It Started With A Tweet

by Anna Bell

  ‘I know, I love it here, I really do. I just wish Rupert would see it.’

  ‘He will, he’s a good egg, that one. Why don’t you write him a letter, tell him how you feel, or make it jokey like the ones you wrote at uni?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s really us anymore . . .’

  ‘Then maybe you need to remind him what you once were.’

  Rosie and I sway a little as we walk up the drive, and I realise I’m a lot drunker than I thought. I see a flash of light in front of us and my first thought is that it’s a UFO. I jump behind Rosie.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she screams. ‘You scared the crap out of me.’

  ‘Look, there’s a tiny light dancing.’

  ‘You muppet,’ she says giggling. ‘That’ll be Alexis’s head torch, that’s why it looks like it’s in the air.’

  I don’t need to be able to see her to know that she’s shaking her head at me.

  I creep back round to the front of her and, sure enough, Alexis is just coming into the beam of Rosie’s torch.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ he says, slightly staggering too. ‘What are you doing ’ere?’

  ‘Just having a moonlit stroll,’ she says, despite the fact that’s there’s only the tiniest sliver of moon, which is doing nothing to illuminate our walk. ‘Did you have a good time?’

  While we’re standing still chatting I seize my opportunity to post the letter through Jack’s box. I stumble slightly as it’s bloody dark. I feel around for the box and I have a slight panic as I try and remember which is his and which is ours. His was on the left. Or was it the right? I don’t want Rosie finding the letter if I accidentally put it in ours by mistake. I’m pretty sure it was the left.

  ‘Daisy,’ says Rosie.

  I slip the letter in, hoping it was the right one.

  I see the torch beam coming at me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she calls.

  ‘Um, I was trying to find somewhere for a wee, but it’s a bit dark. I’ll wait until we’re at home.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ she says, lighting the way, and I walk back to her and loop my arm through hers once more, and I take the opportunity to loop my arm through Alexis’s too.

  ‘Let’s go and introduce Alexis to the nineties. Do you like to bust a move?’

  ‘Buster like the dog?’ he says confused.

  ‘Ha – like dance. Bust a move, spin a groove,’ she says animatedly.

  Poor old Alexis, he has no idea what he’s just come back to.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time since last Internet usage: 5 days, 21 hours, 0 minutes and 1 second

  I was so wrong yesterday, when I thought that wallpaper stripping couldn’t get any worse. If only my problems today were limited to getting hot and sweaty from the steamer, with only the prospect of a dribbly shower in a makeshift cubicle in a barn to make it all better later. Today, I’m still hot and sweaty, have no prospect of a shower, and I have the added bonus of the hangover from hell, and muscles that have seized up from trying to teach a Frenchman the dance moves to S Club 7. I’m practically passing out from the heat, sweating Baileys from every orifice and trying not to gag at the smell of old wallpaper being soaked off the wall. I’m pretty sure MI5 could use this as a new form of torture.

  As if all that wasn’t bad enough, the plumber Rosie hired has the audacity to whistle as he works, and he’s clunking around and banging metal pipes as if he’s auditioning for Guns N’ Roses.

  ‘Here you go,’ says Rosie, plonking a cup of tea down on the windowsill next to me.

  I blow my fringe out of my face for the billionth time, and for the billionth time I mentally add: ‘Get Alice band’ to my list of things to buy.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking that as a sign to down tools. I balance myself against the ladder and exhale loudly.

  ‘You look like shit,’ she says.

  The only good thing about the bathroom currently being ripped apart is that the only mirror in the house is gone; at least we can’t see how bad we look. Although, if Rosie’s anything to go by, I must look pretty horrendous.

  Alexis is not fairing much better either. He’s currently slumped on the floor, supposedly trying to pull off the old rotting skirting board, but I haven’t seen him move for at least five minutes so I suspect he’s having a sneaky snooze.

  ‘I’m not exactly feeling my best,’ I say, wincing as I pick up the hot tea, scalding my fingers, which seems to take my mind off the rest of my hangover.

  ‘Me neither. Do you think the boss would let us play hooky for the rest of the day?’

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve got to at least strip two walls or we’ll be behind when the window man comes tomorrow.’

