Getting The Message

I am sorry but there is no sex in this story, the plot just didn't need it.

Now my friend and editor has had a chance to read it through, I have made some improvements. Thanks Lily.

T

*

The problem with keeping unused and unneeded bits and pieces in boxes is one day they have to be sorted out. After four years, this box is full of outmoded electronic gadgets, erstwhile sentimental keepsakes, various papers that used to be important, photographic memories of old friends and ex-lovers, and the random flotsam and jetsam generated by everyday life. Made of sturdy cardboard, it had, according to the printing on the side, once held six bottles of Muscadet and is kept on the top shelf of the cupboard just inside the front door of my flat.

I've been meaning to clear it out for several weeks but now, with only forty eight hours until I have to leave for Toronto, I cannot put it off any longer. It's heavier than I thought, almost causing me to drop it when I pull it off the shelf. Steadying myself, I take it into the sitting room. This late in the year, the afternoon sun comes in the window and reflects off the glass top of the coffee table; I have to squint to see where I'm going, making it even harder to negotiate a safe path between the armchair and the sofa. Good job it's a furnished flat, I'd hate to have to try and get this furniture out; God knows how they squeezed it all in. The box is probably too heavy to put on the table so I drop it on the sofa, where it bounces and hangs precariously before settling back against the cushions.

To be honest, I don't want to do this. Maybe I'll have a mug of tea.

My kettle was an antique when mum had it, but it boils eventually. The cupboard door creaks as I get a mug out -- fixing that was another job I'd intended to do -- and the teabags are in their box on the side because I still haven't bought a proper tea caddy. Even though the cupboards and worktops have been scrubbed several times, although not recently I admit, the dirt has been ground in for so long it won't come off. Still, at least it's not Brighton. It hurts to think of Brighton.

In the front room, I put my tea down on the glass table, making yet another ring on its smeared surface, and sit on the sofa next to the box. On the top is a large sheaf of old bills and papers. It takes me ages to go through them all before deciding they're rubbish. As I'm about to throw them into the black plastic refuse sack in the hall, I have a sudden thought: what if identity thieves steal my life while I'm out of the country? I might not find out until it's too late and I don't exist any more.

The damn shredder only takes four sheets at a time and jams easily, so it's at least half an hour before I get back to the box. There's a small loop of thin, black wire which I follow to my old Walkman CD player. Before I got the iPod it was my companion on my daily jog in Battersea Park. As I'm about to put it in the bag of bric-a-brac to go to the charity shop I realise there's a CD inside. It's the one she gave me because it had 'our tune.' Actually she called it that because it had been the first song we danced to in The Cellar Club the night we met. To be honest I can't remember what was playing, but this song is one track I really don't like. Then again, maybe that's because of the memories it stirs up. Funny how some details of that night are still clear in my mind whilst others have been forgotten.

It was a small but popular club in the basement of a seafront hotel. On a dreary Wednesday in February though, it was quiet, well, apart from the music that is. So I had noticed her almost as soon as she came in.

'Get a load of that.' I had to pull on Greg's sleeve when he didn't seem to hear me. He smiled when I pointed at her. She was slim and pretty, wearing a tight black miniskirt, dark tights and black boots. Her blouse was tied in front to show off the gold jewellery hanging from her navel.

He shouted in my ear.'Well go for it then. Dare you.'

'Thanks mate. Like she'd fancy me.' Girls that pretty were not interested in me. She would probably just laugh in my face.

'Won't know unless you try.'

'Let's have another beer.' I bought another two of their strongest lagers; I forget the real name, we called it Brain Damage. Then we had another couple, or four, and I began to feel good. She was still on her own so I decided to chance it.

Standing in front of her so I could see her face I tried my opening gambit. 'Hi.' That exhausted my repertoire of pick up lines.

'Hello.' It sounded like she had an accent but I wasn't sure. I had to put my ear close to her mouth to hear her at all.

'I like it.' I pointed at the gold pendant hanging at her stomach.

'Thank you. I get it last week. It is good no?' As she leaned in to talk to me I smelt her perfume and I was in love.

'I'm Jack.'

'Émilie.'

We danced until the club closed, and then I walked her home. I'd been right about the accent, but her English was a hell of a lot better than my GCSE French.

