The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea

by Jaimie Admans

  ‘Well, you made me promise not to find excuses not to do stuff, and I promised to throw myself into this, whatever “this” is, headfirst, or more specifically feet first into a sand dune. And it was … fun. Exhausting, but things are different with him. He makes things seem different. Even outdoor pursuits.’

  ‘Are you sure he is a man, and not, like, some Clark Kent-esque Superman type? Because he’s got to have some kind of superhuman powers to get you to do exercise.’

  ‘You see? Usually I’d be embarrassed by that and tell you to keep your voice down, but I’ll tell Nathan that tomorrow because I know he’ll laugh. And probably be overjoyed to be compared to a superhero.’

  I can hear her grinning. ‘So you’ve clicked then? Are there butterflies?’

  ‘Oh God, we’ve clicked like a Rubik’s Cube. A Rubik’s Cube in a butterfly farm. I’ve never known anyone who makes me smile so much. I’m not afraid to make a fool of myself in front of him, because he’s probably next to me making a fool of himself too. He’s sweet and kind and an absolute gentleman, and those dimples … and his eyes. His eyes actually dance when he laughs, Daph. They change colour when he smiles. Everything feels a bit better when I’m with him. And you should hear his voice. He can do an impression of anyone instantly, he’s so—’ I realise I’ve gone off on one and rein myself in. I’ll be on about his nose hair again in a minute. ‘I mean, yeah, we’ve kind of clicked …’

  She’s quiet for a long moment. ‘Call it best friend’s intuition, but why can I hear hesitation in your voice?’

  I sigh. I should’ve known I can’t hide anything from Daph. ‘Because … how can it be real?’

  I expect her to tell me to stop hunting for excuses and putting up barriers, but I hear her shift again and thump a cushion. I can envision her sat on her cosy sofa leaning forward to shove it behind her back. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not on speakerphone with Zinnia lurking behind you, are you?’

  ‘It’s Sunday night, Ness. I’m at home. Gavin is in the kitchen cooking and I’m sipping a glass of lemonade and pretending it’s wine. Zinnia’s probably busy plotting how to squeeze a microgram more Botox into her face before the working week begins.’

  I laugh despite myself and then sigh because I keep feeling like I’m reading more into this than is actually there. ‘He’s Train Man, Daph. A random guy I’ve occasionally smiled at on the way to work some mornings—’

  ‘A stranger you’ve had a connection with,’ she interrupts. ‘And now he’s not a stranger and you’ve still got a connection with him. That’s brilliant. That’s what you wanted.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I just wanted to get his phone back to him. I didn’t mean for anything to happen between us.’

  I hear her sit forward. ‘Has something happened between you?’

  ‘Well, no, but … up on that mountain yesterday, we kind of held hands, and we kind of almost kissed—’

  ‘Oh my God, there’s been kissage already!’

  ‘No! And since when do you call it kissage? That sounds like something you’d need a vet to prescribe.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like a lot of “almosts” and “kind ofs” and not many “doing ofs” to me. You obviously like him. And you haven’t seen the look on your face every morning you’ve come into work after he’s been on the tube. You’ve obviously liked him for a long time.’

  ‘But I didn’t know him then. He was just a handsome guy with a nice smile. But whatever this is, it started like a romantic comedy, and that doesn’t happen in real life.’

  ‘Does it matter how it started?’ I can hear the tone that she usually uses when I refuse to go on any of her proffered dates creeping into her voice. ‘I know he’s special because this is the first time in over two years that you’ve even considered speaking to a guy, let alone doing physical exertion with one, even if not in the fun way. What matters is how you feel about this guy you’ve met. How you met isn’t important. You deserve to be happy, Ness. No matter how unhappy you were with Andrew.’

  ‘That’s the first time you haven’t called him “poor Andrew”.’

  I hear her shaking her head. ‘You know why I always hated that you broke up with him? Because you were brave enough to do it. Even after all that time, you were brave enough to stand up and say “this isn’t working, I’m not happy” even when the rest of us had already planned your hen do. You were brave enough to prefer to be single than to stay with someone who was okay. Andrew would’ve married you. I’d have settled for that. You were brave enough to realise you wanted more.’

