Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  Except not that lovely.

  When I called back Mr Pringle to tell him, his secretary told me he would be out until two. At which time, she promised, he’d call me straight back. Though he couldn’t, as I’d be on viewings by then.

  No matter, I thought, when Hugh returned to the office. When Mr Pringle called back, Hugh could tell him himself.

  No matter! Huh! Charlie Simpleton, me!

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Hugh was saying to his telephone when I returned. He glanced up and grinned as I shrugged off my jacket and sat down.

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got to appreciate my client’s position,’ he went on. ‘His client is holding him to the asking price. And budgets being budgets, they simply have no choice.’

  He then said, ‘Ah, but that was probably before he’d made his offer. And he’s had to up it......I appreciate that...but we’re only talking, what? Two and a half K here? I’m sure, if you want the house, you can stump up that much.’

  I wasn’t taking a whole lot of notice. But I’d just begun typing in ‘pleasing water feature’ when I heard him finish with,

  ‘Okay, Mr Pringle, I’ll leave it with you.’

  I stopped typing.

  ‘Leave what with him?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Upping his offer.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Upping his offer? They’ve already accepted it.’ I pointed. ‘It’s there, on that scrap pad in front of you. Accepted this morning. No problem at all.’

  At this point, Hugh clearly thought he was being deeply impressive, because he prefaced his coming outrage with a cheery ‘aha!’

  ‘In theory, yes,’ he conceded, warming to his task. ‘But the Pringles didn’t know that, did they? And you know and I know that they have a bit more than that to play with, don’t they? They offered four grand more for that other house last month. Give it an hour and they’ll be back with the asking price. You wait.’ He sat back.

  I held in my splutter.

  ‘I won’t wait,’ I told him. I picked up my telephone. ‘I shall call Mr Pringle and tell him the truth.’

  The response was quite gratifying.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘The truth,’ I said sniffily. ‘That their offer’s been accepted. I can’t believe you’d even entertain doing anything else.’

  Hugh’s eyes darted to the receiver and back. ‘Don’t be stupid,’’ he said. ‘We’re talking two and a half grand here.’

  ‘Exactly. A big chunk of money.’

  ‘Which they can afford.’

  ‘But which they don’t wish to pay. Not for this house.’

  ‘It’s worth it.’

  ‘It might be. It’s entirely subjective. And it’s not the point anyway.’

  ‘Of course it’s the point. We have a duty to see we keep price levels sensible.’

  ‘Oh, and ‘sensible’ means inflating them at every opportunity, does it?’

  I began dialling Mr Pringle’s office number. Hugh stood up. ‘And what about the business? What about the difference in the agency fee?’

  I came back in a flash, because I’d already computed it. ‘In this case,’ I said sweetly, ‘a little over thirty one pounds.’

  My call was connected.

  ‘It’s not the point anyway. The point is -’

  I stopped him. ‘You, Hugh, can wheeler deal all you want to. I’d like to do my job without telling lies. Ah, Mr Pringle. I have some excellent news for you...’

  Never really expected to enjoy work a huge amount, but now I realise I won’t really enjoy work at all.

  Chapter 5

  Thursday 6th. Home from work.

  Bizarre event. Small cache of post (propped significantly - and portentously - by Dad, between mail order shrub catalogue and Britain - short breaks and tours with our heritage in mind) includes a letter. Hand written. In writing. From Rose.

  Charlie, hi!

  Sorry it’s been such aeons since we connected. Can’t believe where all the time has gone. Actually, I can. Matt’s been zapping back and forth through Le Shuttle like a manic squid. We have more wine bottles than milk bottles!

  Reserving judgement on the local primary. Though the kids seem to have settled in really well, there is a definite whiff of champagne socialism in the air. Joe has a new friend called Oberon (which says it all, does it not?), and Ellen has become almost pathologically attached to her teacher (thoroughbred counties but aggressively Ms) who has a nose ring and bunches and is a spit, apparently, of Angelica from Rug Rats.

