by Helga Jensen
‘Oh, come on. It’ll be a laugh. Let me leave it on a bit longer. Just a teeny bit longer. You never know, Patrick might come forward right away and then I’ll delete everything and nobody, except a few of us, will ever know. Deal?’
I hear the shop door chime go off.
‘Shit, there’s a customer,’ I say.
‘Okay, you go. Leave everything to me,’ says Sian.
‘Hello, do you have any books on Ikigai, please?’ asks the customer.
‘Iki… I, what?’ I say.
‘The Japanese art of Ikigai,’ says the customer in a rather annoyed tone.
‘I… Hmm, Yes. Okay,’ I say, forgetting that my phone is still within earshot.
‘Yes! Fabulous. You won’t regret this,’ says Sian to herself.
* * *
Perhaps it is all the stress pumping through me, but I decide to go for a walk in the park after work, as the boys have an after-school club. It is such a beautiful July day and it feels nice to get some air in my lungs. Forget-me-nots are springing up through the park, like a sign telling me not to forget my past.
I pass a couple of mothers pushing their prams. They look so proud with their newborns and are in their own maternal worlds as some runners juggle their way past. I remember pushing the boys like that. It is such a lovely feeling to be a new mum, even if you haven’t slept since the moment your baby was born. I was so happy when the twins came along; it was one of the happiest moments of my life when the IVF finally worked.
In my late thirties, my body thought I’d left pregnancy a bit late. It did worry me that Dick wanted to travel and make use of my holiday concessions before starting a family, but I assumed I would be young enough to still get pregnant easily. After many disappointments, we were so fortunate that the second time we tried IVF it worked. Dick was ecstatic, and I thought he would spend more time at home and less time at work once we had the boys, which he did at the beginning. Once Jasper and Rupert were born, I stayed home in the day, weaning them and mushing up bananas and all things gooey. They were happy days, and I was so content. I had everything. Even Dick appeared satisfied for a while. Where did it all go so wrong? I hate to admit that there were good times. I daren’t let them seep into my memory, or the sadness will flood back in. It’s much easier to remember the bad times and convince myself it was always terrible.
I look at the runners; how I wish I could run like that. They obviously spot my desire to be like that, as one of them hands me a flyer. I read it with interest.
Wish you could run?
Join us every Wednesday for a beginners’ running club.
Could I run? I’m not sure I would ever be able to run. I can hardly breathe sitting down, let alone running. As I look back at the woman who gave me the handout, she glances over at me and smiles encouragingly. I almost feel as if she is calling me to join. Can she see that running could possibly fill the empty void in my life?
We’ll see. In the remote chance that Patrick and I were to be reunited, by some strange mystical power, then there is no doubt that I would need an emergency weight loss regime before he saw me after all this time. I will bear it in mind.
* * *
When I return home, I am feeling more upbeat than I have in a long time; that is until I see Dick’s car parked outside. What does he want now? I will not let him affect me. I will not let him affect me, I repeat.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks.
‘Out,’ I answer curtly.
He opens the boot and hands me a big wooden box.
‘Why are you giving me Tammy’s box? What’s happened?’
‘Here, you can have Tammy back.’
‘You’ve returned her already?’ For once he is looking a little sheepish. Perhaps he feels bad about not letting me come to Disney and taking Tammy from us.
‘Yeah, Tanja doesn’t want her. You can keep her.’
‘Tanja hasn’t had Tammy twenty-four hours yet. What do you mean she doesn’t want her?’
‘She’s in the hospital right now. Look, I have to go as she is having some tests.’
‘Tanja is having tests?’ I immediately wonder if one of her breast implants has exploded.
‘Yeah, she thinks she has rabies. Look, I have to go.’
‘How the hell could she have rabies?’
‘Tammy bit her, okay. She was feeding her a strawberry. It must have been the nail polish that was the same colour, so Tammy bit her with those greedy little gums she has.’
