Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  I did have an idea though. Under ‘I’, I noticed an entry called ‘ICE’. I’ve read about this somewhere. After the London bombings it was recommended that everyone programme some In Case of Emergency details into their mobiles, so that if you’re involved in an incident, you can be more easily reunited with your family and friends. I select the ICE name and bring up the number. It’s another mobile number. That’ll do so I press the ‘call’ button. The phone’s switched off too, so the voicemail comes on. I hadn’t even thought of what I was going to say and was totally unprepared when the beep came.

  ‘Oh, er, hi. Sorry to trouble you. Erm, you don’t know me but I’ve got a mobile phone that belongs to someone you know. I’m calling you from it. I found it today, in Sainsbury’s car park. Hooked on a trolley. So, um, if your friend wants the phone back, they’ll have to call me to arrange a time, or something.’ I pause. This message sounds completely dim. I’m wondering if there’s a facility on this phone of pressing a button that will erase the whole thing so I can start again. Then I realize that of course it doesn’t matter what I sound like because this person doesn’t know me and will probably never see me again. If at all.

  It occurs to me at this point that there’s a chance this phone could belong to the man I had encountered on his phone, who had been making fun of me at the checkout. If that was the case, his opinion of me was already very low anyway. I leave my home number and disconnect, then switch it off and drop it into my handbag. That’s that.

  As I’m driving along the bypass on my way home, my phone back at the flat starts ringing. There it is, on the coffee table in the empty flat, which, you may notice, is not looking as tidy and well cared for as it has in the past. It’s not what I would call dirty exactly, just a little unclean. A few coffee cups are standing on the table next to the ringing phone, and some of them have obviously been there a day or two. There are also a couple of dirty plates that look like they might have held toast. The magazines are no longer piled up neatly on the table, but are now spread on the floor and sofa in a clutter. There are a few things on the floor that weren’t there before – my kitten heels that I usually wear to work, a light lilac cardigan, a pair of socks. Like I said, it’s not total devastation, but it’s not great.

  The phone’s rung three times now, and it sounds like I’m outside, trying to get my key in the lock. Of course, I’m also carrying a bag of shopping in each hand, and rushing to get indoors and answer the phone. Bear in mind it is now eight days since I have last seen or heard from Nick, and the only person that has rung me up in that time is my mum.

  Obviously I’ve heard the phone ringing, and have got my door keys in my mouth as I’m elbowing my way through the external door, arms full of shopping. ‘Huck, huck, huck.’ I drop the bags of shopping in the corridor outside and frantically try to get the internal door open before the phone stops. Oh, there I am, and how different I look from the exhausted woman in the car park. Look, there’s a flush on my cheek, a sparkle of hope in my eyes, eyebrows raised in an expectant smile. Clearly I am convinced this is going to be Nick calling me at last with a fantastic but totally credible explanation for why I’ve heard nothing for over a week.

  I’m in, I’m running, tripping, stumbling to the phone, reaching out my hand, and it stops ringing just at the moment my fingertips brush plastic. I snatch it up anyway and put it to my ear.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ I shout insistently, angrily, demanding that the person damn well comes back here and talks to me. ‘Nick?!’

  You’ve got to feel sorry for me really. This whole waiting for him to phone was bad enough when I was only waiting for a day, but now it’s been a week, and it’s all new to me. I am so used to being in control of this kind of thing. I can be cool, even cold, standoffish, when I know exactly what’s happening. But I’m in the dark here, fumbling around helplessly waiting for him to come and turn the light on. And still I am fighting back the encroaching feeling that he’s not going to.

  Please look away. This is me at my lowest, collapsed on the floor, sobbing on to the carpet, pathetically saying his name over and over. I am not proud of this moment, and thankfully it doesn’t go on long.