  But the comp, as you’d expect, looks reassuringly like a more dissolute place. Despite the location, there seems to be no shortage of surly and dysfunctional pubescents here, which, as you’d expect, makes me feel quite at home!

  How are things with you? I hated leaving you at such a low ebb (hated leaving, period) - and what with all the chaos of your Dad moving in and then Dan going off to Med School, you must be feeling quite strange and bereft. Again, apologies for being so wrapped up in things here that it’s taken me this long to get in touch. At the moment I’m oscillating between knowing we’ve done the right thing (and being happy for Matt, of course; he’s settled in well at work, and seems to be enjoying it) and an overwhelming sadness for everything we’ve left behind. I can’t quite believe we’ll find friends like we’ve left. And you suddenly seem a long, long way away.

  Anyway, finally re-connected to reality. After threats of sanctions on al fresco sex come the spring Matt dragged himself inside and unpacked the computer last night - I swear he’d sleep outside if it weren’t for the slugfest he’s inspired with his hoeing. (So strange for a agri-chemical whiz kid to be so enthusiastically organic, don’t you think?) Send me your email address asap, so we can update the shag lists and share all the goss - your phone, I have to tell you, is always engaged. Does your dad have some sort of 0898 habit???!!!!

  Miss you lots. Lots. Take care.

  Rose. xxxxx

  What? How? Eh?

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  Very confused by your letter. It’s great to hear you’re all well etc. But what do you mean by ‘it’s been aeons since we connected’? It’s been two days. And why don’t you ever answer your phone? Please explain. Asap.

  Charlie.

  PS What’s an 0898 habit?

  7 pm.

  Telephone Rose. Matt says; We’re just too busy chilling and so on. Leave a message. ‘Rose, it’s me. Where the bloody hell are you?’

  Turf Ben off the computer.

  7.30 pm.

  Telephone Rose. We’re just too busy chilling etc. Leave another message (needs must). ‘Me again. I guess you must be out. Sorry about the ‘where the dot dot dot are you’ bit earlier. Hope you play this when you get home so you can wipe it before the children hear it. Sorry. Anyway. Call me soon as you can.

  Turf Ben off the computer.

  9pm.

  Call Rose. We’re just too busy chilling etc.

  Turf Ben off the computer. Turf Dad out of the bath (through keyhole, obviously). Turf Ben into the bath. Turf hissing, smoking, stinking, spitting preserving pan with new black crackle glaze interior out into the garden.

  10pm.

  Call Rose. We’re just too busy chilling etc.

  Put Ben in bed. Put Dad in place. But! Ah! Post! At last!

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  Oops. Suspect I have been rumbled. I suppose it was only a matter of time. I apologise.

  PS. 0898. If you don’t know, I don’t feel it’s my place to enlighten you. Why d’you ask?

  10.05pm

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Rose,

  What do you mean ‘rumbled? What’s been going on? Is that you, Matt? Is this some sort of joke?

  10.10pm. Instant reply again. Spookily on-line.

  thesimpsons@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear Charlie,

  Not exactly. But this isn’t Rose. Or Matt. Sorry.

&n
bsp; 10.15pm. I’m beginning to feel as if I have stumbled across a left over alien from the Outer Limits. Or a comedy extra from Star Wars. Whizz a terse reply back.

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear whoever you are,

  Forgive me if I seem a little slow on the uptake, but are you telling me I’ve spent all this time sending emails to an absolute stranger? And what the hell are you playing at, replying? And just who are you anyway? Tell me now. And what is an 0898 habit?

  10.45pm. Now suspiciously off-line.

  griffith@cymserve.co.uk

  Dear ‘Rose’

  I said now.

  Ditto. Hmm.

  3.48am

  I wake in a cold sweat as the contents of several weeks worth of mindless/ pathetic/revelatory/bitchy etc. emails rain down like a shower of whitebait on my head. I could surely be sent to the colonies for less.

  4.59am

  Oh, God! Harris-Harper! Dishy Jones! Richard Potter! Richard Potter in boots!