Six months later we were living together in the house I shared with Greg -- and two astrophysics students who seemed to be natives of one of the more remote planets they studied.

The phone rings, making me jump. I'm so used to my mobile I've almost forgotten what the land line sounds like.

'Hi mate. God I'm a prat. I've been ringing your mobile then I remembered you said you were handing it back. Actually I thought you'd forgotten to charge it again.' Pie-man Pete, my best friend and the local chippy's biggest customer has a deep and resonant voice that befits his broad six foot frame, and a South London accent that betrays his roots.

'Dickhead,' I say companionably. He listens to all my woes without rancour, has done for four years, so I'm allowed to take liberties.

'All packed and ready?'

'I will be soon.'

'Coming out for a last pint then? Before you have to drink that Yank crap.' To Pie, anything in North America is Yank.

'Yeah.' It had to be tonight. Getting drunk on my last night would mean hours on a plane whilst nursing a hangover.

'Stamford arms?'

'Nah. Don't fancy the Stamford,' I say. His local was where we'd met, the first time I'd tried to drown my sorrows. It was not a happy night and best forgotten.

'Bar None at eight, then?'

'Yeah. See you there.'

I reach into the box and pull out a packet of photos. Do I want to look? Do I want the heartache? Whilst I'm fiddling with them, trying to make up my mind, the packet comes open and they fall into my lap. Her picture is on the top.

The sight of her face hits me like a physical blow to my stomach. A perfect oval set with pale blue topaz eyes and coral pink lips; the nose she said was too big and I said was pert; her pale eyebrows beneath blonde hair and perfect skin without hint of a blemish. Émilie had been leaning back against the railing at the end of the Palace Pier when I took it. Behind her the dark sea reflected the clear blue sky with sparkles where the sunlight caught the ripples on the unusually calm surface.

'Smile,' I'd said and clicked the shutter. Then she had grabbed my hand and pulled me along, dodging the crowds of tourists and day trippers.

She looked back over her shoulder. 'You promise me the candy floss.' How did she manage to talk and pout at the same time?

I bought candy floss and we wandered, hand in hand, along the promenade. In Hove, we sat in a sea-front shelter watching the windsurfers, who had reappeared with the strengthening breeze. She'd tied her hair back to stop it blowing in her face and the air was full of the briny smell and spray from the waves which now crashed onto the shingle.

'Émilie ...' My eyes had been watering, probably because of the wind. My chest had been tight and I think the candy floss had made me ill.

She reached up and stroked my face. 'Yes, I know. We have only seven days more.'

'I don't want to lose you.'

'Why should you lose me? I am only over there.' She pointed out across the Channel. 'We have the ferries in Dover and Portsmouth, the Eurostar, the air-planes. It will not be hard to visit. No?'

'But I'll have a job here and you have to complete your degree there.' I held her hand tightly as though it might stop her leaving.

'And what? You think I am going to find a new boyfriend.'

'Well...' She would be at University in France and I would be in Manchester, of course she would forget me. And as beautiful as she was, she would have no shortage of suitors.

'It will not happen. It is you I love. It is you I will love always.' She put her hand to my cheek, turned my face towards hers and kissed me softly on the lips.

Then we kissed again, and it was several minutes before she spoke.

'I promise, I send you a text as soon as I have found my new apartment. Then we are going to write to each other every week. You must practice writing to me of your love and show how an Englishman can be romantic.' Her giggling laughter was almost musical and lifted my spirits. 'I am going to write to you in French so you must learn this also.'

'I better make sure I don't forget to charge my phone.'

She laughed. My inability to remember to connect my mobile to its charger had irritated her at first and that was sufficient to prompt me to buy one with a standby time of three hundred hours.

A week later I said goodbye to her at Gatwick Airport.

I had expected to hear from her the next morning but when my phone did ring, the voice was unfamiliar. .

'Jack Ellis?'

'Yeah.'

'Joe Eggleston, Conglomerated News.' Oh hell. There was only one reason for the HR manager to call me.

'Hi,' he said, sounding ominously serious.

'Look, I've just been having a chat with the guys in Manchester...' I knew what was coming: they couldn't afford to take on any trainees at the present and the vacancy was no longer available. '...And we're all impressed with the first class honours you got. So we think you'd be better placed in London. Closer to the hub as it were. Certainly closer to Parliament.'

