by Helga Jensen
‘The company needs more information,’ I say. ‘It’s starting to get a little complicated. They want me to check if there’s a signature on the back and a few other details. I’m scared I’ll smash it, so don’t want to fiddle with it too much. The frame already looks like it’ll fall off.’
‘Well, I want to go to Disneyland. Ask Daddy, he’ll give us the money,’ says Rupert.
I haven’t asked Dick for a thing since the divorce. I am too proud and, even if it means I struggle, I refuse to ask him for anything. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
The Disneyland trip, however, affects the boys and so, for the first time, I have to consider that if the painting isn’t worth anything then I may need to go to Dick for the funds. I suppose it is the least he can do for them.
‘Ring Daddy and ask him for the money. Pleeeease Mum,’ begs Rupert.
Jasper smiles. ‘It would be nice to go to Disneyland, Mum.’
My stomach sinks. It is my worst nightmare, having to go cap in hand to Dick, especially after today’s run-in with him.
‘Ring him now, Mum,’ insists Rupert.
He hands me the phone and presses ‘Richard’ on the contact list. Please let him not notice that it says ‘Dick’ in brackets.
‘Why does it say Dick after his name?’ demands Rupert.
‘Oh, um, because it’s short for Richard, darling,’ I say, totally unconvincingly.
‘But that’s a bad, bad, word,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ answers Dick, right in the nick of time.
‘Oh, um, hi. Listen, I’m really sorry to bother you but the boys have this idea in their heads of going to Disneyland. They’ve asked me to call you to see if you could perhaps loan us the money for us to go.’
‘Perhaps loan, or do you mean GIVE you the money? It makes a difference,’ he says, his inner banker making an appearance.
‘Well, I don’t know yet. I have this antique picture that might be worth something—’
Dick cuts me off abruptly.
‘You have an antique. What, do you think it’s a Picasso? You’ve been watching too much TV. I take it you mean give you the money then. How much?’
This is why I don’t want to beg Dick for anything. He can be so condescending. However, one look at the boys’ hopeful little faces suddenly gives me the tenacity to deal with Dick.
‘I don’t know, I’d have to get some brochures and check. Look, it’s not for me. It’s for the boys. It’s the least you can do,’ I whisper down the phone.
‘The least I can do!’
Oh no, I forgot how careful you have to be when dealing with Dick.
‘Tanja wants to go on a skiing holiday and we’re planning our wedding… Look, if anything, me and Tanja will take them. You got to keep the house, so if you think I’m paying for you to have a holiday too, you have to be insane. I have a week off soon and it isn’t skiing season yet… S’pose it’ll be fine. Now is that all? I want to get back to Escape to the Chateau.’
The boys look at me excitedly as I put the phone down.
‘What did he say, what did he say?’ asks Jasper.
They are getting married. I had no idea. I suppose it is obvious that it could happen, but so soon and without even talking about it to me. Although I guess he doesn’t have to tell me. He mustn’t have told the boys either, or they would have definitely blurted it out. I just about manage to prevent myself from saying this part of the conversation.
‘He said yes. You can go to Disneyland.’
The boys are hysterical.
‘When will we all go, Mummy?’ asks Jasper.
‘I don’t know, honeybuns. I think it might be soon. Dad is going to have a chat with Tanja and see what they can arrange.’
‘Why is he checking with Tanja?’
‘I think he wants to take you both with Tanja. Perhaps he wants to have a special holiday. You’re home with Mummy almost every night. It would be lovely for you both to go with him,’ I say.
The truth is that the thought of the boys going away with Dick and Tanja Tart is killing me. I wanted to take them. Admittedly, Dick is better with rides than I am, but I wanted to be the one to take them on the less frightening boat rides and treat them to hot dogs. Dick has done this to be spiteful. I scold myself and remind the bitterness that burns inside me that what is important is that my two boys have their dream holiday. With or without me.
‘We’re going to Disneyland; we’re going to Disneyland.’
