Love Byte

by David Atkinson

  I quite liked her text because she didn’t shorten her words. She said ‘love’, not ‘lv’ and didn’t substitute it for a heart shaped thingy, or, the worst I’d ever had – from Lindsay of all people – was a stupid animated pink ostrich waving. Since when were ostriches universally recognized as symbols of affection?

  The storm broke just after Amy and I had finished eating the remaining Cornettos. Amy was covered in ice cream and chocolate, and was squirming while I tried to wipe her hands and face to avoid the sticky residue being spread around the room. The plan was to get her to bed early as she was tired, but the thunder and lightning changed that.

  Amy, amazingly, was fascinated and not scared by the flashes of light and the huge booming cacophony of thunder. We watched the deluge of rain as it fell like a curtain across the seething waters churned up by the wind and tide. At one point the storm felt like it was directly overhead and the thunder made the whole building shake.

  Being on the top floor made the whole spectacle even more impressive and the huge decked balcony beyond the French doors was streaming with rain water. These doors were never opened when Amy was in the flat as the safety rail around the balcony was too low and flimsy. She often pressed her nose longingly against the glass, eager to get outside, and she did that whilst the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, fascinated by the deluge. Outside, the wooden patio furniture was being buffeted around in the wind.

  The storm passed over quickly, leaving behind a cool drizzle that coated the windows with a film of briny water. Deprived of our spectacular view, I got Amy ready for bed and, after I read our usual selection of books, she drifted off to sleep.

  Once Amy was asleep, she stayed asleep. I reckon not even a herd of stampeding horses rampaging through her bedroom would cause her to stir. Thinking about it, were the animals able to negotiate the lift two at a time and wait patiently for the rest of their number to gather before beginning their rampage, they would make quite a racket on the polished wooden floors of the apartment.

  The point was that once Amy was asleep I didn’t need to worry about creeping around the apartment trying to be quiet. I could watch the TV at normal volume and I was free to drop stuff – being a bit of a klutz that was useful. Some mothers I chatted with at Amy’s nursery groups told me they couldn’t even sneeze without their kids waking up. Right on cue I sneezed explosively.

  Occasionally Amy would wake up during the night – usually due to having a bad dream or because she was cold, having pushed her covers away. (I didn’t have the Brazilian Rainforest setting on my thermostat.) Most times, if I spent a few minutes lying with her holding her hand she would drift off back to sleep, but sometimes she would demand, ‘Go Daddy’s bed’. What happened then is, once she settled to sleep in my bed, I sneaked into hers and we’d both wake up confused in the morning.

  The three bedrooms of the apartment were grouped together on the west side of the building. I had the first one nearest the kitchen diner, the spare room was in the middle and Amy had the one nearest the front door. When we moved from the house, I pushed the king-sized bed to one side and reconstructed her little cot-bed. However, once she saw the king-sized bed she never went near her cot-bed again, and that is now dismantled and stored in one of the bedroom closets. Each bedroom had closet space and shoe racks that would have kept Imelda Marcos happy. My feeble clothing and shoe collection barely registered.

  Mine and Amy’s rooms had their own bathrooms and there was another bathroom near the front door which was hardly used. The spare room contained a fully made-up bed, but was also crammed with the remains of our furniture from the old house and other assorted junk.

  All of the main windows in the apartment looked out over the sea in one direction or another, and it was a spectacular place to live. The downside was that many of the other flats in the building were still empty, which made the journey up from the basement car-park eerie at times, and the service fees were a hefty £1200 a year. I negotiated to only pay half of these. Amy and I rattled about in the apartment at times. When we walked with our shoes on or if we dropped anything, the sound would reverberate around the 3000 square foot space. (I wasn’t sure what it was in new money.) It wasn’t cosy like our old house, but it suited us for now. Lindsay would have hated it, but I wanted a complete change. One day, I’d leave open and opulent and return to cosy and compact – but not yet.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At two minutes past nine my mobile phone vibrated across the coffee table, and I answered it quickly. The voice on the line took me completely by surprise. Amanda had a wonderful gentle Southern Irish accent and I felt like I was talking to one of the Corrs (which one I’m not sure, just not the bloke.)

  I remembered not to be rude and asked how her fishing trip went.

  ‘Yeah, it was cold, soggy and very boring. My granddad loves it, sitting there in the early light smoking his pipe and watching the rain, I think he just likes the solitude and getting away from his wife for a few hours. I got fed up after about an hour and took the car into a nearby village to get coffee and sandwiches. How was your day?’

  As I described the day myself and Amy had had, it felt natural and easy. I loved listening to her voice, she could have recited names out of the phone book, and with that accent it would have been hypnotic. It was a much better experience than the previous two evenings. Maybe I should just speak to girls on the phone and never actually meet anyone in person; that way I could avoid getting nervous and being an idiot.

  The conversation flowed easily and half an hour drifted by. Then I heard a loud rumble in the background from her end. It was either the loudest tummy rumble in history or the start of a storm.

