I hate talking on the phone. The only person I ever call is Mum, and she doesn’t count.
My eyes move from the paper to the phone as I gently push the numbers. To my alarm, Duncan sinks into the empty seat next to me.
Okay, good. So he’s clearly not going anywhere.
I dial the final digit and the phone clicks into quiet, unimposing rings that jolt through me like tiny electric shocks.
Please don’t answer, please don’t answer, please don’t answer, please don’t answe—
‘Hello?’
I try not to jump as a woman’s voice interrupts the rings and jangles in my nervous ear. I see Duncan nod next to me, apparently thrilled that the phone has worked.
‘Hi,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm and professional, ‘my name is Bea Smyth, I’m calling from the Middlesex Herald and I—’
‘Who?’ the woman barks down the phone and I stumble to a halt.
‘Err,’ I say stupidly. ‘Bea Smyth?’ I offer, as if she’d have any idea who I am. ‘From the Herald.’
I pause as a stony silence rolls down the phone. I glance back to Duncan who is still grinning like an overexcited waxwork.
‘The local newspaper?’ I mumble, my face burning.
Why isn’t this woman saying anything? How did Duncan get her number? Surely Duncan has already spoken to her. This isn’t even her landline, it’s her mobile! It’s not like Duncan sat at home flicking through the Yellow Pages; she must have given him her phone number.
He said that she was expecting my call.
Expecting my call.
My teeth sink into my lip as my body burns.
This is ridiculous. Is she even still on the phone? Why isn’t she saying anything? Even if she forgot that she gave her mobile number to Duncan, surely she knows what a newspaper is! Surely she has something to say about that. Surely—
‘Duncan?’
I jerk out of my internal rant.
What?
Duncan?
Has she mistaken my voice for Duncan’s?
Duncan is a man!
‘No,’ I say, ‘Duncan passed on your phone number. My name is Bea Smyth, I work for the Middlesex Herald, the local paper. I’m writing a story about your beaver. Pet beaver!’ I add quickly, suddenly realising how that sounds like I’m drafting a porno and want her to be the star.
Urgh! God, I would write the worst porno in the world.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ I warble on, desperate to ask my stupid question before she hangs up, ‘about your beaver and how you came to care for it.’
I can’t believe I’m sitting at work asking a strange woman about her beaver.
This is how you get on the sex offenders’ list.
‘Do you mean fanny?’
My mouth falls open in horror.
What?
Oh holy hell. She does think I’m talking about her vagina! Oh my God.
What am I supposed to say? I don’t want to enter into a conversation about somebody’s vagina at four p.m. on a Thursday. That is unacceptable.
‘Pardon?’ I say, the word barely making it out of my mouth.
‘Fanny,’ the woman repeats matter-of-factly, ‘our beaver.’
I open and close my mouth.
I can’t deal with this. What am I supposed to say?
What is she talking about?
Is she talking about her vagina?
I can’t have a conversation with a stranger about her vagina! I can’t even talk about my own! For all intents and purposes, I often pretend I don’t have one!
‘We got Fanny a few years ago,’ the woman continues, as if she’s talking about a lovely lemon drizzle, ‘we just clicked instantly. She loved my husband, she always responded to him very well.’
My body jerks forward and I try to stop myself from throwing up all over the desk.
‘She came around to me eventually too,’ she says, ‘and then, she just became part of the family.’
The woman stops talking and I relish the silence, my brain swelling under the pressure of a stranger telling me all about her vagina.
I almost fall out of my seat as Duncan cranes forward, trying to get my attention, and whispers something in my direction. ‘Fanny is its name,’ he says, his eyes wide.
What?
Why is he telling me that? I know what a fanny is, for crying out loud!
‘The beaver,’ Duncan continues, catching my wild look, ‘the beaver’s name is Fanny.’
I blink at him, fighting the urge to set myself on fire.
What?
