by Luke Tredget
‘Life is full of treasure,’ she says, while taking a trolley. She glides past sloping banks of pears, apples, bananas, and then snakes in and out of the aisles – dairy, red meat, poultry and fish – feeling she is turning corners in her own internal space, her own consciousness, which she decides is infinite.
Everything is relative, she thinks, and everything is up for grabs. She could do anything she likes, starting right now. She could take £100 from a cash machine and spend the evening raving at the Ministry of Sound, just over the road. She could slide a bottle of whisky into her bag and spend the night in a police cell. She could go back to Kilburn and order pizza and if the delivery boy is even remotely good-looking she could go down on him, right there in the hallway. She could go to Bean’s house in Brixton and ask if Pete’s there. She could go down to the tube and jump in front of the first incoming train. She could go back to Kilburn, grab her passport, get a taxi to Heathrow, buy a flight to Sydney on her credit card, fly there, get a bus to her brother’s district, find his house, knock on his door and, when he answers, say, ‘Surprise.’
‘Excuse me, dear, is everything okay?’
A large woman in a luminous green fleece is blocking her way. Anna realises she is in Asda – another brand as familiar as an aunt or an old school teacher. Anna smiles and says she’s great, but the woman steps towards her and puts her hand on her upper arm.
‘Maybe you would like to sit down for a bit? We could go out the back.’
Anna tells her again that everything is fine, that there’s nothing to worry about, but she does like the sound of going out the back. She abandons her trolley and follows the woman, telling her she worked at Sainsbury’s as a teenager. They push through double doors to the supermarket’s backstage, where it is suddenly as cool and dark as a church, and the pretence of cleanliness and order and cheerfulness falls away. Flattened cardboard boxes are stacked next to a monstrous baler, and a forklift truck is parked next to a leaning tower of shrink-wrapped boxes. They step into the relative normality of a low, cramped office, and Anna is given a tissue, while the woman makes a cup of tea. Anna tells her about the last twenty-four hours – how she has lost Pete, her job and now Geoff. But she does so obliquely, using an elegant analogy that she is immediately proud of. She talks of an ivy plant that was attached to the side of the house she grew up in, and how it survived all weather for years, but one day, on a whim, she decided to give it one good tug, which snapped its roots and killed it. The woman places a cup of tea in front of Anna and sits beside her, pressing her dark fingers into Anna’s forearm. She doesn’t respond to the ivy story, and is studying Anna with a worried expression that seems entirely misplaced.
‘I’m fine, really,’ says Anna. To prove it she picks up the tea and takes a sip. It is surprisingly sweet; the woman must have stirred sugar into it. This makes Anna laugh and say that her dad made her tea with sugar, but only when her mum wasn’t looking. By jerking her mouth to say this some of the liquid escapes, and warm sugary tea dribbles down her chin. This makes her laugh more.
‘I can’t even drink any more!’ she says. She lifts the mug to take another sip, and again she laughs; more tea spills and follows the same tracks as the first, creating a waterfall.
‘I have to start again from scratch,’ she says, laughing with tears in her eyes. She will even have to learn how to put liquid in her mouth, she realises. And then how to keep her full mouth closed. And then, finally, how to swallow.
Monday
While the first week of April was a cold and blustery affair, the month settles into its stride, and by the middle weeks is fully delivering on its promise of light and stillness and warmth. Blossom is evident on most trees, the pale leaves set in sharp contrast to the endless blue sky, and memories of glorious summers past seem to hang in the mild air. Every night Anna goes to bed thinking it can’t continue, but when she is woken by her alarm at 8 a.m. on Monday – the first time she’s had something to get up for in days – she opens the blind and finds yet another clear expanse of blue.
At 9.50 a.m. she clears the dining table and sits down in front of her old cranky laptop. She has carefully considered the appearance of her face and torso – she has washed her hair and applied make-up and is wearing a favourite shirt, a black silken thing with loud African print shapes on – but her lower half, beneath the table, is clad in lounge pants and slippers. The clock in the corner of her screen hits 10.00, then 10.01, then 10.02, but nothing happens. Anna’s eyes drift across the living room to the calendar hanging above the television. The date of her meeting at the Guardian – which has been postponed twice – is now eleven days away, marked with a big black X. Every time she sees it her attention is drawn to the preceding day’s square, which also bears a mark; at first glance it might be a meaningless squiggle, the kind made when testing if a biro works, but on close, forensic inspection it says ‘engineering exam’. It is one of the few visual reminders of Pete, most of which have been cleared and cleaned and packed away.
At 11.04 her laptop begins wailing. It is the distinctive sound of an incoming Skype call, more of a song than a ringtone, and the caller ident box reads Andre_Vasselhom. Anna shuffles and straightens herself on the chair, then clicks accept and the image of a blond man appears before her. More accurately, a jittery image of a blond man appears, accompanied by a scabrous crackling sound, and then cascades into a nonsense: the millions of glittering pixels fall apart, leaving a black screen and the blue/yellow/magenta/black colour card.