  ‘Remind me again why I put you in charge of organising the work flow?’ she says, sighing and picking up the wallpaper steamer.

  ‘Because you’re an idiot.’

  I’m cursing myself for my organisation. If only I’d had the foresight to have scheduled in the hangover.

  ‘But at least it was fun last night, eh? Totally took your mind off the whole lack of phone thing, didn’t it?’

  ‘I guess it did,’ I say, realising that, for the first time, I hadn’t missed my phone in the evening, and I’ve barely noticed its absence today, although that’s mostly because my eyes hurt at the thought of peering at a screen.

  But still, it’s progress.

  Perhaps all I need to do is drink my way through my digital detox, but my stomach lurches at the thought, telling me that’s a bad idea. I try desperately to keep my stomach at bay, remembering that with the lack of a toilet, I’m going to be retching into a Portaloo or a corner of the garden, neither of which is appealing.

  I watch Rosie pick up a broom and subtly poke Alexis in his side. He doesn’t even flinch, and the only noise that comes out is a brief snore.

  ‘Seriously, we can’t go on like this,’ says Rosie. ‘How about we pop into the village for a fry-up or something? The pub must have something greasy on their menu.’

  I take a look at the half-steamed wall. I guess it makes no difference whether we’re doing it now or at ten o’clock tonight, it’s not like we’ve got any pressing social engagements.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I say, desperately excited about getting off the farm. ‘I’ll go and change.’

  I hurry into the bedroom, and quickly change behind the cardboard screen we’ve erected due to our lack of doors. I spray deodorant on liberally, followed by a spritz of Jimmy Choo perfume, which I instantly regret, as it smells sickly sweet with my hangover-heightened sense of smell, and I towel dry my clammy face. Then I throw on some clean jeans, a T-shirt and a red hoodie. It feels funny to wear tight jeans again after my last few days in tracksuit bottoms, and I do a few power lunges to loosen up the denim as my body adjusts to being restricted.

  ‘You ready?’ asks Rosie, as she strolls into the bedroom, merely changing into a slightly cleaner fleece than the one she was wearing. ‘Meh,’ she says in response to my raised eyebrow. ‘I’m too hungover to care what I look like.’

  ‘Do you think we should wake Alexis before we go?’

  ‘Nah, he seems dead to the world. We’ll bring him back a sausage roll.’

  We walk out of the house and the cold air almost knocks me out. It’s ridiculously clichéd to say, but the air here is so fresh, it almost takes my breath away each time I breathe it in. Not that I’m complaining after the stale air of London. I’m sure it will do wonders to cure my hangover. That and the biting wind.

  ‘Are you OK to drive?’

  ‘I think so. It’s eleven now, so I’ve had over twelve hours since my last drink.’

  ‘It’s eleven already? We’ve been stripping wallpaper for two hours?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  My heart sinks as I realise how little we’ve done. We should have stayed in bed, at least that way we might have slept off the hangover.

  I climb into the car with her and as we bump along I wonder if the questio
n was not ‘Is Rosie OK to drive?’, but ‘Are we OK to be in a car?’ I rub my stomach, willing its contents to stay put as we make our way down the drive.

  As we approach the end of it, we see the post van drive off.

  ‘Ooh, I wonder if we’ve got any post,’ she says, pulling up alongside it.

  I look at the mailbox and suddenly a hope surges that I’ll have a reply from Erica, before something starts to niggle at me. A memory of me stumbling along and clinging on to the mailbox in the dark pops into my head. I try to make it clearer, but it’s hazy, like a dream I’m trying to recall.

  ‘Did we go to the mailbox last night?’ I ask Rosie as I squint at it. I touch the tips of my fingers as they remember the memory of the cold metallic box.

  ‘No, we walked up to meet Alexis, remember?’

  She walks over to the mailbox and pulls out envelopes, and as she flips through them I see a folded piece of paper which she looks at quizzically, and I lunge for the door handle and fling myself out.

  ‘I’ll take that, thanks,’ I say, pulling the piece of paper out of her hand without needing to see my name written in neat capital letters on the front.

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Rosie.

  ‘It’s just from Jack, directions for a good walk I’d asked him about,’ I say as I open up the letter to read, while she’s distracted reading a wad of official-looking papers that came in an A4 brown envelope.