I am laughing so much that I have to put the box down. Well done Tammy, extra tomato for you tomorrow. This has made my day.
‘Dick… Shit. Richard! You do know that tortoises can’t give you rabies, don’t you?’
It’s too late though; he doesn’t hear me. He has already closed the car door to head to the hospital. I bet he wouldn’t be in that much of a rush if it was me having tests.
I take Tammy back out to the back garden, where she belongs, and give her a little pat on the shell. However, I struggle to hold on to her, as my phone takes me by surprise as it vibrates in my pocket. It is Sian yet again.
Can you believe this? Up to 8,000 shares on Twitter already and 15,000 on Facebook.
Thank goodness I put Tammy down first. My hands are trembling. This is a nightmare of epic proportions.
Someone is bound to realise who I am now, and what if we find Patrick?
Chapter 8
Somewhere online – we will find Patrick
As soon as I wake up, I grasp about for my phone on the bedside table and feel my way around to switch it on. Then, with one eye open, I check for messages. Did anything exciting happen whilst I was asleep? Did Tanja Tart fall off the toilet and paramedics had to save her whilst her knickers were around her ankles? Are the photos all over the internet?
No, it seems everything is as it was when I hit the pillow. Except that between my WhatsApp and my emails there are twenty messages. The first email is from the valuers, about Aunt Emily. It seems that it isn’t actually a painting but a photograph and is only worthy of a car boot sale. Apparently, it is of ‘sentimental’ rather than ‘financial’ value. My mood is dampened further by the fact that my next email is from Mrs Jones. Her news is even worse, as the dreaded class project has to be in by tomorrow. She has sent me a ‘gentle’ reminder as I forgot the last time. A ‘gentle’ reminder. I hate that line as much as I hate cycling shorts and Tanja Tart. There is nothing gentle about it at all. It is a statement that says, ‘I know you always forget things so I am reminding you yet again’. Being gentle with me would involve not making the boys construct some super-duper creation out of home-made things that make Blue Peter projects look simple. Even the Krypton Factor wasn’t that hard. This is definitely not good news at all.
The next few emails are spam. No, I don’t want to help you find the lost bank account for the princess, or buy sex-enhancing medication, thank you. I don’t even have sex and nobody would forget where they put $20 million dollars.
But then something makes me open my other eye. Both eyes stare wildly at the screen. With the time difference, and Sian being a renowned insomniac, she has been corresponding with men who all say they are Patrick. Being half asleep, I had almost forgotten what went on yesterday and am horrified as the reality takes hold. Sian has collated all the messages sent on social media, and emailed across an Excel spreadsheet of possible Patricks, and attached photos in another email.
There are fifteen men who have sent photos, saying they are Perfect Patrick. I glance at them quickly but I can tell immediately that none of them are my Patrick. One of them has bright ginger hair for a start. I don’t know how he expects me to think that he is Patrick, unless you can go from tanned and dark-haired, to porcelain-skinned and gingery in the space of twenty years. One of the guys looks like he stepped out of Metallica; I do like his hair though. But no, Patrick would definitely not have long wavy hair. He was too immaculately dressed to be that relaxed looking now. One guy says he is twenty-five and rem
embers meeting me. I thought I was bad at maths, but even I can work that one out. Another man has no hair and is quite freckly – no, he definitely didn’t have freckles. Why on earth would these guys pretend they are Patrick? Goodness, there are some bored people out there.
I check my nine WhatsApp messages.
One is from Jamie, asking if he can come around early evening to drop something off.
One from Dick, informing me he will pick the boys up later than usual this weekend, as he has a golf tournament.
And seven messages from Sian.
The first one sends shivers down my spine.
Twitter, 256,198 retweets!!!!!! Facebook 412,000 shares!!!!!!! And now do you still think romance is dead? Look at all these people wanting you to find Patrick. Xxxx
Oh no. Is it too early for a glass of wine? This was my worst fear.