  Three things occur to me as I’m lying there on the floor, each one contributing equally to my rising from that position. One: the front door is wide open; two: the frozen chicken is defrosting on the carpet; and three: although I didn’t get to the phone in time, just the fact that he’s called me is an enormous, tremendous relief and source of sudden joy. I practically leap up on to my knees and seize the phone again, keying in 1471, just to check that it was definitely him. I know his home and mobile numbers off by heart now, so when the number I’m starting to hear does not match either one of those, I frown and snatch the phone away from my ear, switching it off quickly and throwing it down on to the floor as if it could do me harm. I stare at it for a moment, fighting against the growing wretchedness threatening to knock me down again, then I switch it back on and dial 1471 again, sure I have made a mistake, or the phone has.

  Neither of us had. Except me, of course, for thinking, hoping, it was Nick in the first place. Just in case he’s rung me from someone else’s house and will need to prove this later, I jot the number down in my notebook, underneath his home number, as the electronic woman is saying it. I kneel there for a few long seconds, hands flat on the floor, head hanging low, trying to get the energy, or enthusiasm, or whatever, together to go and retrieve the shopping and start putting it all away. Then wearily I get to my feet.

  Another working week goes by, and now it is Friday. I don’t see Nick at work all that time, although I deliberately go down to the vending machine and get my own coffee every day. He’s never there. He knows I usually have coffee at two so obviously he’s getting his at one thirty, or three o’clock or whatever, just any time other than two.

  If I had one single gram of sense this week, I’d have realized that of course Nick will be getting his coffee or light snack from the selection available in the identical vending machine that is located on the sixth floor, where he works. But I haven’t. This is where I met him two weeks ago, so this is where I think I am most likely to meet him again.

  He doesn’t call me either. If you watch the whole week, you would see me rushing to the phone to dial 1471 every time I come in, to see if his number is on there. The same number from the Sunday has rung me three more times, so the possibility still exists that Nick has gone away for a few days and is trying to get hold of me from a different phone, but I’m not really clinging to that with much hope. We haven’t had any contact now for two weeks, and if he was going away, surely he would have told me beforehand? And I’ve had no texts or calls from his mobile.

  No, I know exactly what is going on here, and I’m trying to accept it. I have been on the other end of this kind of behaviour enough times to recognize a silent dump when I see one, and I know from my own experience that the most important thing is to keep your dignity.

  I have had people calling me three, four times a day, sobbing, trying to understand what they did wrong; I have received flowers, chocolates, perfume, death threats, all in the name of ‘Why?’ I have watched so many people dissolving into sub-human blobs of helpless incapacity, it turns my stomach. I am determined that won’t happen to me. That is why I have not gone up to Personnel, I have not tried going for coffee at a different time, and I have not called or texted him. Not that I haven’t wanted to, but of course the entire office knowing everything about what’s going on does have its plus side. I have maintained an impressive dignity in front of everyone. They’re not even sure who’s the dumper and who’s the dumpee.

  Also, I’ve got this illness that I’m fighting. This past week, I’ve been making a concerted effort to get back up the league tables at work. My two-week fling with Nick (yes, I know technically it was only one week, but I’m counting the second week because it might not necessarily have been over by then, he might just have gone a bit quiet) has had a bad effect on m
y sales figures, and I’m now ninth in the league. Still not too bad out of forty-five sales staff, but there is the fact I didn’t mention earlier that fifteen of those forty-five are part-time and only work evenings, so they don’t really count.

  I’ve managed to scrape back one place from tenth, but it’s not been as easy as it used to be. This profound, bone-aching exhaustion I’ve been feeling has not improved. I haven’t been sleeping well, what with all the sobbing, and I know that I am depressed, which Mum says makes you feel sleepy. Still, it’s affecting my mind, too, so I’m finding it really hard to concentrate for long. I find myself flicking rapidly through the brochure towards something, and then I slow down, suddenly realizing that I’ve got no idea at all what I was going to suggest. I can’t even remember what the client requested in the first place.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say Isle of Wight or Isle of Man?’

