“I think I’m good, thanks.”
She loiters for a moment, maybe deciding whether to deploy her sales training or seek a better prospect elsewhere. Undeterred, she tucks an errant strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear and presses on.
“Are you after a cheap mobile phone?” she asks.
I turn and face her. The badge fixed to her unflattering RolpheTech blouse displays her name.
“Honestly, Chloe, I’m good. Besides, I don’t think you’re going to make much commission from my purchase I’m afraid.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. If you change your mind just come and find me.”
Chloe gives me a smile, the brilliance of her green eyes triggering a poignant memory of Lucy in her younger days. For a moment I just stare at her as a hundred visions of Lucy flood my mind.
“Are you okay?” Chloe asks.
“Sorry, yeah. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Um, sure,” she replies hesitantly.
Without even thinking about it, the line I had drawn under my old life is erased in a heartbeat.
“I think an old friend of mine used to work here. I’ve been away for a few years and I was hoping to catch up with her. I wondered if maybe you knew her. Lucy Ashman?”
Chloe ponders for a moment. “Sorry, I don’t recognise the name, but I’ve only been here for six months.”
Her reply doesn’t surprise me. Judging by the lack of recognisable faces amongst the staff I’ve spotted, it’s quite likely Lucy never worked here.
“Okay, no worries. Can I take one of these?” I say as I point to a forty-quid phone.
“Sure. I’ll grab one from the stock room and meet you at the sales desk. It’s just to the side of the main doors.”
Chloe disappears and I saunter over to the sales desk where I pull two twenty-pound notes from my pocket. A minute passes and she returns, clutching my new phone. She hands it to a chubby, bored-looking guy behind the counter and turns to me.
“James will take your payment. Will you need as sim card for the phone?”
“Actually, yes.”
She turns to James. “Can you help this chap with a sim card?”
He grunts something I don’t catch. Just as she is about to disappear and leave me with her charmless colleague, Chloe stops and throws him a question.
“James, do you remember somebody called Lucy? Apparently she used to work here.”
“Lucy Ashman?” he replies with no interest.
Chloe looks across to me. “Was that the surname?”
Suddenly my interest switches from the aesthetically pleasing Chloe to the sullen man behind the desk.
“Yes, yes, that’s her,” I squawk excitedly.
James apparently doesn’t share my excitement and returns to the subject of sim cards.
“Cheapest sim card is a tenner. That do you?” he mumbles.
“Fine, whatever. You used to work with Lucy?”
“Yeah, but she left a few years ago.”
“I don’t suppose you know where she works now?”
“That’ll be £49.99 in total with the sim card,” James replies curtly.
I pull a tenner from my pocket and hand it over with the two twenties.
“She left to start her own business. She banged on about it for weeks. Something to do with helping old folks with computers.”
“Do you know where the business is based? Is it local?”
James shoves the phone and sim card across the desk and shrugs his shoulders.
“Think so, not sure. Was there anything else as my lunch break started two minutes ago?”
I shake my head and James immediately slopes off. I turn to thank Chloe but she’s already chatting to another customer. I grab my new phone from the desk and leave the store. Once I’m outside I stand for a moment, pondering what I’m going to do with this new information. If Lucy left RolpheTech a few years ago then it’s still possible she moved to Brighton. But what if she didn’t? What if Lucy is currently sat at a desk in an office here in Farndale?
It’s a question I turn over as I make my way back to the town centre in search of coffee, free wi-fi, and an answer.
5
Both Starbucks and Costa are packed with suits on lunch so I retreat to a quieter independent coffee shop a little off the beaten track. I order the cheapest coffee on the menu, and, furnished with their wi-fi code, I take a seat at a table in the corner. It’s only when I finally sit down I realise just how badly my feet ache; I must have covered six or seven miles this morning. There is a world of difference between the smooth miles on a treadmill in the Broadhall gym and pounding the pavements of Farndale.
While I wait for my order to be called, I quickly unpack my new phone and insert the sim card. It takes an age to wake and then I have to go through the initial set-up before I can use it. I complete the set-up just as my order is called. I dart over to the counter, grab my coffee and return to the table, eager to begin my search for Lucy. It doesn’t take long to find her.
The first search result is an article from the local newspaper, dated almost three years ago…
Local Entrepreneur Helps The Elderly to Connect Online
With eight years of tech experience behind her, local mum Lucy Ashman has just launched her new service to help the elderly residents of Farndale get online. Her new venture, called Senior Connections, will provide one-to-one support to transform even the most tech-shy pensioner into a confident silver surfer.
Beside the article there is a picture of Lucy stood between two stony-faced elderly men. Both look like they’d rather be dead, and probably are now. I zoom in on the picture so Lucy’s smiling face fills the phone screen. It’s been a long time since I last saw that face. I feel a sudden and irrational pang of guilt for not ringing her when I left RolpheTech. Not much I can do about that now, and I have to remind myself that the woman in the picture is not the same Lucy anyway. That life never happened for either of us.