‘No you fucking don’t,’ says Anna, slapping her laptop with her palm. It seems fitting for her to be deprived contact with this man at the final moment of deliverance, as if getting this far has been some grand cosmic tease. But a few seconds later the ringtone sounds again, and this time a perfectly serviceable picture of the blond man glows before her.
‘Hey!’
‘Hey!’
‘Can you see me okay?’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘You look … great!’ And he does: clean and tanned and healthy, with a handsome angular head and short blond hair; something about him is reminiscent of an army figurine.
‘Thanks,’ he says, his eyes twinkling; he looks like a man who fancies his chances. ‘You look great too. I like your shirt.’
‘You should see my lower half,’ she says, not realising until it is too late how strange this sounds, and they both laugh.
The next few minutes are filled with a bland exchange of information. In an attempt to get settled, Anna asks what time it is in the Philippines (4 p.m.), where he’s from in Sweden (Malmö), and how long he’s worked for the UN (eight years, on and off). She takes a screengrab of them both, to share later on Twitter. He speaks English with the confidence of a native, and barely an accent, but as with all Skype calls she struggles to keep the conversation flowing. It is frustrating that they cannot make eye contact due to the location of the tiny camera lens, and Anna is irked by the little inset window that shows how she appears to Andre – her eyes are averted, as if she is too shy to look at him.
‘It’s amazing to finally speak to you,’ she says, moving them on to the main business. She imagines this archetypal modern-day Viking standing at the baggage carousel, and receiving the urgent news that made him abandon his bag and run through the airport. ‘In some ways I feel like I know you already.’
‘I suppose you’ve washed my underwear.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Which I’m grateful for. I can’t imagine the state of those underpants. They weren’t in great shape four years ago.’
‘Well, that was my punishment for leaving it so long.’
They begin talking through the items in the case, and he confirms that he packed for every possible weather event; apparently he always has to. He says there was also a small velvet pouch of jewellery in the case, containing a ring and matching earrings, that he didn’t see in the Instagram pictures.
‘They weren’t there, sorry. They must have been swiped by the baggage h
andlers.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, nodding with resigned sadness. There is a pause, and then he shakes his head and asks Anna why on earth she did this. She tells him that she thought the investigation would be an interesting spectacle in its own right, but that the main inspiration was to get to the story at the start of the lost suitcase: his story.
‘My story?’ he says. ‘Nothing interesting to report there, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course there is. I mean, why did you do it? Why would anyone leave their suitcase at the airport? Was it to catch another flight?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I said, why did you—’
‘I heard you. I’m just confused. You think I left my suitcase at the airport?’
‘Well … yeah.’
‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘It was lost on a connecting flight. I went from Mozambique to Stockholm via Addis Ababa – that’s where the tag must have come off, and it was put on the wrong plane.’
‘Oh,’ says Anna.
‘I think that most suitcases are lost this way.’
‘Right. I suppose that makes sense.’
There is another pause, and he says that she seems disappointed.
‘Um,’ she says. She has a vision of Andre at the baggage carousel, but this time with the suspense and drama sucked out; rather than running through the terminal to Departures, she sees him trudging to the information desk to report a missing item. ‘I thought you had to fly off to another warzone or something.’
They lapse into silence, both looking away from their screen.
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ he says.
‘It’s my fault for not thinking of it. I thought there would be an interesting story at the end. That it would have a happy ending.’
‘You’ve found me. Doesn’t that make it a happy ending?’
‘Yes, it does. But I thought it would be meaningful.’
‘We could make it meaningful,’ he says, coming closer to his screen. He is being so bluntly flirtatious that she blushes. ‘I’m actually going to be in London next week,’ he continues, ‘so I could pick up the suitcase then. In person.’
‘You don’t have to do that. I’m happy to send it to Sweden.’
‘No, I’d like to. I’m going to a conference anyway. I could take you to dinner.’
She can feel herself smiling, and is now glad that she doesn’t have to look him in the eye.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘That sounds great.’
*
For the rest of the morning, Anna is in something close to a good mood, easily the best she has felt in the past fortnight. After getting properly dressed she makes herself poached eggs and fresh coffee, and eats in the living room beside the open sash window. Every few minutes a fly swerves in, buzzes about the room, then flies out again. Anna keeps reflecting happily on the call with Andre, and she has to perform a kind of manual override and tell herself that it was not a success: as there isn’t an interesting reason for the suitcase being lost, she doesn’t have a story to pitch to the Guardian. But still her good mood bounces back. It is true what he said, that finding him was a happy ending in itself, and meeting him will make it even more so. There was also something thrilling about being asked out like that – it was at once gallant and quaint, an abrupt proposal that seems more suited to old films than the real world. She tweets the screengrabbed picture of them talking on Skype, under the heading ‘Contact made!’, and her mood is further lifted when her most loyal followers post congratulatory emojis – high fives and smiling faces and gold trophies.
