Call Me, Maybe

by Call Me, Maybe (retail) (epub)

  I don’t know how to use Instagram, and I’m not planning on keeping it long enough to really find out, but I’ve made an account and logged in and fumbled around until I found the search function, all before I realize I don’t know what Nicole’s handle is. And I’m not asking Holly. Fuck that, I absolutely do not require her help with this, and besides, how many Nicole Meijers can there possibly be?

  But after an hour sifting through account after account I have to concede that actually there are quite a few. Many I can discount immediately based on the profile photo alone. A lot of the Nicole Meijers are Dutch or German. They appear to be stylists. Or nutritionists. These Nicole Meijers live in white apartments with expensive-looking furniture and lots of plants. They post photos of smoothies with goji berries and pomegranate seeds scattered artfully around the bottom of the glass. They stare wistfully out of big windows at European cityscapes and their photo feeds are littered with bullshit inspirational quotes. ‘When you love what you have, you have everything you need’, ‘You attract the energy you give off’, ‘Use your smile to change the world’. Seriously?

  Just as I’m beginning to think this is going to lead precisely nowhere, and that I might have to call Travis and ask him to snoop through Holly’s phone, another Nicole Meijer catches my eye. NicoleInNY, and I jab at the screen.

  And there she is. Glossy-haired, dimpled Nicole. Looking tired, but happy, sitting on a gray couch in front of a big window overlooking a New York street – brownstones in the background, leaves on the sidewalk – surrounded by plants. Some things, I guess, are the same the world over. And she’s smiling into the camera and cradling a baby. A tiny little person with dark hair and staring eyes.

  For a few seconds I stare at the picture, not feeling much of anything, whilst I absorb it all, and then I’m flooded by a spectrum of emotions. I read the caption, and reach for my laptop again.

  * * *

  I’ve just tapped a photo on Instagram and a red heart appeared. What does that mean? I was trying to zoom in.

  It means you liked the picture. Also, are you serious?

  Yeah, I don’t really do social media. Like to keep myself pretty low key, you know.

  Well, you definitely need to rethink your Facebook privacy settings. You weren’t hard to find.

  Anyway, did you find what you were looking for?

  I did.

  And…?

  Do you have it? She is NicoleInNY

  Nothing for a while, and then,

  You need to speak to Cassie.

  * * *

  She's right, I do need to speak to Cassie but it's crippling, and I don't know how to approach it. I think back to the message about meeting in London and how hard that felt at the time, but it’s nothing compared to this. Not even remotely the same, and yet one is synonymous with the other. So I re-read her email. Hit reply. Type a bit, and delete it all, over and over. Nothing sounds right. Nothing comes across the way I want it to. Eventually I give up and go out for a walk instead.

  Ask Holly to show you Nicole’s Instagram.

  Oh wow. What are you going to do?

  I’m still figuring it all out.

  I think you already have.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Cassie

  At five minutes to six on Wednesday evening I am running through Marylebone station. I need to catch the five fifty-nine train, because Mum has made a very specific point about what time dinner will be served, and if I’m late, she won’t be happy. And if Mum isn’t happy, I’ll have to sit through an evening of churlish comments from her and baleful looks from Dad. So I don’t feel guilty about shoving someone out of my way, or when the wheel of my mini suitcase catches on the corner of a briefcase and sends it skidding across the concourse.

  I only just make my train, and it’s crowded. The doors beep and close just seconds after I get on and there’s that awkward moment when you just manage to jump on a train everyone else managed to catch in good time, and you pant by the door whilst everyone pretends they haven’t seen you. We rumble through north London and out towards Aylesbury. People jostle and bump, apologise and read copies of the free newspapers distributed at stations. A girl in her early twenties chatters on her phone. A man chews gum loudly, his jaw clicking disgustingly as he masticates. I’m pleased when the doors open at Amersham.

  Dad is waiting in the car, and he hugs me tightly and takes my case, despite my protests that I can put it in the boot myself.