  DAISY

  ALWAYS GOOD TO KNOW WHEN NEIGHBOURS OR FRIENDS ARE GOING TO GET NAKED IN PUBLIC. BUSTER DOES LIKE A DIP THERE HIMSELF SO I’LL MAKE SURE I KEEP HIM AWAY FROM THERE FOR THE TIME BEING AS WE DON’T WANT TO ADD TO HIS REPUTATION OF NUMBER ONE PERVE IN THE AREA. THAT’S OBVIOUSLY RESERVED FOR RODNEY. FYI – HE LISTENS TO THE ARCHERS WITHOUT FAIL AT 2 P.M., SO A SAFE BET TO HAVE A DIP WITHOUT AN AUDIENCE.

  BUSTER AND I WILL BE PLEASED TO SEE IF YOU COME ROUND FOR SOME SUGAR, ALTHOUGH I SHOULD WARN YOU THAT I’M MORE OF A CANDEREL MAN. YOU’RE ALSO MORE THAN WELCOME TO HAVE A SHOWER HERE IF YOU LIKE; WE HAVE A DOOR ON THE BATHROOM AND EVERYTHING.

  JACK

  P.S. I WOULDN’T HAVE GOOGLED THE PRICE IS RIGHT IF YOU HADN’T KEPT ON MENTIONING IT, BUT IT LED ME DOWN A SURPRISING RABBIT HOLE ON WIKIPEDIA. BET YOU’D NEVER GUESS THE LINK BETWEEN THE PRICE IS RIGHT AND JOHN MAJOR???

  Oh my days. What did I write in my letter? You see, this is what’s wrong with actual letter writing. Where’s the archive of what I wrote when I need it? At least with a text message or an email, you’ve left digital footprints of what you said.

  I try and force my mind to remember writing it, but it’s all foggy. I remember perching at the table while Rosie was in the loo, and I remember giggling as if I was being terribly witty.

  I reread what he’s put, with the words ‘getting naked’ and ‘coming round for sugar’ jumping out. I cringe at what the original note could have contained. Perhaps I should be glad that I don’t remember.

  I shove it quickly in my pocket as Rosie stuffs the pages back into the envelope and looks at the rest of the post.

  ‘Here,’ she says passing me an envelope with a stamp and a postmark. One I can read without fear of cringing. There’s only one person who knows my address and I immediately beam as I tear open the envelope.

  I barely notice as Rosie pulls away and heads towards the village.

  Daisy!!!

  I’ve missed you so much! So you’re surviving up North, then? Sounds . . . rustic. I’m so glad that you are making a go of it. I bet if it were me, I’d have been on the first train back down to London.

  So, Chris has now officially moved in. The flat smells like boys and we have ridiculous amounts of gadgets for stuff and extra remote controls for who knows what. But the upside is there’s more . . . I’d try to draw a camel or some rabbits here, but it would be no better than your aubergine attempt – I’m sure you get the idea . . .

  The only problem is we’ve both got so much stuff that it’s mega cramped. So, guess what? We’ve taken the big step of making an appointment for an estate agent to come and value the flat and we’re going to buy somewhere together. Somewhere slightly bigger to fit in the remote controls, with enough room for guests so that they can actually stand up.

  Other than that, work is busy. I’ve been given a new account, but there’s talk of me getting promoted as early as next year!

  I saw Amelie last night for a quick drink after work. We toasted your adventure – which you won’t have seen as we Snapchatted it – but at least you’ll see it when you next log on, if Rosie ever gives you back your phone.

  Have you figured out what you’re going to do work wise? Are you going crazy not checking Twitter?

  All my love (and more!)

  Erica xxxx

  My heart sinks as I read the letter. I’ve only been away a week and already my best friend’s life is transforming before my eyes. I’m sure her London flat will be snapped up within days, if not hours, of it going on sale. She’ll be living her suburban life before I know it.

  I fold it over and close my eyes as I try to stop myself from crying. Just as my life is spiralling out of control – nowhere to live, no job to go back to – my best friend’s is going from strength to strength with her big promotion on the horizon and buying a house with a boyfriend who adores her. I’m happy for her, I really am, but I can’t help wishing I had reason to be that happy myself. That’s not being selfish, is it? It’s not like I want her to be going through the same crap as me, I just want to be going through the same good stuff as her.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asks Rosie as we pull into the car park in the village.