The boys are still dancing around the room five minutes later. I can’t quite join in with their enthusiasm. Yet again everything gets too much for me; the news that my boys are going on holiday with a woman who isn’t their mum, and that Dick is getting married again, comes as a bombshell to my already fragile emotional state.
Without any warning I begin to sob against the fridge door. It starts with a quiet cry, a teeny squeak of a sob. Then a bigger sob and then they become unstoppable. I feel as though I have broken into tiny pieces and there is nothing anyone can do to put all the pieces back together again. I am a divorced Humpty Dumpty.
I slide down the fridge door, taking the holiday magnets with me. I continue sliding down, until I reach the floor. I want to smash every magnet against the wall. I pick up a ceramic magnet in the shape of an island and examine it. Did we really have a good time when we went to Crete? I certainly remember that Dick had a tantrum in the taverna over the cheap Greek wine and his squid not being to his satisfaction. He stormed off and went for a walk along the beach to cool off. I had to walk the boys back to our villa alone; they were only small; the road was dark and I was terrified a car would come around the winding road and hit us.
Was his tantrum a ploy to rush off somewhere with his mobile phone and call his PA at work? He was always going on about ‘Lovely Linda’. Oh goodness, it’s not enough that he has made me completely depressed and I’ve lost my confidence, he’s even making me paranoid now.
Divorce is such an emotional rollercoaster; some days I can cope, others I feel like I am going to have some kind of breakdown. I desperately want to feel better, but the grief keeps popping up like a jack-in-the-box when I don’t expect it. But then again, it’s not every day the man you were with for over fifteen years tells you he is remarrying. Surely, I’m allowed to have a breakdown today.
‘Mum, can we watch a Disney DVD?’ shouts Jasper.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Watch it upstairs. I’ll be up in a while,’ I say, trying to hide the desperate sadness that I carry in my heart. The last thing I need is for the boys to see me upset yet again.
I really don’t know how to cope. If only Mum were here, she would know what to do. How did it all end this way? I was a young girl not so long ago, with a fun job and a husband who I thought loved me. Of course, I don’t regret giving up the job at the travel agency, so that I could take extended maternity leave all those years ago, but I do regret trusting a word that Dick ever said.
I get up off the floor to open the fridge door and pull out a bottle of wine to comfort me, but something makes me put it back.
Wine, chocolate, not even carrot cake has the answer. Only I can pull myself out of this once and for all. The only thing I am doing is ruining my health and gaining so much weight that nothing fits me any longer. Even in this state I realise that neither Dick, nor anyone else for that matter, is worth doing this for.
It has to stop once and for all. Tomorrow is a brand-new day and, no matter what happens, Dick is not going to ruin it. I am stronger than this. I have seen my mother not recognise me at the end of her fight with dementia. If I can get through that, I can do anything. Sian lost the love of her life and managed to get back on her feet. Jamie’s lovely dad was killed in a dreadful car accident six months ago. Yet Sian and Jamie are managing to carry on with life. Bad things happen to good people. Dick isn’t even dead – although maybe that’s part of the problem, I laugh to myself. No, I would never wish ill on the father of my children. I simply need to accept my si
tuation. It’s over. I need to move forward and not waste another moment of my life hankering after a man who now sees me as worthless. Dick is getting married and I must therefore move on with my life too.
It is time for me to be around people who value me, who care and cherish me. Everyone is worthy of at least that.
It is certainly time for a new beginning, I know that much. I suppose that new beginning could involve one teeny phone call to New York. I mean what harm can it do to see if Perfect Patrick remembers me? I admit that, until I found that paper, I hadn’t given him a moment’s thought, but I do remember him. I wonder if he recalls giving it to me.
‘Stop it, Amelia. He’s never going to remember you,’ I say out loud to myself. But my brain won’t let it rest.
It’s like there is a devil on my shoulder telling me, ‘Go on, do it.’
‘If you don’t ring then you never get to find out,’ the devil is saying.
