‘It’s probably a phone sex line. They’re probably going to charge me ten quid a minute to realise it’s an advertisement for lonely old men to get their jollies off and their phone bill up.’
‘If you thought that, you wouldn’t look so excited.’ He lets go of my hand to pick up the receiver and place it in my empty palm, then he holds the book open on the page. ‘Put it on speaker phone.’
My fingers are shaking as I dial the number and I have to grip the receiver extra tight because my palms have gone all sweaty. ‘It’s probably old,’ I say as it rings out. ‘No one’s going to—’
‘Brandon?’
‘No. Er, is that Mindy?’ I stutter out. A little thrill has gone through me at the name – she’s obviously expecting someone to call. ‘This is probably the weirdest phone call I’ve ever made. I work at a bookshop in Buntingorden and we found your number inside a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera …’ I go on to tell her a bit about the shop, the way almost every one of the second-hand books has a message written inside it, and about how finding her number reminded me of Serendipity.
‘No one ever calls this number or knows that film, and yes, that film is exactly why we did it.’
‘We?’
‘His name was Brandon. I met him fifteen years ago and barely a day has passed since when I haven’t thought of him. This is the first time anyone’s ever called this number.’
‘So this is for real?’ I tap the desk in excitement. ‘This is a real-life Serendipity?’
‘You could call it that,’ she says, a laugh in her West Midlands accented voice.
‘Will you tell us what happened?’
She hesitates, but I can almost hear the moment she decides she hasn’t got anything to lose by sharing her story. ‘I fell off the bus and into his arms. I was loaded down with shopping while getting off, and he was the first in the queue to get on. There was ice and snow around and the bus step was wet, and he caught me when I slipped, and we had that magical movie moment, you know? The one where you lock eyes and you just know. It took my breath away, and it wasn’t just the adrenalin of the fall. He insisted on taking me for a coffee to make sure I was all right – I was fine, of course, I just wanted to go for a coffee with him. And the coffee led to another coffee and we ended up wandering around Bristol city centre for hours because neither of us wanted the day to end. We even went ice skating, like they do in the movie. We were both attached to other people, but I couldn’t get this idea of fate out of my head. It felt like it was meant to be, but it also felt too perfect, you know? Things like this don’t happen in real life, and with hindsight, I can see I was waiting for the punchline.’
‘Oh, I know that feeling.’ Dimitri and I share a glance.
‘So I had this idea of doing what they do in the film and sending two items out into the world with our names and numbers on them, and I happened to have that very book in a pile waiting to go to a charity shop. It seemed like a sign. He wrote his on a five-pound note. And, of course, the old fivers have been retired now, so his is lost forever. Him one day finding that book is my only hope.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry to disappoint you that it was just us.’
‘At least I know it’s still out there. That’s something. I don’t even know if he’d still be looking … I’m kidding myself, aren’t I? It’s been fifteen years. He must be married by now, and me, daft beggar that I am, still carrying around an old flip-phone from the early Noughties, keeping it charged and in credit because this is the only number he’d have. I didn’t think to future-proof my phone number at the time, but like everyone else, I’ve gone through at least ten phones between then and now as technology moves on, but the number I put in the book was the phone I had at the time. I thought it would be a matter of weeks until we found each other again because it felt so … meant-to-be. I know I should give up, but I’m still waiting for the day he phones. Because some part of me still thinks he will.’
‘He will,’ I say. ‘He has to. That’s such a romantic story. You can’t have a moment like that for that to be it.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’
‘Have you tried to find him online?’ Dimitri asks.
‘A few years ago, after Twitter and Facebook took off, I put up a post hoping he’d see it somehow. It got a few shares and retweets but it didn’t come to anything, and the more years that have gone by, the more stupid I’ve felt for still holding a candle for this man I spent one day with so many years ago.’
I reassure her that it’s far from stupid and that he could be doing exactly the same wherever he is, and I promise that I’ll ask the name of any potential buyers who go to pick up this book.