No. Surely not. Surely this woman hasn’t named her beaver Fanny.
I turn my head back to the receiver, trying to control my skittering voice.
I can’t say the word ‘fanny’ to a complete stranger. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
I won’t.
‘So,’ I manage, ‘when you lost, err . . . Fanny, is it?’
Arghhhhhhhhh.
‘Yes,’ the woman says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, ‘we’re both big Funny Girl fans. I think Barbra would like her.’
I swallow.
What?
Who the hell is Barbra?
‘Right,’ I say, madly scribbling ‘fanny’ down on my notepad.
Duncan shoots me a thumbs up and stands back up.
I can’t believe I’ve just written the word ‘fanny’ on my lovely pink notepad. Right next to my shopping list. You won’t find one of them loitering next to the eggs.
Thank God.
‘Great job, Bea,’ he whispers. ‘Keep up the good work.’
I stare desperately after him as he toddles back to his office. Numbly, I move my attention back to the phone.
‘So,’ I say weakly, ‘how did you realise your Fanny was missing? Fanny!’ I almost shout in desperation. ‘How did you realise Fanny was missing?’
Oh my Lord.
This is ridiculous. Why am I – an aspiring, serious journalist – asking a woman about her fanny going missing?
I should be reporting on local drama and politics!
‘Oh,’ the woman says, ‘I just knew. You do, don’t you? I just woke up and said to my husband, something’s up with Fanny.’
Is she doing this on purpose? Does she think that’s an acceptable answer to give in an interview with the local paper?
She’s not flirting with me, is she?
If she asks about my fanny, I’m hanging up.
‘Right,’ I say weakly. ‘And, sorry, just for the story, what’s your husband’s name?’
If she says Richard, I’ll die.
‘William.’
Oh, thank God.
I feel my chest cave in relief. Okay, that’s not that bad. Maybe I’ll be able to write some sort of story that doesn’t sound like it’s written by a sex-crazed maniac. If I just manage to—
‘Willy for short.’
I open and close my mouth, unable to speak.
Great.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My damp fingers clasp on my phone, leaving small swirls of moisture on my screen as I walk through the street and the week replays itself in my mind. Somehow, I made it to Friday without combusting under the pressure of lying to everyone I know.
I wince as the cold wind strikes my bare skin and I look at a small town house, draped in Christmas lights and flashing invitingly. If I concentrate, I can almost hear the house singing to me. Every house down this street is decked in lights, with fat little figures propped outside, their mechanical arms juddering back and forth in an odd waving motion. The house at the end of the street has a plump Santa who shouts hello every time somebody walks past.
Needless to say, I almost wet myself the first time it shouted at me.
I spot Sunfields, the only house on the street not shimmering under the sparkle of Christmas lights. As I look at it, I feel my chest expand.
I’m going back. For the first time, I am willingly going back on my own accord. Not under the pretence of doi
ng a good deed, or helping Nina. Or even helping Nathan. I don’t need to go back. I’ve done what I said I’d do. I could just disappear and write the entire thing off as a weird memory.
But I haven’t. I’m going back. I push my hands further into my coat pockets.
I’m going back because I want to see them. I want to see Nina and Gus. In a weird way, I almost want to see Sylvia.
When I last arrived at Sunfields, my body was in knots. It was as if I was made of rubber, and a child had pulled at my limbs, stretched my organs and moulded me into a contorted shape. I jerked and twitched under the pressure of holding my body still, but it felt unnatural. I wasn’t supposed to be that way.
But then I started talking to them. And as I did, my body unfolded itself. Slowly, the knots unravelled. I spoke to Gus for hours. I don’t even know what we spoke about, but I didn’t want to leave.
I left feeling warm.
I haven’t felt warm in years.
I need to feel warm again. I need that feeling back.
My legs power forward as I reach Sunfields. I feel my phone vibrate in the tight grip of my hand and I turn the flashing screen towards me.