  ‘Why have you never said any of that before?’

  ‘Because I’ve been thinking about it since you left. About fate and stuff. Or maybe my hormones are just completely up the spout. I cried at an advert for a donkey sanctuary yesterday – don’t mind me.’

  ‘You’re going to make me cry in a minute.’

  She laughs. ‘I’m just saying. You can’t be brave enough to end things with Andrew and then not be brave enough to start something with someone else. It’s been two years, Ness. Let yourself feel something again. Don’t push him away. Even if he says he doesn’t want a relationship. Even if you say you don’t. Why can’t you just spend time with him without overanalysing it?’

  I do actually get a bit choked up because she knows me too well. I bite my lip and force a smile to the empty room. ‘Never mind me, how are you, pregnant lady?’

  ‘Fat,’ she mutters. ‘And too flamin’ hot. And sweaty. I’ve got sweat in places I can’t even reach. I’m constantly glistening and not in a good way.’

  I laugh because Daph’s done nothing but moan throughout her pregnancy but I know she’s overjoyed really. I’ve never seen her as happy as the day she made me walk down to Boots to get a pregnancy test and then sit in the bathroom at work with her while we waited for a result.

  ‘And work? Counting down the days until your leave starts?’

  ‘Three weeks, twelve hours, and forty-three minutes. And no, not counting at all,’ she says with a laugh. ‘At least you’ll be back by then to take over. Zinnia is so happy about the response your article is getting. None of mine have ever had that kind of public engagement before. She really thinks you’ve got something special. When I come back from maternity, I’ll be fact-checking for you.’

  The thought makes me feel a bit sick and I’m not sure why. I’m enjoying life in Pearlholme, with Nathan, and the idea of going back to the noisy, busy, sweaty tube trains of London, without Nathan, is not as welcome as I thought it would be. ‘Are you sure I’m really the right person to write this …’

  ‘Of course you are,’ she says with such confidence that it makes me wish I could share some of it. ‘You’ve been desperate to write for Maîtresse for ages. This is the job you’ve always wanted.’

  Have I always wanted this job? I suppose when I first started at Maîtresse, Daphne was the one to aspire to, the one who everyone else in the office envied. I love reading her articles and have always thought I’d love to write about the kind of things she writes about – couples who have met in strange ways or triumphed over adversity, couples who broke up and found each other twenty years later and fell in love again, ones that got away who came back, interesting people with interesting stories that make you believe in love again, but it’s not exactly a lifelong dream. It would just be more interesting than fact-checking, and it pays better.

  I force myself to stop overthinking it. This is a brilliant opportunity. The best I’m ever going to get. A chance to start a career that will be mine for the rest of my life, after a lifetime of struggling by on minimum-wage jobs and temp work.

  Thinking about my job makes me think about Nathan and how much he loves restoring carousels. I can’t imagine ever feeling like that, no matter where in the office I work. Even if I get a job equivalent to Daphne’s and a matching paycheque. Even if I get respect from Zinnia and my name in print every fortnight. Will it ever make me smile the way he does when he’s tal
king about his work?

  I realise I’m smiling at the thought until Daphne snaps me back down to earth.

  ‘Zinnia’s not happy, mind.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask, wondering if Zinnia would ever be happy with anything I do.

  ‘She thinks you’re taking too long.’

  ‘I’ve only been here a week! She told me to take my time!’

  ‘Yeah, but she thinks you’re not keeping in touch because you’re slacking off. She wants regular updates. Part two is due tomorrow and she expected to see it on Friday.’

  ‘It’s not my fault that she can’t read a calendar. Monday is Monday. I can get it done by then. Part two is meant to be short. I’m just supposed to pave the way for these “have you seen this man?” images she wants to put all over Twitter.’