I am serving up Rupert’s and Jasper’s porridge when my phone pings again. I leave them to munch away as I check what the latest message is about.
I stare in disbelief as I see that Sian has sent me a screenshot of a message from a journalist who says she writes for a small newspaper in New York. She wants to interview me and help me find Patrick. She has asked for my email address so that she can send me a list of questions. I look at the response Sian has sent back and see that she has already given my contact details! I can’t believe it. This is totally out of hand and bigger than anything I can control. I want to cry. I pick up the phone to tell Sian that she has gone totally overboard with it all.
‘You must do it, Amelia. This is your big chance,’ says Sian excitedly. ‘If you don’t answer the journalist, I will. I know the story anyhow. I’ll answer the questions on your behalf,’ she insists.
I hold the phone in my hand in despair. I know I need to put my foot down with her, but I don’t seem to have the strength. I want to scream, ‘Stop it this minute!’ But the words don’t come out. Also, this teeny part of me secretly wants to know whether this stranger can be found. You see stories like this in the news quite often. A lady who left her scarf on the bus, and the man who ran after her wants to find his dream woman, that type of thing. It’s a bit different in a small town though; surely it’s impossible to find someone in New York and from so long ago. This is a wild goose chase!
‘Look, my lovely,’ starts Sian. ‘I know it’s bigger than we thought it would be, but come on. Surely you can admit it is a bit of fun. I mean that bald guy I sent a picture of, he wasn’t bad looking at all. He was quite hot, actually, in a Bruce Willis type of way.’
‘Mum! Mum! Rupert’s splat me in the face with porridge,’ I hear Jasper scream.
‘I didn’t, it was an accident,’ shouts Rupert.
‘Oh, listen, I’m going to have to go. There’s big drama here. Okay, okay. Just keep sending the photos then. I’ll have a look at them when I sit down later after work,’ I say.
‘This is brilliant. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to find him. I told Jamie all about it when I bumped into him in the Co-op last night. Even he said it sounds fun and you know how sensible he is. I’m thinking of getting some #FindPerfectPatrick T-shirts made, what do you think?’
‘Mum, now. Rupert’s smacked me with his spoon,’ shouts Jasper.
‘Look, I really have to go. Okay, okay. But absolutely NO T-shirts,’ I say.
I must be mad, but my life has been so boring and miserable recently, this whole finding Patrick thing could give me and Sian something to focus on I suppose. Who knows, the newspaper might throw in a free trip to New York for us all.
With the boys successfully cleaned up and ready for school, I see that Sian has sent yet another message.
Ooh, before you go to work, I’m thinking of getting some celebs behind us. What about Catherine Zeta-Jones? Or we could ask if we can post something on Humans of New York, they have millions of followers. If we get some big names behind us we’re bound to find Patrick.
Let’s leave it as it is, okay?
I certainly don’t want any celebrity in on the action.
* * *
With Sian and the boys all sorted, I head to work, which starts off uneventfully.
That is until Miserable Megan walks in for a famous Indian guru’s latest book. Of course, I quickly spot her and rush to the stockroom on the pretext that I need to refill the historical romance section. This means Lisa has to take Miserable Megan’s payment and I don’t have to be fake.
Both of us know we don’t like each other but pretend to smile when we see each other for Jamie’s sake. I walked into a glass door, trying to avoid her, last week and I definitely heard her laughing from across the pavement.
By the time I leave the shop, there is a barrage of WhatsApp messages from Sian. It seems by 4pm we are now up to 650,356 shares on Facebook and 598,784 retweets. One of the retweets has come from a very famous comedian apparently, and so this has boosted the number of tweets. What did I say about not wanting celebs involved?
At 6pm we have 876,491 shares on Facebook and 764,983 retweets. When I finally get around to checking my emails, I see that Sian has forwarded me a new spreadsheet with eighty-five potential Patricks. I must ask her to wean them out a bit and no longer send me the obvious fakes. I now have people of all different ethnicities on there. If anything, Patrick could have had an Irish heritage, with a name like that. I know that he most definitely was not from China, the Middle East, or Somalia, like at least ten of the men who claim to be Patrick.