Florrie Nannoo posted for the first time.
My legs slow to a halt as I glare at the phone. Irritation spikes inside me.
Oh, for God’s sake. Why? What is she posting? Why is Priya back on that stupid account? I thought she’d deleted it.
I press the intercom and then push my body against the faded front door. I feel my ears recoil at the harsh scraping sound the door always makes as it wheezes through the frame. The heavy smell swirls into my open mouth and I feel an immediate rush of heat as the insanely high temperature of the home washes over me.
‘Hi.’
I look up from my phone and see Jakub, who has appeared behind the reception desk.
Oh good, I’m not going to have to ring that stupid bell.
‘Hi,’ I say back, a smile springing on to my face. As always, Jakub’s face stays straight.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him.
Why does he never feel the need to smile back at me? Does he have no manners?
It’s not even manners, it’s social pressure. How can he look at me blank-faced while I, a human being, stand opposite him smiling?
I mean, even dogs smile back.
Sort of.
There is a pause as Jakub and I look at each other, not speaking.
I wait for him to start a conversation.
He doesn’t.
‘How are you?’ I ask, my smile still in place.
Is he going to show me where to go? Or show me what he wants me to do? Or am I going to stay out here for the next two hours?
Why does he always treat me like I’m a total stranger?
‘You’re back,’ he says simply, his eyes not moving from mine. He says the words with no expression. He isn’t surprised to see me, or even annoyed.
He’s just stating a fact.
I open my mouth and close it again.
That’s a weird thing to say.
‘Yup,’ I say, ‘I’m back.’
Did he not want me to come back? Was it a one-time invite?
I keep looking at him, but his face doesn’t move.
Argh! Why is he always so bloody awkward? What does he want?
‘So,’ I say, ‘shall I just—’
‘They’ve been waiting for you,’ Jakub says. ‘Nina said you were coming at six.’
His eyes finally move away from my face and look up at the white plastic wall clock. The hands tick to 6.15.
I feel a stab of annoyance.
Okay, fine. Yes, I’m fifteen minutes late. I’m well aware. I’ll now be fifteen minutes late for my entire evening.
Five minutes can be discounted for this ridiculous conversation Jakub is forcing me to have with no purpose or direction. And the bus was late. I can hardly control that.
‘The bus was late,’ I say simply, feeling my eyes narrow as I look back at him.
I’m not apologising for being late for something I’m volunteering for.
‘Okay,’ Jakub says, his voice dropping back to his standard bored tone, ‘they’re all waiting for you.’
He gestures to the door behind him and I try to squash the sudden burst of anxiety at the thought of seeing Nina again.
I barely spoke to Nina before. After I’d introduced myself, she sat back next to the window and craned her body towards the window until eventually I could only see her long plait hanging over her arched back.
But I did catch her looking at me. Once.
I didn’t think she heard what time I was coming today. I only really spoke to Gus.
I glance up at the wall clock and feel my mind slot together my schedule.
18.15: Arrive at home (now 18.15 thanks to unreliable bus driver).
18.20: See Jakub, make small talk.
18.25: Chat to Nina, Gus and Sylvia.
19.00: Help Jakub bring out dinner.
19.15: Leave as they all eat, catch bus home.
20.00: Back home. Straight into PJs and heat up leftover pasta bake.
20.03: Potentially send passive-aggressive text to Priya and Emma when I discover that one of them has eaten it (very possible).
20.30: In bed, watch Hollyoaks.
21.00: Watch RuPaul’s Drag Race.
22.00: Go to sleep.
I take a deep breath.
Easy.
I walk past Jakub, my chin high in the air as he watches me leave.
He really is the worst host in the world. He hasn’t offered me a cup of tea.
He hasn’t even shown me where the fire exits are!
I turn in the corridor when my phone vibrates again in my hand. I slow to a stop and look down at the screen. It’s from Priya.
Where are you?