I open another browser tab and search for Senior Connections. I click through to a slick website which suggests that Lucy’s venture is still in business. It only takes a few minutes of browsing the website to determine what a great concept it is. Lucy was the only one of us who had the patience to deal with our elderly customers and she’s clearly found a lucrative niche. I click through to the contact page which displays a map for the company’s offices, here in Farndale. That’s interesting. If her business is as successful as it appears, that would be good reason for Lucy to decline her sister’s offer and stay around here. It certainly appears Lucy never moved to Brighton in this timeline.
I take a sip of coffee and contemplate what I’m going to do now I’ve found her. Realistically, Lucy is the only connection to my former life I can rekindle. Is it a good idea though? Can we ever get back what we had before? My compulsion just to hear her voice wins out and I dial the number on the page.
“Good morning. Senior Connections.”
It’s just four words but enough of Lucy’s voice to make my heart skip. Unfortunately my impulsive call hasn’t been given much thought beyond hearing her voice.
“Oh…um, hi,” I splutter.
What the hell do I say? I should hang up.
“What can I do for you?” she asks.
Hang up Craig.
“I’m calling about my uncle. He needs some help getting online.”
Idiot.
“Okay. Does he have a computer?”
“No, we were thinking of getting him a tablet or a laptop.”
“We might be able to help you with that. We sell a range of easy-to-use tablets and computers that your uncle might like to come and try. Would that be a good starting point for him?”
“Yeah, that’s sounds a good idea. Could I drop by and take a look first?”
“Sure. Our office is on Victoria Road and we’re open until five o’clock Monday to Friday. Just pop in and we’ll show you some options.”
“Perfect. Appreciate that.”
“No problem. I’ll look forward to seeing you later.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
I hang up.
Maybe thirty seconds of conversation with a total stranger. A friendly voice but not a friend. I take a large gulp of coffee, the ingestion of caffeine doing nothing to ease my racing pulse. This is what I hoped for, to find Lucy, so why do I feel so apprehensive, so anxious? My head says leave it but my heart says otherwise. I pick up my phone and look at the map on the website. While her office is only a five minute walk away, the Lucy I knew is a lifetime away. I empty my coffee cup and leave.
The streets are busy with lunchtime shoppers as I make my way towards Victoria Road. I don’t look at anyone and have no idea if anyone looks at me. I just put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the question of whether this is a good idea or not. I reassure myself I’m not committing to anything just by walking to Victoria Road. At some point I need to make that call, but for now I’m happy to plod blindly through the streets.
Without being consciously aware of the journey there, I suddenly find myself stood outside the door of Senior Connections. Now I do have to make a decision and that’s something I don’t have a great track record on.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the screen just to kill time but hoping some inspired reasoning suddenly hits me. It doesn’t. What do I do?
I open the door and my legs carry me up the stairs to the office on the first floor. I don’t recall giving them such instruction but suddenly I’m pushing open a door into a reception area. A single window lights the small space which houses just an unoccupied desk with two chairs sat in front of it, and two white panelled doors behind. Nobody around, still time to change my mind. My hesitancy is arrested when one of the panelled doors opens and a woman in a light grey trouser suit walks in.
The woman in the photo is now real, stood just eight feet away from me. I have to consciously fight the impulsion to greet her as my old friend. Over and over again I tell myself this Lucy doesn’t have a clue who I am.
Once I’ve got past the shock of seeing her, I notice a few subtle differences from her counterpart in my timeline. Her previously long auburn hair is now cut into a shorter style that just brushes her shoulders. Her opal-green eyes sit below a long fringe that almost touches her eyebrows. Coupled with the lack of a RolpheTech uniform and it’s not quite the same person I saw almost every day for a decade. It’s still Lucy though, just not my Lucy.
“Can I help you?” Lucy asks.
My brain eventually connects to my mouth and I find a reply.
“I called earlier about my uncle,” I croak.
“You’re keen,” she chuckles. “Take a seat and we’ll have a quick chat about your uncle’s specific needs.”
Without warning, she disappears back through the door and returns a second later, holding a Starbucks coffee cup.
“You don’t mind if I drink this?” she asks. “I’ve already had to suffer two cold coffees this morning.”
“Course not.”
Lucy sits behind the desk, takes a quick sip of coffee and opens a notepad. She then plucks a pen from a pot and drums it on the desk while she waits for me to take a seat. It’s a habit that used to drive me potty during meetings, but seeing a recognisable flash of the Lucy I once knew almost brings a smile. I shuffle across to the desk and take a seat opposite her.
She sits forward, her elbows resting on the desk.
“Shall we start with your name?”
“It’s Craig.”
“Nice to meet you Craig, I’m Lucy. And what’s your uncle’s name?”
A thick mist suddenly forms in my head. I desperately sweep every corner of my mind for a random name but everything is cloaked in the impenetrable mist. Seconds pass and Lucy’s brow furrows as if she thinks I’m either a crank or just wasting her time. Why can I not think of a single bloody name?