  Zinnia emailed me the graphics that the art department mocked up after I left – social media shareable images with a blurry stock photo of a faceless brown-haired model and big, bold headlines reading things like ‘Have you seen Train Man?’ and ‘Where has Train Man gone?’

  ‘What have you got so far? Pop it over to me and I’ll give it a look before you send it to her if you want.’

  ‘Well, I’ve, er, thought about it … quite a lot …’

  ‘You haven’t even started yet? Ness!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I mumble, feeling like a naughty school kid who’s done something so bad that even the nicest teacher in the school has been forced to have a word. ‘But it’s disingenuous to run a campaign to find him. He’s five minutes up the road.’

  ‘Get used to it. You want to write features for Maîtresse, the only way you get to carry on doing that is if people read the features you’ve written. The best way to get them to do that is social media engagement. You need something that catches the attention of people quickly scrolling through their timelines. If you have to bend the truth a little to make something eye-catching …’ She sighs. ‘This whole Train Man thing is great. People will follow it until they know who he is.’

  ‘But that’s the point. I know who he is. He’s not just Train Man now. He’s more than that. He isn’t just fodder for an article to further my career. He deserves better than this.’

  ‘What does he think about it all?’

  I swallow.

  ‘You haven’t told him, have you?’

  ‘I don’t know how to do it, Daph,’ I say eventually. ‘He’s sweet and shy and he wouldn’t want this. I feel like I’m exploiting him. I thought I could get to know him for a bit first without the article tainting things and then write about it afterwards. I mean, he could’ve turned out to be a complete git and then I’d have had to make something up anyway.’

  ‘If you’re already seeing this article as a negative thing, maybe …’

  She trails off but I know what she’s going to say. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. But I don’t want to think about it because without this, what have I got? Am I going to be a fact-checker forever? I bloomin’ well hope not, but there’s not exactly a great scope for promotion, and moving onto actual journalism is what I want. Really, it is.

  ‘I’ve been keeping up with my normal job,’ I say instead. I don’t add how much of a struggle it’s been some days, with an intermittent Wi-Fi signal and the distraction of Nathan, who somehow seems more important than any job.

  ‘Yes, Zinnia’s also noticed you’ve been very close to the deadline some times. Most times, actually. She was muttering yesterday that when she says five o’clock, she doesn’t mean four fifty-nine.’

  ‘That’s not fair. If she says five and I get it in by five, I’ve still made it.’

  ‘It doesn’t say much for your enthusiasm, Ness.’

  ‘The Wi-Fi …’

  ‘A good excuse for staying in hot men’s pretty cottages – and oh, how I wish that was a euphemism – but not such a good excuse with Zinnia. She doesn’t like you working remotely. You know what she’s like. She likes everyone in the office so she can keep a beady eye on them.’

  ‘She doesn’t trust me even though I haven’t yet missed a deadline, no matter how finely I’ve cut it.’ I thunk my head back against the headboard of the hotel room bed where I’m sitting and wonder why I’m trying to defend myself. I do know what Zinnia’s like. I know she doesn’t appreciate deadlines being hit with minutes to spare, and I know I should have done something towards the article that I’m supposed to send in tomorrow. The part where I have to write a little something about the mysterious vanishing of Train Man and get the public to help me find him, published alongside his shopping list and the picture of the carousel horse and his shoe. It’s an invasion of his privacy, and I know he’d hate it, and I’ve let myself get sidetracked by Nathan and the carousel and Ivy and the mystery carver, and had to rush through the articles waiting in my inbox every evening, sitting in Nathan’s garden and looking down at the beach, watching him packing up the carousel for the day and wondering why I’m so distracted.

  ‘I’m not trying to make you feel bad,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to give you a heads up about Zinnia. I’m sure she’ll be fine if you send it in tomorrow morning. It doesn’t have to be perfect, she just needs to know that the only thing you’re working on isn’t your tan.’

  ‘I’m not working on my tan—’

  There’s the ding of a kitchen timer in the background and Gavin calls something, which prevents me from telling her that, far from my tan, I’ve spent a fair few days this week working on carousel animals with Nathan, which has been infinitely more interesting than fact-checking or writing articles about a gorgeous guy who doesn’t know I’m supposed to be writing about him.