The little fizz of anxiety brewing under my skin sparks. I slip my phone into my back pocket and push my way through the door.
I can’t tell her where I am.
I can’t tell anyone.
She never used to care where I was. Although that could be because I spent every day in the same place. So there wasn’t much—
‘You’re late.’
I look around at Sylvia, who is propped up in her high-backed bottle-green chair. Her hair is pinned up, identical to how it was the last time I saw her. It’s almost as if she’s been frozen in time since Friday.
‘The bus was late,’ I mumble, looking around for a spare chair. ‘Sorry.’
Why is everybody so obsessed with my time-keeping? I give myself enough grief to stay on schedule, I don’t need it from them too.
At the sound of my voice, Nina looks up from her chair by the window and smiles as I sit down in a squishy blue armchair. Gus folds up his newspaper and I notice Nina turn her head to face me, but she doesn’t leave the window.
I feel my cheeks pinch as Sylvia, Nina and Gus all look at me, their eyes wide, as if I’m about to divulge the latest scoop.
‘Hello,’ I say stupidly, ‘everyone.’
‘It’s nice to have you back.’ Gus’s crinkled face relaxes into a smile. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’
At Gus’s question, Nina moves her head back towards the window, but her body is slightly leaning towards me.
Sylvia opens Wuthering Heights and raises her eyebrows.
Well, she pretended to care about me for longer than last time.
‘Yes,’ I say automatically, giving the exact same answer I give Faye every morning, ‘it was very nice, thank you.’
I fold my hands neatly as we drop into silence.
This is usually the part where I turn back to my computer and Faye starts wittering on about her weekend.
I feel quite naked without a computer to hide behind.
‘Oh good,’ Gus says, ‘and what did you do?’
My eyes flit over to Nina, who has rested her hands on her lap. Her sunken eyes are wide and expectant.
I look back at her hopelessly.
/>
What did I do?
I did the same as I do every weekend.
I did my washing, my ironing, my food shop and my cleaning.
Emma was with Margot, and Priya stayed at her parents’.
In short: I did nothing.
‘Not a lot, really,’ I say, my chipper voice wavering, ‘just this and that.’
We fall instantly back into silence and I look round at their kind, open faces.
‘Just life stuff,’ I say, ‘like . . . washing and that . . .’ I trail off, feeling my face flare.
I wish I had something to say. Why do I never have anything to say?
I look up at Nina, a sharp pain striking across my chest as I catch her eye.
She must think I’m the most pathetic girl in the world.
‘You should have come here.’
My eyes look round to Gus, whose kind smile hasn’t moved.
‘She doesn’t want to come here, Gus,’ Sylvia says dryly, not looking up from her book. ‘What’s she going to do? Sit and play bridge with you?’
I try to stop myself from glaring at Sylvia. I look back at Gus to see if he’s hurt but, if anything, his smile has grown.
‘That seems to be enough for you, Sylvie,’ he says, a gravelly laugh pumping from his chest.
Sylvia keeps her lips pursed, but I can see a spark of laughter playing with the corners of her eyes.
‘I’m sure she’s got better things to do than sit around with a bunch of old people playing bingo,’ Nina says.
‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I mean, I’d love to. I love bingo.’
My heart bangs against my chest as I look from Nina to Gus.
‘We don’t play bingo any more,’ Sylvia says flatly. ‘Not since Diane left.’
‘Oh.’
We drop back into silence and I twist my damp hands together.
‘So,’ I say, ‘are you looking forward to Christmas?’
The word Christmas sends a spark through Gus, and Nina sinks further into her chair.
‘Oh,’ Nina says, moving her eyes away from me, ‘it’s soon, is it?’
I feel a flash of alarm as I look at Gus and Nina, who both look like slowly deflating balloons. As if my question has punctured them.
I thought everybody liked Christmas.
‘Aren’t you spending it with your families?’ I offer.
The Accidental Love Letter Page 14