by James Bailey
“Are you still hoping to find her?”
“I’d love to.”
“OK, then. How are we going to do it?”
“We?”
“Well, I’m as invested in this as you are. I had to walk around London for hours after running a marathon, so yes, we’re going to find her.”
“I don’t know, I’ve watched the entire TV coverage of the marathon back to see if I can spot her in the crowd somewhere, but no luck. I didn’t see you either, but I did see someone else wearing the same costume as you, though.”
“I know, I meant to tell you. He had his photo printed in the Daily Mail. Why didn’t they take a photo of me instead?”
“Ridiculous. I think he just copied you.”
“What outfit are you going to do it in next year?” Jessie asks.
“There’s no chance I’m doing it next year, OK?” I say as I tuck into a slice of carrot cake, picked by the coin over an equally tempting Bakewell tart. Close to Jade’s flat, the cakes here were always a dangerous temptation on our doorstep. I realize, as I take a bite, that I haven’t thought about Jade at all since the marathon.
“So let’s go through what we know about her,” Jessie says as she pulls a notepad and pen out of her handbag. She flicks through to a blank page and writes SUNFLOWER GIRL at the top before underlining it.
“Well, not that much, really. Just what I told you after the marathon. I’m guessing she is in her twenties, she’s got dark hair . . .” I worry that her image is already being distorted in my mind. I don’t want to lose it forever.
She notes down my comments in bullet-point form, and I half-expect her to draw a sketch from my description.
“That doesn’t really narrow it down much.”
“No, I know.”
“And we think she lives in either Munich, Amsterdam, Tokyo, or Philadelphia?”
“Yep, that’s right.”
“So what’s the combined population of those cities? Many millions, I’m guessing?”
“Thirteen million, roughly. I looked it up.”
Jessie notes down everything as if she’s putting this all into an algebraic equation.
“So even if what she told you was correct and she lives in one of those places, then you have a one in thirteen million chance of finding her?”
“But we know she works in a bookshop, so that narrows it down.”
“I wonder how many English bookstores there are, though? You could look them up and email to ask if they have anyone matching that description working there?”
“No, that just sounds creepy, and I doubt any of them would reply. They’d probably just think it was a scam.”
“OK, how about you go and visit the cities and see if you can find her working in one of them?”
“Like Van Gogh?”
“What do you mean, like Van Gogh?”
“Oh, it was just something she said about Van Gogh chasing after a woman he was in love with. His cousin, I think she said.”
“Bit weird.”
“I know.”
“There’s your inspiration, then.” Jessie sips her tea. “Not to chase your cousin, but to go and find her.”
“Yes, but you’re forgetting that I had to go further into my overdraft to pay for a slice of cake here, let alone travel around the world.”
I’m distracted by the smell of the sourdough pizza wafting past me, as a couple on the other side of the café are served their food.
“Do we have any other way of tracking her down?”
“It’s pretty hard without a name. I reckon if we had either a first or last name we might have been able to find her on Facebook, but what do we google—dark-haired girl from Philadelphia?” I don’t tell Jessie I’ve already tried that and trawled through many pages of search results just in case. I’ve also googled every English bookstore and their employees but have had no luck. And I’ve created a new Tinder account to search through thousands of single women in Munich, Amsterdam, Tokyo, and Philadelphia. I’m out of ideas.
Jessie pauses and reads her notes.
“What about if we started some kind of online campaign to track her down? That might work.”
“No, definitely not. That’s even more creepy than emailing.”
“Is it? It might be kind of romantic?”
“I don’t know. I am just so annoyed that I didn’t get any details. I can’t believe how stupid I was. I meet the girl of my dreams and I don’t even get her name.”
“I think you have to be careful not to over-romanticize everything. I’m sure she’s nice, but you spoke to her for—what?—thirty minutes max? I’m sure Jack the Ripper might have been nice for the first half an hour.”
The quiz round on serial killers from a few weeks back has clearly stuck in Jessie’s head.
“Even if you do find her, I don’t want you to go in with massive expectations. Let’s think of it in a different way . . .”
“You’re going to give me one of your analogies now, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Imagine you’re in a furniture shop . . .”
“Are you just making this up as you go along?”
“Concentrate. You’re in a furniture shop and you want a new table. Right?”