  I open my eyes and look around at the grey stone buildings in front of me.

  ‘Fine,’ I say nodding. ‘It’s just that Erica and Chris are selling her flat and buying somewhere together and she might get promoted in her job.’

  Rosie nods her head as if she understands what the problem is.

  ‘I can’t believe I haven’t been a part of any of it. It’s happened so quickly. I know that this whole digital detox is supposed to make me feel less anxious, but I still feel as if I’m missing out on things. After all, Erica’s just one person in the whole world and her life has completely changed. What’s going on with everyone else? Something huge could have happened in the news and we wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure if something had then we’d have heard it on the radio.’

  I sigh. Listening to the news for two minutes every hour is hardly the same as having it at your fingertips whenever you want it.

  ‘You could always buy a newspaper,’ she says cheerily as she gets out of the car.

  ‘A newspaper? I can’t remember the last time I bought one; probably when I last moved house. A newspaper,’ I say, running it over in my mind. ‘Retro.’

  ‘Come on, we’ll pick one up on the way over to the pub. Give us something to do while we wait for our breakfast.’

  We walk out of the car park and cross over the street to the post office and Liz and Gerry smile and give us a wave as we walk in.

  ‘You’re still here, then?’ says Gerry, raising her eyebrow and laughing with almost a cackle.

  ‘We certainly are,’ says Rosie.

  ‘I would be too, if I was living with a dreamy Frenchman,’ says Liz, swooning like a teenager, despite the fact that she must be well into her fifties, if not sixties.

  ‘You’ve met Alexis, then?’ I say, thinking how quickly everyone finds out people’s business in this village.

  ‘Oh yes, we met him last night in the pub. We’d gone along to watch the darts, and all of a sudden there he was. He had quite a few of the young girls racing to the loos to top up their make-up, let me tell you.’

  ‘Not just the young-uns either,’ says Liz, and the two women laugh a dirty cackle.

  I can’t help but giggle a little too; their laughter is infectious.

  ‘Such a shame about him and his girlfriend, but I’m sure he’ll be back on the horse before he knows it,’ says G
erry.

  ‘He can ride me any day,’ says Liz.

  Their cackling goes up an octave and Rosie gives me a quick wink. It seems I’m not the only one to fall a little for the charms of Alexis.

  ‘Not sure your Graham would be too pleased about that.’

  ‘Pleased? He’d be ecstatic that I wouldn’t be bothering him for a change. That’s if he even noticed.’

  The two women start debating what level of affair Liz could get away with before her husband twigged, and I walk over to the newspapers. I settle on the Guardian to see what’s happened, and for when I’m truly depressed a copy of Heat! magazine to cheer me up with the gossip I’m missing, and Good Housekeeping, as, you never know, it might have some design tips for the renovation.

  I meet Rosie back at the till where she’s picked up another pack of crumpets.

  ‘You know, it’s not just that Frenchman you’ve got to contend with, is it? You’ve also got Jack and Rodney down that neck of the woods too,’ says Liz. ‘I bet Rodney’s been very attentive to the sheep down by your fields.’

  ‘Is he the older farmer?’ asks Rosie as she concentrates on the chocolate bars. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet.’

  I don’t chip in that I have. I’m thinking of popping in on him over lunchtime, well, Jack said he’d be home then, and he did say I could pop over at any time to use the Internet . . .

  ‘I’m sure you soon will. But you’ve met mysterious Jack, then?’ Liz is arching her eyebrow again, as if it’s a fishing rod dangling the question into the water.

  I pick up a packet of mints as if I’m not interested in the conversation.

  ‘Yes, he’s seen a lot of Daisy,’ says Rosie, unable to stop herself laughing over her joke about him seeing me naked.

  ‘Oh, has he now? He sees quite a few women, I think,’ says Liz knowingly. Gerry’s nodding her head and rolling her lips into her mouth as if she doesn’t want to say a word, even though she looks like she’s itching to. ‘I saw him last month, going into that new blonde woman’s house in Glassonby.’