  ‘There’s a huge electrical storm starting here,’ she explained. ‘Looks like it’ll be really spectacular.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s my storm. Amy and I watched it earlier and we thought it would be nice to send it over to Ireland for you.’

  She giggled. ‘Thank you very much; it’s the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all day. I’m away to watch. I’ll phone you in a few days if that’s OK? It was nice talking to you, Andy. Goodnight.’

  After I’d placed my phone down onto the coffee table, I suddenly felt a whole lot better. I still wasn’t convinced I ever wanted to meet up with Amanda but at least it restored my faith a little. I wasn’t tired yet so I flicked on the TV and fetched a beer from the fridge. I couldn’t find anything worth watching on TV so, encouraged by my conversation with Amanda, I decided to open up Love Bitz on my iPad. Initially I just wanted to look at Amanda’s photo again, but also decided to have a quick look to see if I had any more emails.

  I was relieved to see only one new message flashing on the cherry lips. I opened it up and read the contents.

  Hi Andy,

  Carrie here, thank you for your email, it was very complimentary.

  Lindsay obviously liked the look of Carrie and I was again left wondering what her technique was.

  I like the idea of meeting up rather than having long chats. I have to be honest with you though – my experience of Internet dates so far has been disappointing but I live in hope.

  Well at least we had something in common.

  Maybe you will be different. I’ve got a really busy few weeks coming up though, I’ve got a wedding the weekend after next, and then I’m on holiday for a fortnight after that, but if you’re up for it I could meet up with you this Saturday. If it’s too short notice I understand but let me know, otherwise it might be ages.

  I don’t have a picture on the site anymore, so I presume you just think my profile is completely wonderful but as we’re maybe going to meet up I’ve sent you a link to my Facebook page so you can get an idea. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.

  Send me an email if you want to meet on Saturday and include your mobile so I can confirm things with you, because I know how unreliable you men can be.


  My first impression was that Carrie was a ‘bossy boots’, which was not altogether a bad thing – at least she knew what she wanted. I had a quick glance at her profile. I assumed that when Lindsay accessed it months ago it had a picture on it. She described herself as assertive, confident and outgoing. Judging by her email that description seemed to ring true, but physically she described herself as curvy and voluptuous. This set some alarm bells ringing. In my mind those words tended to be euphemisms for ‘fat’.

  Keeping the faith, I followed the link to her Facebook page and discovered a good-looking blonde. Another blonde. I had nothing against blondes at all but so far my track record with them had not been great.

  She was not as petite as Amanda (I couldn’t help comparing – it’s what blokes do). Her photo showed a tall, well-built girl, but not fat. She shouldn’t have used the words curvy and voluptuous. I made a mental note to mention this to her if I ever spoke to her.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. She was probably another nutcase – or maybe I was the nutcase, at that point in time I really wasn’t sure. Could I face another date? Half an hour ago I would have said definitely not, but my chat with Amanda had infused me with some enthusiasm. Knowing I would probably regret it later I sent her an email that confirmed Saturday, and included my mobile number. I would need to check Pauline was OK for babysitting again. Carrie (bossy boots) had suggested we meet in a bar called the Pink Strip. She texted me back almost immediately which was slightly unnerving. Did none of these women read Men Like Women and Women Like Shoes?

  I sat back, drained my beer and took stock. I decided I was probably a masochist.

  The following day I took Amy to the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens again. It was one of my favourite places on a warm day, the seventy or so acres of lush planting felt like an oasis in the city and Amy loved it. I liked the fact there were no cars and roads to worry about and lots of open spaces for her to run about in. Our time limit was about two to three hours as after that Amy’s legs got too tired. I did take her trike, but she loved running between the dense foliage and mostly ignored her transport.

  We walked up the steep Chinese Hillside which was like a secret path (secret except for the eighty or so loud Americans walking down toward us.) At the top was a café where we bought ice-creams and freshly squeezed mango juice.

  I sat on the grass and watched Amy chase her pink ball across the grass. She tried to kick the ball several times but always fell on her bum. Charlie Brown came to mind, and subsequently Amanda, but I quickly pushed her to the back of my thoughts.

  If Amy had been a boy, her lack of kicking ability might have worried me, as being able to play football was a pre-requisite survival tool for boys – or it had been when I was at school. Maybe things had changed now. In any event I wouldn’t need to worry about that.

  Near where we were sitting was a group of youths – well, to be accurate, teenage boys – playing an aggressive game of touch-rugby. They were yelping and yelling and spoiling the peace and quiet for the hundred or so people lazing around enjoying the weather. A few couples were immune to the noise. These were the new couples completely oblivious to anything but each other and the oxytocin pumping through their bodies. They lay entwined and kissing. The end of the world would not have disturbed them. I recalled with a brief feeling of nostalgia that I had been one of them once.