  ‘I just want to speak to someone about travel insurance, you dozy cow.’

  And that sort of thing is making me feel awfully close to tears, which is very unlike me.

  By the Friday, I’ve decided I need to see the doctor, urgently. A couple of weeks ago, a day or so before I met Nick, Jean asked me to go and meet some clients in reception who’d just come back from their holiday in Nairobi and wanted to lodge a complaint. I get picked for this kind of thing all the time because of my appearance. I don’t mean just my physical looks, I’m talking about my style, my dress-sense, my personal grooming. We don’t usually have to see clients face to face, but I always dress smartly in a skirt and blouse and do my hair every day. Val always wears jeans and an old T-shirt, I’ve noticed, and ties her hair up with a rubber band, which is why she never gets picked for anything.

  Anyway, I’ve been feeling peculiar pretty much since then, give or take a day or two, so it must be some revolting African bug I’ve picked up from that pair of whingers. And the thing about these tropical bugs is that they spread really quickly, particularly in confined air-conditioned offices, so for all I know, I am infecting the entire working population of Horizon Holidays. If I’m honest, I am also pretty scared. I’ve never had symptoms like these before.

  So I did what I have done only twice before during my time at Horizon: I made an outgoing call. I’m not one of those people that think this kind of thing is OK. I know that Val’s always doing it, but as we now know, she does have a legitimate reason. And on this occasion, I feel that I, too, have a good reason. I need to make an urgent appointment with the doctor. I’ll even go during the day and leave work for the appointment if necessary.

  ‘Next Thursday afternoon, love?’ the receptionist says.

  I pause. That’s nearly a week away. ‘But it’s urgent. Did you hear me say it was urgent?’

  ‘I heard.’ I get the sudden and inexplicable feeling that she’s looking into a compact mirror as she’s talking.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve had contact with people who have just come back from Africa, and now I’m feeling dizzy, nauseous . . .’

  ‘When was this?’ I’m gratified to hear her interest suddenly increase.

  ‘Um, about three weeks ago.’

  I hear as she exhales loudly and slumps back in her seat again. ‘Well, if it was an African strain you’d probably be dead by now. Got any sores?’

  ‘Sores? Well, no.’

  ‘Mucus? Any pus at all?’

  ‘Um, well, no, not as such.’

  ‘Well then, I can do three fifteen or five thirty.’

  I perk up. ‘What, today?’

  ‘No, love, next Thursday, I told you. Three fifteen or five thirty. Which?’

  I book the five-thirty appointment and hang up.

  Two hours later it’s five p.m., the end of the day, and the end of the week. Tomorrow is Jake’s birthday party and I have got him no gift. I can pop into a newsagent on my way over there tomorrow afternoon and get a card and then stick a tenner in it. That’ll do. Christine is approaching me but I’m so tired and listless, I just want to go home. I hide behind Graham’s desk as Chrissie passes and she stops to ask Val if I’ve left. Val shrugs – she clearly doesn’t give a flying rat’s backside where I am – so after one look at my deserted desk, Chrissie totters off.

  I walk so slowly back to my car that most of the other cars have already gone. There is no sign of Chrissie. Wearily, I drive home. I’m holding the steering wheel with only one hand because I’m too tired to lift the other one. I change gear as infrequently as possible. My eyes are so hot and heavy I let them unfocus on the so-familiar journey. I’m sure my Clio can find its own way home. My head lolls back on to the headrest and my hand drops to the lowest part of the wheel. A large red object rushes up suddenly in front of me and I stomp on the brakes, stopping inches away from the stationary Post Office van.

  Now I do close my eyes, my heart thumping painfully, blood rushing noisily in my ears, tears coming. That was so stupid, I’m thinking to myself, so stupid and so close. The P.O. van moves off, but I stay where I am for a few moments, breathing deeply to calm down. Come on, concentrate.