  ‘That’s my lovely husband telling me that my lovely dinner is about to be served,’ Daph says. ‘I’ve gotta go. But for God’s sake, write something, Ness, and see if you can’t get a few articles checked with a bit of time to spare. This is a fantastic opportunity, and—’

  ‘I know,’ I say, because I do know, I’m just struggling to make myself care. ‘Enjoy your wonderful gourmet meal with your wonderful gourmet husband.’

  ‘Text me when you kiss the gorgeous Nathaniel! Actually kiss him, not kind of kiss him. Even that would appease a bit of Zinnia’s wrath.’

  Great, I think as I hang up and sit there staring at the blank screen of my phone. Nathan’s phone is still on the dressing table beside the door, ready to grab whenever he wants it. He just doesn’t seem to want it. And now even my boss wants updates on us locking lips. It doesn’t make it feel very organic, does it? If I kiss him now, will it be because I want to kiss him or because kissing him might temporarily stop my boss from sacking me?

  I drag my laptop onto my lap and start it up, glad the Wi-Fi signal at the hotel is intermittent so I haven’t got the excuse of catching up online and can just open a document and get on with the article.

  Except … what on earth am I supposed to write? If I had a longer deadline, I’d put it off for longer. Daph’s right. Zinnia is going to kill me if this isn’t in her inbox tomorrow morning. She’ll definitely fire me.

  The case of the missing Train Man

  By Vanessa Berton

  From Paula Hawkins to Agatha Christie. The mystery deepens. Where has Train Man gone?

  He got off at a stop that wasn’t his usual one and he had a suitcase with him. He must’ve been going somewhere because I haven’t seen him since. And believe me, I’ve been looking. Every day on the tube, I scan the carriages and feel an unnatural sense of excitement whenever I spot a tall, dark-haired man, only to be disappointed when he turns around and is, once again, not my Train Man.

  Train Man has disappeared from London.

  But I still have his phone.

  Like Columbo with boobs and (marginally) better hair, I’ve searched every inch of his phone, and it has given up some clues to his identity. So I’m asking for help in the disappearance of Train Man. Do you know him? Do you know a tall man with dark hair and dark twinkly eyes who gets the tube some mornings? A man who buys veg
etarian food and works on carousels?

  Yes, carousels!

  His phone is packed with pictures of his work restoring old carousels. My favourite childhood seaside ride. Vintage merry-go-rounds that evoke memories of happy times gone by and decadent romance. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen the film Carousel or hummed ‘If I Loved You’ under my breath while doing the housework. Does Train Man know my favourite musical too?

  I’m keeping his phone charged in case he calls, but so far, nothing. Where is he? Why hasn’t he tried to find out where his phone is or get in touch with the person who’s got it?

  But modern girls don’t wait around for princes to find them, do they? Not if I can find him first …

  The whole thing is a fight with a blinking cursor, every word needing to be pulled from me with pliers, and I hate every one of them because none are true. And I know that Zinnia’s going to try to blow this up to even bigger viral proportions than the first part. Those shareables are going to be posted everywhere. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t plaster them all over bus stops on Oxford Street. And what about the photo of the carousel horse? It’s his photo and she’s going to use it, because he’s just a story to her. It doesn’t matter what he wants. It doesn’t matter that anyone who knows him could see it and recognise his work.

  I run my eyes back across the lines I’ve just written. Why am I blaming Zinnia? I’m the one writing the article. If I care so much about him, why don’t I just refuse to write another part? Because never mind a career in writing, I could kiss goodbye to my fact-checking job for doing that. And she wouldn’t stop. I’ve been too scared to look at the number of views on part one now, but it’s undoubtedly a lot more than the eighteen thousand who’d read it before I came here. Even if I refuse, she’ll get someone else to write part two and three, and get models to play our roles in the happily ever after of part four. At least if I write it, I can do it carefully. I can keep Nath anonymous. I can be more vague than someone else would be.