‘Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?’ I say to Dimitri as I put the phone down and keep watch on the receiver like it’s going to spring up and start doing the Argentine tango at any moment.
‘It’s a shame no one predicted fivers being retired and phone technology advancing.’
‘That makes it even more romantic. Star-crossed lovers, near misses, fate stopped by the advancing of time and technology. It’s both really sad and incredibly romantic.’
He leans down, puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me into his side. ‘You say I’m childlike to believe in fairy tales, but you still believe in love stories and happy endings. You say love doesn’t happen in real life but you still believe it does.’
‘Yeah, for other people. Not for me.’
‘But it will.’ His voice has the same conviction I had when I told Mindy that Brandon would phone her. ‘You deserve a thousand handsome princes sweeping you off your feet.’
‘Ew, no, the shop would be far too crowded. Just one would do. If they existed outside of fairy tales.’
‘Anything’s possible.’
I reach up and rub his upper arm where it’s still around my shoulders, creasing the soft cotton of his thin grey top. ‘What if we find him?’
‘A thousand real-life non-fairy-tale princes?’
I laugh. ‘No. Brandon.’
He releases me and stands upright. ‘Go to a bank and ask them if we can examine every single five-pound note they’ve had returned?’
‘No, I mean, put out an appeal on social media. Not just a couple of photos like we did the other day, but run a proper appeal to track him down. You know those shareable graphics people post when someone’s lost their wedding ring on the train or a child’s left behind a much-loved bear on the bus? Put up what little info we know, place, date, maybe a photo of Mindy if she’d be up for it. Ask people to share it far and wide.’
‘And just hope that he runs across it?’
‘Well, if it’s meant to be then he will, won’t he? Mindy could be the love of his life. He could’ve told everyone about their magical meeting that day. Someone could see it and recognise the story. I could get in touch with the local newspapers too. They might be willing to run it as a story. And some of those news sites that run quirky stories. This has the potential to go viral. It’s romantic and interesting – I already care about these two finding each other again, and others will too.’
‘And what if we do find him and he’s married? What if we find him and he’s a complete and utter wanker?’
‘Trust you to keep things realistic,’ I say with a grin. ‘And what if he’s absolutely lovely, still single, and still looking for her too?’
‘I guess we’ll find out when we find him. Because we will find him. I have total faith that when you put your mind to something, it’s going to happen.’
‘Thank you.’ I can’t help smiling at the compliment, because it’s wonderful to hear that, even if generally the only thing I’m good at is knocking things over and making a mess.
Not many people in my life have ever had confidence in me, and it’s bewitching to meet someone who does.
Chapter 13
‘Shut up!’ Mum whacks the smoke alarm with a broom, which only serves to make it squeal even louder. ‘What is
wrong with you? It’s only a bit of cheese, for goodness’ sake. Nicole, why is your smoke alarm so oversensitive?’
‘It’s not oversensitive, it’s reacting to a kitchen filled with smoke.’ My sister waves an oven tray in front of her, trying to disperse the fumes.
‘The cheese is on fire, Mum. That might have something to do with it.’ I flap a tea towel around.
‘Stand back!’ Bobby comes in with the fire extinguisher.
‘Oh, now that’s just overkill. It was only a few flames and they’ve gone—’
She’s cut off by a whoosh as Bobby coats the oven with white powder, putting an end to the sizzling as half a block of cheese fuses itself to the bottom of Nicole’s oven, and yet more probably toxic fumes fill the tiny kitchen.
‘I do hate that smoke alarm,’ Mum mutters to herself. ‘It’s always going off at me. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.’
Dimitri is standing in the open doorway, using his coat to either flap fresh air in or burning cheese fumes out, I’m not sure which.
‘It’s trying to save my oven, which you’ve destroyed. Again. We’ve only just replaced our last oven because it couldn’t cope with any more cooking disasters.’