  I drive the rest of the journey exaggeratedly carefully, indicating early, braking often. ‘Better late than the late,’ Mum always says. ‘Better to die quickly in a crash than to run out of oxygen,’ Dad always replies.

  The first thing I do when I get home is not check 1471 straight away. I manage to last five minutes before checking it, which is a thirty-second improvement on yesterday. The voice tells me I was called today at thirteen fifty-two but the caller withheld their number. I’m not sure how to react to this news. I do feel a sudden surge of hopeful joy, thinking that Nick had called at last, but at the same time the two weeks since I last spoke to him keep getting in the way.

  I decide not to make a decision but to keep an open mind. Or perhaps I could ring him, just to check whether it was him or not?

  I sit down on the sofa and put my bag on my lap, hunting for the little notebook I jotted his number down in, and my hand falls on to the slim black mobile phone I found at Sainsbury’s. I take it out and balance it in the palm of my hand. Whoops. I had forgotten all about it, and now the owner has been without it for six days. Anyone watching me would assume that I was intending to keep it, but I swear I’m not. I really did just forget about it.

  I switch it on. I bet the owner has been ringing it frantically, and has now assumed that I’ve decided to keep it, particularly since it’s been switched off all week. They probably think I’ve taken their Sim card out and put mine in. When it’s on properly, I am very surprised that no signal comes through from the network to say there are loads of messages. How odd.

  As all my remaining energy ebbs from me, the phone slips from my fingers and my head falls back. I close my eyes, just for a few minutes.

  I am woken up by an unfamiliar trilling sound. At first I think it’s my alarm clock, but it can’t be, surely today is Saturday? No, wait, it’s not Saturday yet, it’s still Friday afternoon and I’m on the sofa. I fell asleep when I got in. So what’s that noise? It’s not my mobile, or the land line ringing. I struggle to sit up and open my bleary eyes, looking around me, patting the sofa as if somehow that is going to help me locate a sound.

  But it does. My hand touches the strange mobile and it’s vibrating as it rings. I snatch my hand away in surprise, then quickly grab it and press the ‘Answer’ key.

  ‘Hello?’ Too late I realize that this call is almost definitely not for me.

  ‘Aha!’ says a man’s voice. ‘There you are, at last!’

  I clear my throat, still trying to shake off the last threads of sleep. ‘Oh, no, sorry, look, whoever you think you’ve got hold of, you haven’t. I mean, this is not me. No, no, it is me. I mean, I’m not the person that should be me. I’m not the person who should be answering this phone.’ I sigh. Why can’t I seem to make any sense?

  ‘I beg to differ. You are exactly the person who should be answering it because you are the one who is holding it.’

  Well, that seems logical. �
�Um, I suppose so. But you really—’

  ‘Ah, no buts, please. Let’s get to the business of the day, and that is, what are your demands?’

  Look at my face now! It’s a kind of comical puzzlement. I’m even standing up, to help me to understand what’s going on. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘As well you should be. Thanks to you, I have lost a massive contract worth nearly ten million pounds. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  It’s totally clear that he thinks he’s talking to the owner of the phone, but he won’t let me explain. And now apparently the phone’s owner has caused him to lose a lot of money.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s really not me you should be talking to about that. You see, I found—’

  ‘Yes, I know, you found the phone. It’s my phone. I want it back, as soon as we can manage it. So, I want to know what your demands are?’ He sounds like he’s smiling.

  With a sickening jolt, I realize the significance of what he’s just said. I completely forgot about the phone and it has lain dormant in my handbag for almost a week, resulting in this man losing a contract worth . . . My hand goes to my mouth. Oh my God. I am responsible. I was too lazy to take the phone into the store and hand it in to Customer Services, and because of that . . .

  ‘Oh my God. I’m so terribly sorry. It’s completely my fault. You see, I’ve not been all that well lately, and when I found your phone, I was too tired, too ill, to take it inside, so I just rang the ICE number but then I forgot all about it and it’s just been sitting in my bag since Sunday.’