After washing-up she heads out into the bright daylight, planning to walk all the way to central London. She has no destination in mind, just a vague goal of finding other story ideas to take to the Guardian, and in just over an hour she drifts along Kilburn High Road, Maida Vale, Edgware Road. She decides to give Soho a wide berth, and rounds Marble Arch and enters the park. She then heads towards Leicester Square, and doesn’t stop walking until she is struck by the black statues of berserk, careering horses where Haymarket meets Piccadilly Circus. Tourists are there as well, taking photos and videos. Despite having passed this sculpture countless times, Anna has no idea what it represents. After a few minutes a group of Chinese or Japanese tourists arrive and a guide explains that the four horses are pulling the chariot of Helios – the Greek god who each day drags the sun across the sky. Anna contemplates the horses through the lens of this knowledge and feels suddenly richer.
She heads south along Haymarket, then walks up the steps of Hungerford Bridge. She settles against the railing halfway out and takes her sunglasses and notebook out of her bag. She jots down an idea for an article about how tourists, rather than being dumb, sheeplike creatures, are actually better informed about London than real Londoners. The piece will be based around a vox-pop quiz delivered to tourists and residents, testing them on landmarks, important events, historical figures. By the time she returns her notebook to her bag the pale skin on her forearms feels tight and is slightly pink. The idea that summer is beginning is momentarily pleasant, but this broadens into a neutral recognition that the year is already a third complete, which sets off a resounding bass note of dread at how fast time is passing. In a few months it will be the height of summer, after which the nights will draw in and then the clocks will change and all will be plunged into darkness. The thought makes Anna’s heart beat faster and sweat prickle in her palms and armpits; she fears her mood might plummet back to a wretched, dangerous low. She takes conscious control of her breathing, and with shaking hands retrieves her phone from her bag, eager for distraction. She calls Zahra, who picks up on the third ring.
‘How are you feeling? What’s going on?’
Speaking slightly faster than normal, Anna tells her that she had the Skype call with the suitcase guy; Zahra releases a flurry of congratulations.
‘Well, actually it was an anticlimax. He lost the case because of a connecting flight. There’s no dramatic story.’
‘Huh. Connecting flight. I’m surprised we didn’t think of that.’
At that moment a boat slides beneath the bridge, honking its horn; Zahra asks where Anna is and she tells her.
‘You’re on a bridge?’ says Zahra. ‘Why are you on a bridge?’
‘Calm down. I’m here because it’s nice. I’ve been walking around, trying to get ideas for stories. Listen to these.’
She tells her about the Tourists v. Londoners article, and also an idea for a series called ‘Around the World in Eighty Dates’, where Anna would go with a different man to a country-themed restaurant each week – Afghan, Brazilian, Chinese, Danish … Zahra listens quietly and asks questions; it was her idea that Anna should go to the Guardian with other ideas to pitch.
‘It will be a celebration of the ethnic diversity of London,’ continues Anna. ‘As well as a retro celebration of pre-Kismet dating and good old-fashioned flirty gossip.’
‘Now all you need is eighty men.’
‘As it happens, I have a dinner lined up already.’
‘Fuck off. Who?’
‘Andre. The owner of the suitcase.’
‘Get out! He’s in London?’
‘He’s in Manila at the moment, but he’ll be in London next week.’ Anna tells Zahra that he was funny, and good-looking, and that it could be a perfect end to the story.
‘You think he’s single?’ asks Zahra, doubtfully.
‘Who knows? He travels the world with work. Maybe he doesn’t have time.’
Zahra says it sounds like a crazy, ridiculous idea, and that it is a relief to hear Anna sounding like her old self. Then she says she has to go and that she’ll see her on Wednesday.
‘You’re sure it’s okay for you to take the day off?’
‘Of course,’ says Zahra. ‘They encourage us to do pro bono work. And I’m looking forward to it. Listen, I have to go. Call me later.’
Anna’s phone falls away from her face, the glass screen moist from where it was pressed to her skin. Her h
and is dangling over the edge, with only air between her phone and the green-brown water, and it suddenly feels like a very easy thing to let it slip through her hand and watch it fall down and disappear. But this would be crazy and irrational, and she is trying to be neither of these things. Instead she holds the phone to her face and peers at her reflection, finding the glass to be a surprisingly effective mirror that gives back a clear picture of her smiling face.
Wednesday
Anna and Zahra are standing in the lobby of Kismet UK, beside the handrail that surrounds the grand centrepiece: a tenfoot man-made waterfall that plunges between two angled staircases. Anna has seen plenty of pictures of this water feature, itself a replica of an identical model in the global HQ in Seattle, but she still reads the information plaque attached to the lip of the pool. The flow of the falling water is in constant flux, increasing and diminishing in line with the activity on Kismet around the world – each couple that signs off is represented by a litre of water. On the far wall is their own version of the big board, but this time showing a single rolling figure, the cumulative number of couples that have happily switched off: 23,098,876, 23,098,877, 23,098,878. Beneath that are TV screens, showing Raymond Chan and other executives. Raymond looks delighted again, as he did when she last saw him, on a news piece announcing that the European Court of Justice had upheld the appeal from Kismet, allowing them to block the release of profile data to anyone.
