ‘Oh. No “oooh” at all. Wow.’ I ignore the growingly insistent chorus of ‘whats’. ‘That�
�s not very nice.’
I read the text message from Alan aloud, cutting out some of the more, er, choice language. ‘Eff off Nathaniel, don’t involve me in whatever stupid game you’re playing now.’
‘Ooh, intriguing,’ Daph says.
‘Worrying,’ I amend for her. ‘What’s he done to this bloke? What “stupid game” has he been playing before?’
‘Why’d he bother to keep him as a contact if they hate each other so much?’
‘A mystery,’ Zinnia says. ‘To solve.’
‘Nathaniel is such a sexy name,’ Daph says, fanning a hand in front of her face again.
‘That’s what you took from that message?’
‘Well, at least we know what he’s called now. Although I don’t fancy texting dear old Alan back to ask for his home address or landline number, do you?’
I recoil at the thought. ‘Don’t you think we’ve invaded this poor man’s privacy enough? We’ve been through his pictures, his notes, his messages; we’ve even managed to text his number one enemy. I should have dropped this phone straight in at lost property in the station. It has nothing to do with me if he gets it back or not.’
‘There’s an amazing story in this. It’s so romantic. A man you’ve been silently flirting with on the train for months, eyes meeting across a crowded carriage, and now you being the one to spot his dropped phone and the quest to find this mystery man and return it … Our readers will love it.’ Zinnia looks between me and Daphne with an expression that means she’s plotting something, and then her eyes settle on me. ‘And you’re going to be the one to write it.’
‘Me?’ I shake my head in an attempt to clear my ears because I’m definitely not hearing her right. ‘Write what?’
‘This.’ She rolls her eyes, leaving me in no doubt about how dense she thinks I am for not getting it yet. ‘The story of The Guy on the Train. It’ll be like that novel but without all the alcoholism and murderyness.’
‘Oh, it’ll be so romantic.’ Daph picks up a magazine to fan herself with. ‘The playful flirtation, the eye contact, the smile, the dimples, the connection on a crowded train where the only thing anyone usually connects with is some drunken guy’s leering or the smell of wee where someone’s urinated on a seat. Again.’
The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea Page 2