  5.42am

  Who the hell is it? Who? Who? Who? That’s it. I’m finished. I will never be able to show my face in Wales again. I will have to move to Canterbury and rent tent space among Matt’s perpetual spinach. And grow a beard or something. Oh oh oh.

  6.31am

  Christ! And I called Phil a prat!

  6.32 am

  And Davina a baggage!

  Friday. AM-ish.

  Bad start to the day. Got ready for work harangued by the burgeoning horror that I have spent weeks communicating my personal romantic fantasies to a complete stranger via email. But who? Who? Population of Wales: three million. Population of south coast of Wales (Cymserve main area): two million. Population of south coast of Wales with computers..er..one and a half million? Pop. of south Wales with on-line capability...er....can’t be more than one million, can it? Pop. of south coast of Wales actually using on-line capability (i.e. spending leisure time emailing as opposed to watching rugby/watching documentaries about Welsh Assembly/sitting in pubs pretending to know all about the Welsh Assembly/ in street answering questions from thrusting journalists about who exactly, local Euro MPs actually are etc.) half a million? Half a million? Only five hundred thousand. Could easily be someone I actually know.

  And it got worse.

  If there’s somewhere cool

  in your neighbourhood

  grab-yourself-a-pad

  Call Metro!

  Seen a hip townhouse

  an’ it looks real good

  grab-yourself-a-pad

  Call Metro!

  Yeuch.

  No peace to be found. Couldn’t even listen to the radio in the car as a diversion, for fear of further assault by the truly appalling din that is the new Metro Homes advertising campaign, which has suddenly burst into terrible life, with a vocally challenged Rugby player as the all-wailing front man, pretending to be a Ghostbuster. I decided that I must alert the film company and advise them of this blatant pilfering, and thus wreak revenge on behalf of my ears.

  Davina bursts into the office in her usual thrusting, in-your-face manner, causing almost total defoliation of our moribund weeping fig, and a swirling mound of leaf litter.

  ‘Pah!’ she says, glaring at me. Then (glaring again harder, or possibly narrowing her eyes to escape all the green), ‘You know it’s not my usual practice to gripe unnecessarily, Charlie, but do you really think looking like you’ve been through a rinse and spin cycle is in keeping with the new WJJ corporate image?’

  Oh, sod off, Davina. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I had a bit of a bad night. I hardly slept, and –’

  She slides a jewel coloured nail over a perfect arch of brow. ‘Yes, yes, yes. We all have our problems. For goodness sake get yourself sorted, will you? Drag a comb through your hair. Plump your bow up a bit. I’ve got Austin Metro due here any minute and the window display is an utter shambles.’

  Oh, Davina, Davina, Davina.

  I don’t know why I let Davina get to me so much. Actually, yes I do. And it’s not that she’s younger, richer, smarter (only sartorially), taller, leggier and, by some yardsticks, more successful than me. Bar the husband, the confidence and the flawless complexion, there’s not a lot Davina has that I think I’d really want, but, somehow (daily - and I’ve worked here for years now) there is something in the way we interact with one another that makes me feel that she feels I wish that I did. Which is wholly preposterous and needles me greatly. Though why I needle her, I do not have a clue.

  And why should I care if she wants to spend half her life sucking up to her ancient ex-boss? (Who’s real name is, in fact, Austin Evans, as everyone well knows.) Nevertheless, the arrangement of my window is a thing very dear to me. ‘I just did the window display!’ I sniff.

  ‘That’s as may be, but as I came in I noticed a gap. Third panel. Bottom row. Second from the left.’

  Ha! ‘That’s because I’m just adding the ‘sold’ sticker to it.’

  Ha ha ha. Yah boo sucks.

  ‘Ah. 27 Peasdale?’

  ‘Full asking price.’ Ha!

  Better. In anticipation of getting hold of a lovely lovely commission-enhanced salary cheque, I despatch an extra £300 to my MFI/Everest fund on my way home.