  ‘It’s nice to have you home, darling,’ he says, as we pull into the driveway. Mum is watching from the window, the way she always does when she’s waiting for company, and she greets us at the door, smoothing her hands over her pinny.

  ‘Come on in,’ she says. She kisses my cheek and rubs my upper arms briskly. Then she frowns. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Not intentionally,’ I say, ‘I’ve just not been very hungry.’

  ‘Pining and heartbreak will do that to you, love.’ Suddenly a tsunami of grief knocks me for six all over again. I was doing so well today, too. I’ve only thought about Jesse seven or eight times. Maybe nine. Now ten.

  ‘Yup,’ I choke.

  ‘I’ve got a pasta bake in the oven,’ she says. ‘That’ll see you right.’

  ‘And garlic bread,’ Dad adds. Carbs are Mum’s cure for everything.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll just put this in my room,’ I say. They watch as I scurry up the stairs.

  My bedroom hasn’t changed since I lived here. The pine bed with its knobbly bedposts and too soft mattress is still behind the door. The matching nightstand sits under the window with my light and ancient clock radio. The time flashes at twelve o’clock where it hasn’t been reset properly after being switched off and on again from the plug socket. Pushed up into the frame of the mirror is a strip of photo booth photographs of Rachel and I, aged about thirteen. We’re posing like Charlie’s Angels, blowing on our hands shaped into guns. We are pouting our lips in exaggerated kisses. In the bottom photo we are laughing. My hair is pulled into a high ponytail, with a sweeping fringe across my forehead, hers is cut in a short, dark bob. Mum’s put a blue floral duvet set on the bed and it smells of fabric softener. The pillowcase has neat, ironed-in creases. I sit down on my bed and look around my room. It’s so familiar with all my stuff, and yet it doesn’t feel like any of it belongs to me anymore. Mum calls me down for dinner and I click my door closed on the way out.

  ‘We got a call from Rachel,’ she says as we’re eating. ‘Not long after you got back from your holiday.’

  ‘About the wedding?’ I say. But I know it wasn’t about the wedding.

  Mum shakes her head. Her wavy hair bounces around her face, set with too much hairspray. I feel a fondness towards her. ‘No, love. She was worried about you. Said you were in a bit of a state when she picked you up from the airport.’

  ‘This is true,’ I say, glumly, and it occurs to me she’s known I’ve been sad for four weeks and she hasn’t called other than to ask what train I was getting.

  ‘What happened?’ she presses.

  ‘Ahh, just… something with… someone. Anyway it didn’t work out. These things happen. I’ll get over it.’

  She doesn’t respond for a while. Then she exhales out of her mouth, puffing out her cheeks.

  ‘Musicians are fickle creatures,’ she says, finally, and I look between them both. Dad smiles kindly at me. They absolutely know exactly who I was with in America. ‘You know,’ Mum continues, ‘we’d rather thought you’d grown out of all that business.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ I say.

  Dad presses his lips together and Mum pats my hand over the table.

  ‘Latimer Abbey is just wonderful this time of year,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘The trees will just be turning. The photos are going to be stunning.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d ever been,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, darling,’ she says, looking at me as if I really ought to know this. ‘Afternoon tea for Tinie’s birthd
ay.’

  ‘Who’s Tinie? That can’t possibly be her real name.’

  ‘Oh, it definitely is,’ Mum says. ‘She’s the wife of one of Daddy’s friends from the golf club. Chair of the committee.’

  Of course she is. I eat my pasta and pick at a slice of garlic baguette.

  Afterwards, we retire to the lounge and Dad pours us all an after dinner sherry which we drink from tiny crystal glasses. Whenever Mum leaves the room, he tops us both up. I hold my glass up to the light and study the patterns etched into it, rolling the glass between my fingers. When we were children, Rachel would come over to play and we’d have a picnic in here with all my soft toys. We used to get all the sherry glasses out of the cabinet and pretend to pour wine for my teddies. We were always so careful not to break any of them for fear of getting caught. It’s a fond memory.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile today,’ Dad says. I flinch, unaware he was watching me.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in no time,’ I tell him. Not because I believe it, but because I think that’s what he’ll want to hear.