‘Bit of bicarb and vinegar once it’s cool and it’ll be as good as new,’ Dimitri says, and judging by the state of the blackened cheese dribbling from the oven door, frozen mid-drip by the fire extinguisher powder, I admire his optimism.
‘A man who can give you cleaning tips!’ Mum squawks, looking up from the still-sizzling crumpled shard of charcoal she’s trying to resuscitate. ‘What a keeper!’
I’d say I was embarrassed for this to be his introduction to my family, but it’s his own fault for suggesting the pizza, although he wasn’t to know that my mum’s idea of pizza was a tortilla wrap cooked in the oven until it’s lightly cremated and as rock hard as one of those steel ninja throwing stars and about as sharp, then spread with ketchup and put back in the oven with half a block of cheese grated on top, which promptly slides off and melts into the oven itself, causing caustic fumes, which my mum insists on cremating even further with the oven on the highest temperature, until it’s so hot that the influx of melted cheese actually catches on fire because it can’t get any hotter without spontaneously combusting.
Bobby goes to put the fire extinguisher away – never far with my mother on site – and open all the windows to air the place out.
‘Shall we sit in the garden?’ Dimitri suggests. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
It’s very polite of him not to mention that sitting in the house is impossible because smoke is still billowing throughout the living room and kitchen, and everyone’s eyes are stinging and watering from the fumes.
Nicole and I brave the haze to make everyone a plain, safe, non-cremated cheese sandwich. Mum picks up the bottle of wine Dimitri brought and drags him to sit on the wicker garden set nestled on Nicole’s patio, looking out across the neatly mown grass, surrounded by borders of colour-schemed flowers, and towards Mum’s annex at the end, overhung by a flowering cherry tree.
‘This is very posh!’ Mum reads the label on the bottle before glugging some into five glasses.
By the time we get outside, Bobby’s joined them and is sitting back watching while Mum makes Dimitri play twenty questions, which he fields like a master. Without being rude or abrupt, all she’s managed to get out of him is that he doesn’t have any pets or a girlfriend, and it’s like some kind of Jedi mind trick where he’s dodged the questions without anyone realising.
He’s definitely got some kind of magical powers, because by the time Nicole and I have carried out plates of slightly smoky-tasting cheese sandwiches, and I fear the smell of burning cheese on metal will follow me like a cloud around my hair forever, like that swarm of wasps that took a liking to my ice-cream cone on the beach one summer, he’s telling Mum about the messages in the books, and how he’s drawn up a few shareable graphics with photos of the book cover and message, and how we’ve put our campaign to find Brandon online. So far it’s had a couple of thousand retweets, even more shares on Facebook, and multiple comments saying how sweet it is and how much they hope we find him. I’ve also put up posts about Esme, Vickie and Tommy, the promise in Frankenstein, the baby’s birth announcement, and some of the other notes we’ve found, figuring if we’re getting extra social media traffic on our new Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts, it would increase the chances of those note writers seeing it and getting in touch too.
By the time he’s finished talking, Mum, Nicole, and Bobby, who is critical of anything to do with books, are all leaning forward in their seats listening intently, and it makes me think again about making these notes public somehow. If talking about them can make even these three care, we might be on to something.
‘Why are you looking at each other like that?’ I say when Dimitri’s finished talking and has started eating his sandwich, which is probably a bit of a stretch from the home-cooked meal he had in mind. I keep catching furtive glances between Nicole and Mum, aborted nods and gesturing with nothing but their eyes.
Nicole shakes her head but Mum sighs wistfully. ‘I’ve never heard anyone talk about books the way you do, Hal.’
Dimitri goes red and I choke on my cheese sandwich, resulting in Bobby having to thump me on the back.
‘Now, if we could just find you a nice boyfriend who didn’t mind your collection …’ She calls my sagging bookshelves a collection because it sounds better than ‘obsession’ or ‘addiction to buying more books when you already have so many, you could read twenty-four hours a day until your ninety-eighth birthday and you still wouldn’t get through them all’.