  It is almost a whole week however, before I manage to get hold of Rose. She calls during the five minute pre-straining run up, but sod the vegetables, I decide - this is important.

  ‘Charlie! There you are! At last!’

  ‘What do you mean, “at last”?’

  ‘What I say! You’re so hard to get hold of- ’

  ‘I’m so hard to get hold of- ’

  ‘Your phone’s always engaged, Charlie.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘It sure is. It always is. I almost sent you a carrier pigeon today. I’ve been trying you non stop since we got back from Majorca.’

  ‘Majorca?’

  ‘Half term. One of those last minute pot luck breaks to Pollensa. Anyway, what’s the panic? You filled up the tape.’

  ‘Your letter.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’m addled about it.’

  ‘Addled?’

  ‘Seriously addled. About what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh? What is going on?’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. You know Dan kept on at me about getting a modem and signing up with a server for the internet and so on, so I could email him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I did all that, and ever since then that’s just what I’ve been doing. Sending emails.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sending emails to you.’

  ‘To me? Have you?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you’ve been sending them back.’

  ‘I certainly haven’t. Our computer’s been stuffed in a box.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘Exactly?’

  ‘You haven’t been getting them. But they didn’t come back. They got sent somewhere else.’

  ‘Sent to where?’

  ‘That’s the problem. I haven’t a clue! I only realised it wasn’t you when I got your letter.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. What email address did you use?’

  ‘Yours!’

  ‘You can’t have. You would have had them returned.’

  ‘But I did! I checked. But could there be two?’

  ‘I don’t think that can happen. The system wouldn’t allow it. Once an address has been registered no one else can have it. Unless it’s with a different server of course. Definitely Cymserve?’

  ‘Definitely. Griffith-at-cymserve-dot-co-dot-uk. And there’s worse. Obviously, whoever’s been getting my emails has been getting everything you would. Mindless prattling, bitching, ranting, shag lists -’

  ‘Hang on. Hang on. griffith@cymserve? That’s not right. Our email address is m-n-r-griffith at cymserve.’

  ‘MNR? Is it?’

  ‘It is. For Matt ‘n Rose. Not what you put. You just typed griffith. Not the same address at all
.’

  ‘Cripes! No wonder! Then who’s address is it?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. And it’s a very common name. There must be hundreds - even thousands - of Griffiths in Wales. But someone who’s been on the net for some time. Plain Griffith would have been snapped up early on, is my bet.’

  ‘Which tells me nothing. Other than that it’s not Sheila Rawlins. Anyway, they said ‘sorry, you got me’ or something like that, and I’ve not heard from them since.’

  ‘So no harm done then, really.’

  ‘But it could be anyone!’

  ‘So ask them.’

  ‘I did! They wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘ So don’t worry. You don’t know them, so what does it matter?’

  ‘But I might. There’s at least a one in five hundred thousand chance that I do.’

  ‘How d’you work that out?’

  ‘Statistically, obviously.Wales isn’t that big. Though the odds are shorter now. how many actual Griffiths on-line in Wales, d’you think?’

  ‘Who cares? So what? So what if some clam digger living in Tenby knows the top five shag icons in Cefn Melin? They don’t know them either, do they? Forget it.’

  ‘Do clam diggers generally email each other?’

  ‘Tsh, Charlie! Get a grip. What does it matter, really? Besides, it all sounds like it could be rather fun, if you ask me. Like a pen friend, except without the dodgy syntax. Is it a man or a woman, do you think?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest. I thought it was you!’

  ‘So why don’t you email them back again and ask them? You did say your life lacked excitement just lately.’

  ‘Hmm. By the way. What is an 0898 habit?’

  ‘Charlie, my love? Stay as sweet as you are.’

  Chapter 6

  Friday. Post dinner.

  I’ve decided that Rose is absolutely right. That what I have is not a low life but a potential new pen friend. Feeling suddenly imbued with a delightful spirit of adventure. I feign a headache and so despatch Phil home early, then despatch a further email to my new mystery friend.