London. I'd thought it would be at least a couple of years before they let me come to the capital. And Parliament. I could be working on political stories at the heart of government. 'That's great. Thanks. I never expected this sort of opportunity so quickly. I can't wait to get started. This is great news.' I tried to sound calm while all I wanted to do was shout for joy.

'I'm pleased you're enthusiastic because we'd like you to get started next week.'

So soon. I couldn't wait to tell Émilie and dialled her as soon as Joe hung up. A message was delivered in machine gun fast French, which I assumed meant her phone was off so I sent a text. She didn't reply which upset me but perhaps she was having trouble sorting out a new apartment.

After a couple more days I began to have doubts. Perhaps I'd just been a fling during her English studies after all. God that hurt. It was the first time I had ever felt a physical pain over a woman -- well if you don't count Felicity Travis when I was thirteen. By the end of the week I knew it was all over.

It only took me a couple of days in London looking for accommodation to find the small furnished flat in Battersea. I fastened a card with my new address to the notice board in the hall of the house in Brighton and told the 'space cadet' astrophysics students to forward any post that might turn up. God knows what, because I texted and emailed everyone with my new addresses, real and electronic. Why did the University have to be so bloody stuffy about cancelling email accounts right after graduation? It was a shame I hadn't got a French email address from Émilie.

I drop the photos in the black rubbish bag; a new country means a new start, old memories have to be left behind. In a brown Manila envelope I discover the copy of my first employment contract. Was that really my salary? The new job in Canada is double the amount which is pretty good going after four years. And I get a new laptop and mobile phone -- apparently I can't take my old ones. Copying out the list of stored numbers to take with me had been a surprisingly quick job, a lot of the ones I had transferred from my original mobile I've now deleted. I seem to have lost touch with a lot of people.

And I don't know why I've kept these old birthday cards. There are a couple of early ones from Greg after he went to work in Los Angeles, seven are from Pie, he never forgets, and there are two from Jude.

Judith. I really had tried to move on after Em dumped me. Jude was a great girl and we had some good fun. It had taken me a long time to understand why she dumped me as well. On a Sunday morning it was, after a night out in the West End -- another memory etched into my brain.

'Jack.' Even when I was half asleep I always knew when she wasn't happy.

The sunlight had hurt my eyes. I had had a headache as usual, and my mouth was like a marathon runner's crotch. Coffee was what I really needed.

'Jack, we have to talk.' She sounded as though the previous night's bad mood had not been forgotten.

'Yeah.'

'I can't put up with it any more.'

'Eh? What...?' I had struggled to lift myself up on to an elbow so I could look at her. I wasn't sure if she was angry or about to burst into tears. I never was very good at reading her expressions. 'Sorry. Can we start again? What's wrong?'

'You are. I love you and I want you to love me --'

'I do.'

'No. You don't. At least not properly.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'You know.'

'Oh, that. I thought we settled this last night. Why are you still on about me loving Émilie more than you?' I didn't know why she wouldn't believe me. 'I thought I'd made it clear I'm over her.'

'But you're not are you? Even now I can see the pain in your face when her name's mentioned.'

'That's just my hangover.'

'Oh stop it Jack!' She sat up and the sheet slid off leaving her naked to the waist but she seemed oblivious. 'For God's sake just be honest for once. You're so full of bullshit.'

'What do you want from me? I've told you I love you. We've been together for two years and I've never given you any cause to doubt me. You on the other hand have consistently said you doubt my love.'

'Because I know

she's

still in your heart. Anything that might remind you has been hidden away. You've let all your old friends go just to try and forget. But you can't, can you? Every time her name's mentioned, on her birthday and whenever you think no-one notices, the heartache shows on your face. For fuck's sake just be honest with yourself. Be honest with me.'

I wasn't ready to do that though. So the argument continued until she left the bed, the flat and my life with a final warning, 'When you're ready to admit the truth, call me. But don't wait too long because I shan't.'

After a year, I was almost ready to acknowledge she was right. Almost. But then I'd seen her at a club a month ago with another guy and she looked happy. So perhaps it didn't matter any more.

The birthday cards join the photos in the rubbish bag along with an odd glove, the hat I had worn during my short spell as an Arsenal fan and a collection of business cards for clubs and restaurants which I'd accumulated during my first year in London.