It would be fun to find out more about him, for sure. I weigh up the pros and cons. Worst-case scenario he doesn’t remember me, thinks I’m a stalker or is married and his wife murders me for contacting him. Best-case scenario I make a lovely new pen pal, or he was my soulmate all along and we will spend the rest of our lives blissfully happy. He will ask me to move into his penthouse apartment and we will walk our chihuahuas (brother and sister from the same litter) in Central Park. The boys have always wanted at least one puppy.
At first glance the benefits certainly seem to outweigh the risks. It’s worth one phone call, surely?
Chapter 7
In a cafe – finding Perfect Patrick
My stomach is in knots and I feel sick. This is supposed to be exciting, not nerve-wracking. My heart feels like it is about to explode as I dial the number in front of me. If Perfect Patrick does answer, my voice is going to be all shaky and weird. He probably won’t even understand me I will be so jittery. I might need an ambulance in a minute, as I can hardly keep my heart in my chest. Boom, boom, boom. I am sure he will hear this all the way in New York. Take deep breaths, deep breaths.
‘Hello.’ Oh no, it is a woman’s voice. Put the phone down, put the phone down.
Slam. Why, oh why, did I put the phone down? She might have recently bought the home and she will know Patrick’s forwarding address. Or she might be his wife, the one with the long legs – you know, the murdering one – my anxiety-ridden brain is screaming at me.
I sip my latte. What do I do? I don’t have much time as I have to head back to work soon. Another deep breath calms my heart rate a little.
Okay. I will try again.
‘Hellllo.’ This time she sounds agitated.
‘Oh, um, oh, um, hi. Sorry, I got cut off just now. Um, is this Patrick’s home? I mean, like, is umm, Patrick there, please?’
‘I don’t understand. What?’ she says.
‘Oh, sorry, I’m um calling from Wales, it’s my accent. You know, in the UK?’
‘What?’
Okay. ‘May… I… Speak… To… Patrick… Please?’ I say very slowly and succinctly.
‘Patrick? Who the hell is Patrick?’
‘Oh, so you don’t know Patrick?’
‘No, should I?’
‘It’s okay, I think he lived there a very long time ago. Thanks.’
With that the phone goes dead. No goodbye, nothing. Do Americans not say goodbye on the phone, or something? So rude. Oh well, I suppose it shaved a few seconds off my phone bill.
Now what should I do?
I pick up the phone to Sian, like we both always do to each other in any crisis. I had decided not to tell her of my plan to call him, as I couldn’t cope with her texting me every five seconds to ask if I had rung him yet. Now, however, I feel it is time to confide in her.
‘Aww, I’m so pleased you called him, Amelia. This is exactly what you need to do. I think Patrick is the perfect distraction for you, well, and for me too. Ooh, I’m loving this. Now we just need to find him. Think back, did he say anything about a job?’
I delve into the deepest parts of my brain for help. We didn’t really talk that much, but he did say something about his office being nearby. He may even have mentioned a company name, but it meant nothing so I would never be able to remember it. He had a fancy pen though. When he wrote the number down, I remember seeing this amazing fountain pen.
‘I remember something!’ I exclaim. ‘He had this pen and I mentioned how amazing it was, and he said that he wrote a lot for his job. He could be a journalist.’
‘Well, that’s amazing. We can easily find a journalist; there must be articles online.’
‘I don’t know, because this was a long time ago and not everything was on the internet, like it is now. What if he changed professions?’
‘Journalists don’t change professions. He might even be super famous by now,’ says Sian. ‘Right. You head back to work and I’ll do some googling for you.’
I rush back to World of Books, where I left Lisa on her own. She has a doctor’s appointment, so doesn’t look too pleased that I am five minutes late.
‘Sorry, sorry!’ I say as I rush in, looking slightly red in the face.
She huffs a bit and grabs her coat.
‘See you tomorrow, nice and early, I hope. By the way, some new travel guides were delivered while you were gone. Can you sort them out for me?’