  Just then I noticed that Amy had drifted down the hill and was standing still listening to a park patrol woman who was talking to her. The woman had bleached blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing the Botanic Garden standard uniform of brown pre-creased trousers, brown shirt and mustard-yellow tie. The combination would have made even Cameron Diaz look dowdy – perhaps that was the intention.

  I was too far away to work out what was being said, so I pulled myself to my feet and walked quickly downhill. I assumed she was making sure her mummy or daddy was nearby and was interested in the safety of my little girl.

  When I got closer I noticed that the woman was pointing to Amy’s ball and shaking her head. I couldn’t believe it. She was lecturing a 2-year-old about not playing with a ball on the grass.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, in my most polite voice, ‘is there a problem?’

  The woman regarded me with her hazel eyes. Her face was hard. Her badge announced she was ‘Garden Ranger – Grainger’.

  I couldn’t help sniggering. It was beyond me not to. You would think when you applied for a job like that someone would take the time to explain what the badge would look like. Maybe she had got married and changed her name in which case, she should have chosen a different husband.

  Ms Grainger ignored my outburst. ‘Is this your daughter?’

  I felt like saying, ‘No, I’m just the local paedophile and thought I’d pop over to see what was going on.’ But decided the polite Andy might be better than the sarcastic, rude one.

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong?’

  ‘She was playing with a ball on the grass and that’s against the garden rules.’

  ‘There’s no sign that says “no ball games”.’

  ‘We don’t need signs. That’s my job.’

  ‘What, they employ you solely to stop people playing with their balls?’ I couldn’t resist it, I was expecting Ms Grainger’s façade to at least crack into a smile. As it was she completely ignored the double entendre.

  ‘No, I do other things too. I help anyone who is lost and make sure nobody steals plants.’

  Given the gardens were spread over seventy acres and had multiple exits, I reckon I could have taken a wheelbarrow full of stuff without being detected by Ms Grainger, but I was more interested at that point about her ‘ball minding’ role.

  ‘Look Ms Grainger, my wee girl chasing her Barbie ball across the grass is likely to cause zero damage, but assuming you’re right and nobody should have a ball here – what about those kids over there playing touch rugby? They’re damaging the grass and being noisy. Surely that should be your priority? Amy here hardly understands anything you’ve said to her anyway.’

  Ms Grainger studied the rugby-playing louts for a moment, then said, ‘They’re too big.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘They’ll shout at me.’

  ‘They probably will, but isn’t it your job?’

  ‘To get shouted at? No. Do you go to work to get shouted at?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well neither do I.’

  With that, she turned on her heel and marched down the hill and was soon out of sight. I decided that Ms Grainger would be a perfect candidate for one of my dates. I probably should have asked her out and reminded her to bring a baseball bat.

  Soon after the ball incident we headed home and Amy was almost asleep by the time we stepped out of the lift. Getting her ready for bed was a real chore as she was bad tempered and uncooperative due to her fatigue. Consequently, an hour and a half later I was tucked up asleep as well. Wonderful stuff, fresh air.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tuesday was also a non-work day this week and, although I was of a mind to return to the Botanic Gardens with several footballs to bounce on the grass and a wheelbarrow to fill with illicit plants to test the resolve of Ms Grainger, I resisted the temptation. Instead I took Amy to Athletic-Tots. Amy was unaccustomed to spending so much one-on-one time with me and kept asking where her gran was. (She did this sometimes when we had been together for long periods.) I hoped she wasn’t getting bored with my company as it was very likely that given my lack of dating ability, she was stuck with staring at my face for a long time to come.

  Athletic-Tots was a group activity held in the main hall of a local sports centre. The play-area was normally cleared of anything dangerous (except for one week when several javelins were left lying out). It allowed the toddlers to run around like headless chickens for an hour or so and blow off steam. There was a small climbing fr
ame with a padded floor underneath and a soft-play area littered with toys, mainly trikes and bikes. It was completely unstructured and I liked it.

  Pauline and I often said that if anyone ever had any doubts that humans were anything but primates, they should go to one of these classes and watch the toddlers climb, jump, clamber and wrestle with each other although I would recommend taking a child with you otherwise you may be suspected of being a paedophile. Also it was worth seeking permission to take said child to avoid a kidnapping rap.

  Never more acutely did we resemble monkeys in our behaviour and mannerisms than when we were under the age of three. I wondered why we ever grew out of the jumping and climbing phase. It was probably just as well or we’d have climbing frames instead of coffee machines in our offices – though that might actually be more fun. It would certainly be healthier.

  Whilst Amy was bouncing around the athletics hall I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. (I tended to keep Katy Perry silent when I was out and about. Russell Brand maybe had the same idea which had probably added to their problems.) I pulled it out and peered at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Carrie, just thought I’d give you a phone.’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ve already got one.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  I really needed to stop making stupid jokes or I would probably remain single forever. I was surprised to hear from Carrie.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m the one that should be sorry. It’s lovely to hear from you, just my stupid joke about phones. . . .’