The pile of airmail envelopes with stamps from countries around the globe had to stay. Mum doesn't get on with email and still enjoys writing letters in pen. She could be a travel writer in the style of Bill Bryson, and my father's decision to spend his retirement sailing the world in a thirty foot yacht gives her plenty of subject matter. My own journalistic talent comes from her and one day I shall publish her letters. To appease her I reply regularly; it's become a fascinating intellectual challenge to find the correct Poste Restante destination based on dad's text message log of their voyages.

At the bottom of the box is my old mobile. Shit, it's almost a museum piece -- how on earth could I have liked anything that naff. I'm about to throw it away then remember Pie. He's weird; he collects old phones. Perhaps he would like it -- if it still works. I rummage around, find the charger and connect it up.

All that's left in the box now is old pens, tangled earphones and unrecognised keys; I throw them all away.

By now, my forehead feels tight, my neck is stiff and I have a headache that feels terminal. Two paracetamol washed down with another mug of tea help, followed by a long, hot shower. Standing beneath the scalding water, my neck begins to ease up and the headache starts to fade. Maybe a new life three and a half thousand miles away will let me dispel the painful memories and I can start to live again.

Pulling a clean sweat shirt down over my head I glance at the alarm clock by the bed. It is only six o'clock, an hour and a half to kill. Using the nail scissors from the dressing table, I cut the price labels off my suitcases and begin packing -- just to use up some time. Eventually, having decided the weather looks as damp as my mood, I put on my raincoat, unplug the old mobile and charger, and leave to meet Pie.

Ten years earlier, Bar None had been a large branch of a major bank. Once the customers stopped visiting, the banking was transferred to another office two miles away and the premises became a 1980's themed pub. I can't get nostalgic over the pictures of Madonna, models in woollen leggings or Princess Diana; and stills from Dirty Dancing mean little since I never watched the film. At least the lager is cold and strong.

Pie waves as I walk in. He's got his usual pint of bitter and is happily tucking into a packet of crisps. The empty packets on the table say much about his appetite for unhealthy snacks -- and the standard of staff in the pub. We exchange greetings and then we have a discussion about Canada which proves he knows even less than me.

'Hey, I know what I meant to give you.' I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him. 'I know you collect these things.'

'Ah the Sony Ericsson T68i, introduced in 2002. Reckoned by the manufacturer to have a battery life of 16 days —'

'Yeah, that's why I bought it.' I get in quickly. It's better not to let Pie get started on his pet subject. His knowledge of mobiles is encyclopaedic, and just about as exciting to listen to.

The small screen comes to life as he turns it on. 'Hello,' he murmurs and waves the phone under my nose. 'You can't remember to check your text messages either. Or missed calls.'

'Eh?' I wonder what he's talking about. 'I haven't used that phone for at least four years. There won't be any missed calls or texts on it now.' Perhaps Pie doesn't know as much as he thinks.

'Well then these fifteen texts have been stored on the sim card for four years. Someone must have been desperate to get in touch with you. There are...' He looks down at the screen, '... 27 missed calls.'

Now I know he must be talking nonsense, no-one has ever called me that often. 'Can't have been anyone important,' I say. 'I sent my new number to everyone when they gave me a work phone.'

'Unless of course they never got your message.' It takes several seconds for the implications of Pie's words to sink in. And then a small seed of doubt begins to take root in my mind. It grows into a sense of dread which threatens to overwhelm me. 'Can I -- take a look?' My hand is trembling as I reach out for the phone and for a moment I don't want to touch it. It's as though it has turned into a rattle snake.

I summon up all my courage and open the first message. At that moment my world collapses around me.

Mon Lapin. I am v stupid. My phone is lost in the river this is the new number. Sorry to take so long but Papa is v sick. Call me. E.

***

I don't know why, but I expect the air to be full of the smell of Provençal herbs, garlic and fresh baked bread. Instead, as the automatic doors slide open, my nose is assaulted by exhaust fumes from streams of cars and taxis pulling up at the kerb, mixed with the smell of burning jet fuel. The long queue of weary looking travellers with their piles of luggage is depressing, so I am relieved to be sitting in the back of a large Peugeot with my overnight bag after only a few minutes. Thankfully, despite its apparent age, the vehicle has efficient air conditioning. The driver greets me and asks for a destination -- at least I assume he does.