  * * *

  Mum wakes me up on Thursday morning with a cup of tea.

  ‘Breakfast is on the table,’ she tells me. I know what it will be; half a grapefruit, cereal, toast, more tea. Orange juice, too perhaps. Smooth, no juicy bits. My old dressing gown hangs on the back of my door, pink and frilly and slightly moth-eaten, and I put it on as I follow my mum downstairs and into the dining room. Dad’s already seated, mulling over the paper, and he waits until I sit before he starts on his fruit. I sprinkle sugar on mine and cut between the segments with a knife. Radio Two plays out from the kitchen. No one speaks except to ask for the butter or the milk. Dad’s teaspoon chinks against the inside of his teacup as he stirs in sugar.

  ‘I need to drive to Chiswick today,’ I say, ‘to pick up our dresses. Can I take your car, Mum?’

  ‘What time?’ she asks, putting her grapefruit bowl to one side and taking a sip of tea.

  ‘I said I’d collect Rachel at ten-thirty. I should think I’ll be back by one.’

  ‘Have you thought about which way you’ll go?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Can’t say I have,’ I tell him. I reach for a slice of toast. It’s cold. The butter sticks to it in hard, unyielding lumps.

  ‘Your best bet,’ he continues, ‘is to take the M25 to Heathrow and then switch to the A40 and drive in that way.’

  ‘Or she could go via Northolt,’ Mum offers.

  ‘But if she goes by Heathrow, she’ll shave a good few minutes off her time.’

  ‘David, it’s a longer journey,’ Mum says.

  ‘Christine,’ Dad says.

  I put my knife down on my plate more heavily than I mean to and the sound stops their debate. There is no way I can drive past Heathrow. Remembering the last time I was there makes me feel hot and sick. I can’t finish my toast.

  ‘I’ll go the Northolt way,’ I say firmly. Mum looks triumphant, but she wouldn’t if she knew why. ‘I’m absolutely not driving past Heathrow airport today.’

  Dad makes an ‘o’ shape with his mouth and I think he’s realised. I slurp the remains of my tea. The clock on the wall ticks, loud and constant. It’s almost nine. ‘Do you mind if I leave the table now? I need to get a move on.’

  Within twenty minutes I’m ready. It’s a personal record. I reach for my ring on the bedside table but it slips from my fingers and falls on to the floor, bouncing off the carpet and rolling under the bed just out of reach. How annoying, I think, as I kneel down on my knees and peer under it. The ring has been stopped in its tracks by a cardboard box which has my writing on the side in thick black marker pen. It stops me in mine, too. FRANKO STUFF, it says in thick, bold letters, DO NOT THROW OUT. I’ve drawn little hearts and stars all over the side. I’ve written ‘CB 4 JF’ inside a big heart with an arrow through it. Oh fucking hell, I know what this is. I shove the ring roughly on my finger and pull the box out from under the bed. Now I’m running on autopilot. Like I’m witnessing something terrible. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help myself. I drag the box into the middle of the room and fold back the flaps. Inside are rolls of posters, torn from magazines, carefully secured with rubber bands. I pull out the nearest one and tug the elastic until it flicks off the end. The pieces of paper unroll in my hands, still curled from years of being packed so tightly together. I spread them out. Picture after picture of Franko stares up at me from the floor. They are holding their guitars, looking moody and serious. They are on a beach, windswept and wistful. They are in a lift, crammed in and looking up at the camera. It’s meant to look like a still from grainy CCTV footage. They are lying down on a huge coloured floor, four shaggy dark heads together. They are wearing leather jackets, or slogan t-shirts, or vests. Baggy jeans or oversize denim shorts. Skater shoes with fat laces threaded through and pushed down inside.