‘Now, how about that friend of my friend from cheesemaking class I was telling you about? He’s still single.’
‘Mum, he’s a vicar!’ I roll my eyes. It’s not the first time she’s brought him up. ‘And he’s pushing sixty!’
‘Well, how about that nice young chap you used to copy your maths homework from in school? Have you been on Facebook to see if he’s available?’
‘He’s married to a man named George.’
‘Oh, I know – Joyce’s son! He’s single again.’
‘Mum! He’s single again because he was widowed last week!’
‘Exactly. You want to get in quickly before someone else snaps him up.’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t want to get anything in anywhere at any speed. You just want me married off to someone with a willy and a heartbeat, and I’m starting to think the heartbeat is not a deal-breaker.’
It’s Dimitri’s turn to choke and Bobby gets another round of back-thumping in, although I’m not sure why, because it doesn’t help.
‘Well, I wouldn’t need to if you had someone interested in you, would I?’ She looks pointedly at Dimitri, who drops his gaze and gives his sandwich more attention than any sandwich has ever deserved.
Mum starts wittering on about something that happened at the allotment, and Dimitri keeps catching my eyes and holding my gaze every time we look up. He seems relaxed and smiley, and I like how comfortable he seems around my family.
I don’t miss the way Nicole’s watching us and keeps exchanging glances with Bobby while Mum’s carrying on obliviously.
Mum’s actually acting like she’s forgotten he’s there, which could be termed a miracle akin to walking on custard and then a swift batch of water into wine when there’s a single man in the vicinity. Usually they’re like a flashing beacon and her radar homes in on them and ignores everything else until they agree to whatever she wants just to make her leave them alone, like you do with those double-glazing salesmen who knock on the door and keep going with their marketing spiel, no matter how many times you tell them you’re seriously considering moving into a molehill and have no need of windows. She’s snagged a few of those men and tried to set me up on dates with them in exchange for window quotes too.
But she’s different with Dimitri. He slots right in like he’s meant to be
there. I bite my lip as I watch him following Mum’s conversation with more interest than Nicole, Bobby, and I put together have ever given her tales of papier-mâché club.
Before she can get into what happened at glassblowing class, we’re attacked by a swarm of midges as dusk falls, after a thankfully shop-bought lemon meringue pie for dessert.
It’s now absolutely freezing inside the house with every window and door open, but Mum drags me into the kitchen to help with the washing up, while Nicole is on her knees on the kitchen floor, praying to the gods of kitchen appliances and throwing baking soda and vinegar into the oven with reckless abandon.
‘Did you see that wine? I’ve heard of the chateau where that was made – that stuff costs a fortune. He must be from money.’ Mum plunges her hands into the washing-up bowl.
‘Mum!’ I say in horror, which has nothing to do with the fact my eyes are still smarting from the oven disaster. ‘A – his financial situation is nothing to do with you, and B – I don’t think he is. He said it was from the collection his father left when he moved out.’
‘Oh, he’s from a broken home. He needs someone to mend him.’ She gives me a conspiratorial wink.
‘He doesn’t need mending. He’s perfect as he is.’ I know it’s another mistake when Mum’s head whips round so fast, she must’ve broken some sort of light-speed record.
Amazingly, she doesn’t say anything, but a smile spreads gradually across her face. ‘I think he’s lonely.’
‘I think he’s lonely too,’ I say, forgetting myself for a moment. You don’t make admissions like that in front of my mum – she’ll have him enrolled in crochet club and on the waiting list for an allotment before the week is out.
‘I think Mr Anastasia is pretty much perfect.’ She clatters a plate onto the draining board with such force that it almost breaks in half. ‘What’s his surname, anyway? I need to google him.’
‘I … don’t know. Is that weird?’ I think about it for a moment and then suddenly realise what she’s saying. ‘Wait, no, it’s not weird, it’s good because you are not allowed to google him.’
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories: A gorgeous feel good romance to escape with this summer! Page 22