These are obviously very bored people, and there is no way I would romantically get involved with someone who would lie so easily. This is all futile. Patrick is a needle in a giant New York haystack. Even if the real Patrick did see any of this, he might not wish to respond, as he has since enjoyed a wonderful life without me.
Before I can think any further about Perfect Patrick there is one, much bigger, task I have to face. As much as I put it off, it is time to assist in the completion of the Man on the Moon project.
* * *
I find the boys sitting crossed-legged on the kitchen floor, which is littered with soggy papier mâché, UHU glue sticks and an assortment of paints.
‘How you getting on there, boys?’
‘Not good. We need a square shape and can’t find anything to use.’
I look in the cupboards for a solution.
‘Cornflakes box?’ I say. They normally solve everything.
‘No, we need it more square,’ says Rupert.
Having exhausted all the kitchen cupboards, I look in the fridge. There is only one thing in there that is the shape of what they are looking for. I can’t, can I?
I use the tap to squirt out the last remaining wine into a jug and remove the inside foil. The boys are mortified.
‘We can’t use a wine box, Mum!’
‘What other solution is there? I can’t find anything else. Look, paint it black or something and nobody will ever know.’
I pray to myself that yummy mummy Sophie Griffiths – whose little Isabel always has the best projects – doesn’t realise what I have done. I know she used Möet boxes once for legs on a robot project they were making. However, Möet is a lot classier than boxed wine.
Jasper and Rupert carefully paint their project, making sure that they also splash half the kitchen floor while they are at it. Why do boys have to be so messy?
It is worth the mess, though, as for the first time ever our collaborated effort resembles what it is actually meant to be. It was definitely the wine box that we used for the main body which helped shape things up. We leave it on the floor to dry, and the boys finish off the rest of their homework whilst they wait.
I am getting tea ready when I hear my phone ring. Typical! My phone has been beside me all day and the minute I leave it in the other room it rings.
I run as fast as I can, tripping over the boys’ creation as I do so. I watch in horror as I snap off the stand. We worked so hard on gluing that on, too.
I get to the phone and notice it is Jamie.
‘Hi Jamie,’ I say breathlessly.
‘Hey, you sound like you’ve run a marathon. Don’t tell me you’ve put on a gym kit and are running around the park?’ he says sarcastically. ‘I know how you always loved PE,’ he chortles away.
‘Of course I haven’t, silly. I’m helping the boys with their school project, then I’m going to make a lovely apple pie and custard.’
‘Sounds nice, can I join you? Although can I trust your cooking – you won’t give me food poisoning will you?’ he jokes.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ I say, teasing him back.
‘In that case I take it all back. Please can I sample your delicious apple pie?’
‘Okay then, if you must,’ I answer.
‘Well, open the door then,’ Jamie says with a laugh.
‘Oh my word, you were outside?’ I say. It had slipped my mind that Jamie said he was popping around.
Jamie gives me one of his big smiles as he walks in.
‘Did you not hear the doorbell? Are you going deaf in your old age?’ He laughs.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. The boys and I were banging away in the kitchen… And I’m the same age as you, so I’d be quiet if I were you,’ I say.
‘Well, we’re not getting any younger that’s for sure,’ he says, touching my arm. ‘So, I haven’t seen you since we went to your mum’s. Are you okay? I noticed the new people have already made a few changes to the house. I wasn’t sure if you knew.’
I try not to think of the new people who live in the house. To think that they have already ripped out my mother’s beloved kitchen is utterly heartbreaking. I try to blank it out and not drive past any longer.
‘Anyhow, the real reason I’m here is because of something else actually. As I said, I have a little something for you,’ says Jamie.
‘Oh, I like surprises. What do you have for me?’ I say curiously.