  I pull out another roll of papers. These ones are articles and interviews. I sift through them and stack them up, one by one on the floor beside me. Write-ups and reviews. Adverts for albums and singles, back when people carried Discmans and wound cassettes on with pencils, before everyone just downloaded their music. I come across an article from Smash Hits magazine; ‘50 Things You Need To Know About… Franko’. One of the first articles there was written about them. There’s some blurb at the top and then fifty bullet points about the band, spanning three pages; ten facts about each member, then ten about the band as a whole. I put it down, reach for another. Another Smash Hits interview. This time tricky questions just for Adam. He looks stricken in the adjoining photo and he’s holding his hands up as if shielding himself from a biscuit tin. ‘Does the path of excess lead to the palace of wisdom?’ is the first question. It joins the pile.

  I poke around in the bottom of the box. There’s a plastic envelope full of autographs, a few CDs, and a form to send off for information (Franko, 3 Alveston Place, Leamington Spa). There’s a paper beer mat and I wonder where that could possibly be from, before remembering the night Rachel and I got backstage. In the bottom corner is a plastic plectrum with remnants of Blu Tack on the back. Adam had tossed a bunch of them into the audience at a gig and I’d caught one, and shoved it inside my bra for safe keeping. I reach for the last roll of posters and pull off the elastic band. It perishes in my hand, crumbles into nothing. As soon as the papers unroll I wish I had just left it well alone. It’s all Jesse. More posters and more interviews. I feel overwhelmingly sad as I look at the pile of paper on my lap. I pick one at random and hold it up; it’s a double page spread. He must be seventeen or eighteen at the very most.

  The poster that accompanies the article is split into three images; photos from the same shoot, black and white, taken in a long corridor. He’s standing against whitewashed breeze blocks. In one, his mouth is open, as if he’s talking and in mid sentence. In another he’s looking down, and in the last photo he’s smiling away from the camera with his arm reaching back behind his head and his right hand resting on the back of his neck. I’ve seen him do that so many times. The familiar dull ache in my chest expands and throbs. The title screams up at me, stark on the page. Black letters on a white background.

  Jesse Talks Love; We caught up with Jesse Franklin, Franko’s swoon-worthy bassist to find out exactly what he looks for in a girl: ‘She should be funny, adventurous, with a cute smile.’

  I skim over the article, reading snippets here and there.

  What star sign are you? Do you believe compatibility is ruled by the zodiac?

  My birthday is March 19th, but I have no idea what star sign I am (Editor’s note – he’s a Pisces). And no, I don’t believe in any of that stuff. How can compatibility be as rigid as that? How can you meet someone and write them off because someone said your signs don’t match? That’s crazy to me.

  What qualities do you look for in a girlfriend? Do you have a type?

  Not a specific type. It’s generally not what’s on the outside that attracts me, but more
about her personality. She should be fun to be around. Adventurous for sure. Up for chilling out one day and then doing something totally crazy the next. And a cute smile. She should definitely have a cute smile.

  I heave a huge sigh, and the ache feels bigger and emptier than ever. I skim down the page and the last question catches my eye.

  Finally, have you ever dated a fan? Would you?

  (laughs) I haven’t ever dated a fan, no. We’re never in the same place long enough. As for whether I would? Well, never say never, I guess.

  * * *

  Fuck! I can’t read any more. What was I thinking, sifting through all this stuff? It’s not making me feel any better about any of it. I put the pile of paper down and look at the box again. CB 4 JF. My eyes well up and I don’t even try and stop it. A tear rolls down my cheek and splashes on to the interview, then another and another. My shoulders tremble. Choking sobs heave out of me. There is a soft tap at the door, and when I don’t say anything, another knock, a little louder this time. I look towards the door and see my dad. He looks back at me for a few seconds, his face a picture of parental concern. He is holding their satnav. I just want him to make everything better but we both know he can’t. He comes into the room, throws the satnav on the bed and kneels down beside me. He looks down at the tear-splashed pictures of Jesse in my lap and my spread out collection of posters, then he puts an arm around my shoulders.