“Bungle,” I randomly splutter. It sounds more like an outburst of Tourette's than a name. I have no idea where it came from or what in God’s name possessed me to say it.
The furrow in her brow deepens as an eyebrow is raised. “Uncle Bungle?”
I smile sheepishly. “Sort of a nickname we’ve always used. I’ve can’t even remember his real name.”
“Right,” she says. “Does your…erm…Uncle Bungle have any experience with computers?”
She places the tip of the pen between her teeth and bites down on it. I catch the look in her eye, one I’ve seen a thousand times. I chew my bottom lip but it’s too late and my chest begins to slowly heave. Lucy tries to fight it but the corners of her mouth turn upward and a snort escapes from the back of her throat.
We both lose it at almost the same moment.
The sound of raucous, uncontrollable laughter fills the small room. Embarrassingly awkward yet strangely comfortable considering the circumstances. Just as I think we’ve regained control, one of us sniggers and it sets the other one off again. It takes a few minutes for us both to clear our throats and for composure to return.
“I’m so sorry. What must you think of me? That was really unprofessional,” Lucy eventually coughs, her cheeks stained with tears of laughter.
She opens a desk and pulls out a box of tissues. She plucks one herself and dabs her eyes before offering the box to me.
“No need to apologise. For what it’s worth I haven’t laughed like that in a long, long time.”
Lucy wafts her hands in front of her face. “Me neither, but this isn’t helping Uncle…your uncle.”
“Probably not. Sorry, where were we?”
“I have no idea. Shall I show you some tablets?”
Lucy gets up and I follow her through one of the doors behind the desk. She leads me into an office with a table in the centre, a dozen tablets laid-out on top.
“Shall I demonstrate a couple of these and you can decide which one might best suit your uncle?”
Lucy spends the next hour patiently explaining the functions of tablets I have no intention of buying. She knows nothing about me but I know virtually everything about her and our conversation is effortless, verging on flirtatious. I’ve never been one of those people who can walk into a room and strike up a conversation with a stranger but I now know how it must feel. Lucy assumes my gregarious nature is who I am but it’s not. All those subtle signals humans subconsciously display; easy to miss, difficult to read — I know every one of Lucy’s. In my previous life this would be no different to the thousands of conversations we had but here and now, I have an ulterior motive — I want my friend back. I shamefully exploit every bit of information I know about her to push exactly the right buttons.
As the presentation comes to an end, Lucy goes through a text-book close but I tell her I need to consult with my fictitious Uncle Bungle before I make any commitment. She nods politely and it appears our time is over. Almost reluctantly, we return to the reception area and Lucy holds her hand out for me to shake.
“Give me a call once you’ve had a chat with your uncle. It was a real pleasure to meet you, Craig.”
I take her hand and savour the smooth feel of her skin as our handshake becomes more of a hand-holding exercise. If there was ever a perfect time to ask the question I desperately want to ask, this is it.
“Look, I’ll understand if you say no, but I don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink one night this week?”
“Um, yeah. I’d really like that,” she giggles as her cheeks flush red.
Lucy hands me a business card with her mobile number and we agree to meet on Saturday evening at a bar down the road. The same legs that carried me up the stairs without permission are redundant as I float back down the stairs on a cloud.
I make my way along Victoria Road, aimless but pleased to have made progress with Lucy. As I contemplate what to do with the rest of the afternoon, I catch a view of myself reflected in a shop window. It serves as a reminder that I really should invest in some new clothes. That doesn’t fill me with the same level of dread
that it once did because mirrors are no longer a damning reminder of my obesity. However, my concern today is still for pounds; the monetary rather than weight variety.
I visit another cash machine and withdraw sixty quid. I then amble to the main shopping centre and scour the various levels in search of budget menswear. The last time I was here was just before the Heathland school reunion, but I won’t be browsing the same shops and I certainly won’t be visiting expensive department stores. I need to fund almost an entirely new wardrobe for the same money I spent on a single shirt that day.
My search ends as the escalator delivers me to the top floor of the shopping centre, bang outside a discount clothing store. Posters in the window tantalise with offers of clothing for less than most people spend on a decent lunch. This is the sort of store I used to scorn when I had money, and therefore choice. I have little of either today so with some reluctance, I make my way inside.
An hour later I’m stood in a long queue consisting mainly of loud women with louder offspring. The hellish queue moves forward at a ponderous pace. Eventually I reach the front and I’m beckoned towards a spotty young woman who clearly went to the same charm school as James at RolpheTech. Without a word, she tips the contents of my basket onto the counter and impassively scans the seven items: two pairs of jeans, two polo shirts, two t-shirts, and a lightweight jacket.
“That’ll be fifty-eight pounds,” she grunts.
I can’t help myself. “Please is the word you’re looking for.”
She scrunches her face and looks at me as though I’ve just called her mother a whore.
“Pur—lease,” she heckles.
I throw three twenty pound notes on top of the counter and shake my head. Two pound coins are slapped on the counter in their place along with a receipt.
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 4