What I wish I could do is tell her that I’m leaving to follow my dreams. Since Mum has gone, I have been thinking about becoming a nurse more and more. I wish I could give something back to the community after seeing how those amazing nurses looked after Mum.
Of course, I don’t say that though. My boss, Lisa, can be a bit prickly when she wants to be and I need to keep her happy if I wish to feed two hungry boys.
‘Yes, most definitely. Anything else you need me to do?’ I ask politely.
‘That’s all. See you tomorrow.’
The shop is quiet most of the afternoon, which is good as I can now unpack the delivery and will definitely manage to have all the books on the shop floor before tomorrow. Hopefully, this will make up for my earlier tardiness.
I can’t help but notice one of the guide books is for New York. I am tempted to put it aside and use my staff discount. It would be lovely to read up about the places I visited so long ago. It has probably changed so much since I was there.
Finally, with the books in place, I check my phone in between customers, as Sian has been messaging back and forth. Her last message was to say that after an afternoon of googling there is no trace of Patrick being a journalist in New York. How odd. She has, however, come up with the idea of putting out a media appeal on Twitter for him to come forward, which is an absolutely ridiculous thought. Unfortunately, a customer had just walked into the shop and was looking for the latest Nigella cookbook when Sian messaged this, so I quickly agreed to a tweet. Which, yes, did make me a bit of a twit, and I know was a big mistake. If only that woman hadn’t walked in right then, I would certainly have told Sian not to be so foolish.
I read her messages again now that the customer has left.
I’ll write something on Twitter appealing for Patrick. People love these stories. If we don’t find Patrick, who knows who else might write to you?
My phone bleeps with another text from Sian.
Hey, I’m a quick worker. It’s on there. What do you think? ‘Over 20 yrs ago, my friend met a man outside Tiffany’s in NY. His name was Patrick and we want to find him. If U believe in #love, pls help us find him #Loveatfirstsiight #FindPerfectPatrick♥’
Oh no, this is dreadful. Some people have millions of followers. What if it was to go ‘viral’ as they say? Dick and Tanja may find out. They will laugh at me and think I am desperate.
I panic. I would never have agreed if I’d not been so rushed to reply. I should have left my phone in the stock room as I usually do. I’m not even allowed it on the shop floor. It’s just that I’m worried school might call with an emergency. Oh, why did that customer have to come
in then? I’m getting palpitations. Is this anxiety, or that extra coffee I had? Oh no. Sian needs to delete this immediately.
Okay, calm down, Amelia. Breathe. It takes two seconds to delete a tweet. I will tell her to remove it and all will be well. However, before I can message Sian, my phone bleeps yet again.
I’m a genius. Just put this on Facebook.
Do you believe in love at first sight?
What if you had met your soulmate but let him get away? In 2000, a friend met a gorgeous man outside Tiffany’s in New York on Fifth Avenue. Their eyes locked and they knew they were destined for each other. Unfortunately, my friend lost his number and so they never met for the date that he asked her for. I know these two are destined to be together, even if it is a bit late. Please share this post and let’s reunite them. Do you know a Patrick who lived in New York in 2000? He is possibly a journalist and carried a fancy pen. He wore a suit and was tall, dark and apparently very handsome.
Please contact me with any information.
Please share, share, share so we can find Amelia’s Perfect Patrick!
I ring Sian. She has to stop all of this immediately.
‘Right. Delete it all now, Sian. Get it off Twitter and get it off Facebook. This could get too big. You have hundreds of friends on Facebook, Sian. And the story isn’t exactly true, anyway,’ I say.
‘Yeah, I know, but we’re not going to find him with a handful of followers, and this story sounds so much more romantic. Like you are totally destined to be together but you lost his number. Not that you kept his number for all these years and didn’t even bother calling him,’ she says.
‘No, you have to stop it right this second. You can’t do this without my permission,’ I insist.
‘You did give me your permission. I have it in writing. You said “okay”.’
‘Yes, well I had some woman in front of me wanting to make Nigella’s cinnamon buns, didn’t I? I didn’t mean it,’ I answer.