“Right, I’m looking for a new table. I’ve not even got a flat, let alone any money, but I want a table for some reason.”
“Stop being annoying, I’m trying to help you.”
“OK, sorry, carry on.”
“As you walk around the shop there are quite a few different styles, some you like the look of, others that won’t suit your flat. And then you spot one that you think is perfect. It looks great.”
“OK, sounds good. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is you didn’t come to the shop prepared. You don’t know the measurements of the table you really need. So this one looks great but you’re not sure if it will fit when you get it home, or even look good. You’ve also not really properly checked it out. The legs might not be stable, there may be some nails sticking out underneath . . .”
I nod along.
“And while you’re so fixated on this table, you’re not looking around at the rest of the store to see if there may be one that actually suits your flat better.”
“So what are you saying? That I should get a receipt?”
“I’m saying that while this girl—sorry, table—may look great on first impressions, it may not be as good as you think and you may miss out on something better.”
“But what if this is the perfect table, and it is as good as it looks, and if I walk around the shop looking at others, someone else might quickly buy the perfect table?”
“Fair enough. I guess we’re just going to have to think of another way to find this table, then.”
The man sitting next to us is no longer engrossed in his laptop but is looking at us like we’re completely mental.
“To be honest, Jessie, I think you’re just objectifying women,” I joke, and pick up one of the cards. “Shall we start practicing our general knowledge?”
Summer
16
Following the end of their relationship, they were so devastated, so heartbroken, that in a state of despair they rushed up here to the bridge and decided to commit suicide. They jumped off the bridge . . .”
I’ve not reached that level. Not yet.
I’ve finally got a new job working as a walking-tour guide in Bristol and I’m telling the remarkable story of Sarah Ann Henley to my group of tourists as we stand beside the Clifton Suspension Bridge. The one good thing to come from the school reunion was Greg mentioning that he was looking for new tour guides to work for his company over the summer. The coin jumped at the chance to get out of the house, and finally my experience working in hospitality and even my history degree have come in handy.
“However, this was when women used to wear those large crinoline skirts, and it was a very windy day. Somehow, the wind managed to catch her skirt, and it acted like a parachute, break
ing her fall. She landed in the mud at the bottom of the gorge some 245 feet below without suffering any major injuries. . . .” After just a few tours, I have learned that tourists are far more interested in morbid details about suicides than hearing about Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s engineering ability.
If I’m being honest, this isn’t the job I dreamed of doing as a five-year-old. I didn’t expect to spend nineteen years in education to end up wearing a luminous green T-shirt, leading a brigade of tourists around Bristol, only to be paid “what they think it’s worth” at the end. But right now I need any job to get me out of my overdraft and pay for Jeremy’s food. Dad also wants to start charging me rent as Mr. and Mrs. Dawson four doors down have a lodger who pays for board and breakfast. I thought the one advantage of living at home was the ability to save money.
Apparently not.
We walk down from the Observatory, past the beautiful houses of Sion Hill and stop by the now defunct Clifton Rocks Railway. I rack my brain to remember everything I’m meant to tell them, adding in the usual jokes. Today’s group is made up of three teenage French au pairs, a middle-aged German couple, an Australian backpacker, a group of friends from Spain, and the most annoying American woman ever.
“Bath is obviously famous for having a spa, but Bristol tried to compete, and the water here was said to have healing qualities too. . . .”
“Does Jane Austen still live in Bath?” It’s the fifteenth question this American woman has asked me in the last twenty minutes.
“Unfortunately, she’s been priced out of the city center now, and has had to move away,” I’m tempted to answer. Instead I politely explain that Jane Austen has been dead for over two hundred years.
“As I was saying, Bristol and Bath started a rivalry, and the water here tastes much better. If you visit the Roman Baths in Bath, don’t drink the water there, as it’s disgusting.” The Australian guy and the French girls chuckle. The Germans look stony-faced, and the American woman is already trying to think of another question to ask.
Greg told me that this job was a great way to meet attractive, young, single women. He failed to mention the annoying, demanding, inquisitive tourists.
As we reach the Cabot Tower, taking a significant detour so we don’t walk past my old barber’s, it starts to rain. I wonder why anyone would want to walk around the city in this weather. At least they’re getting a proper British experience. They all have umbrellas, so it’s only me who is getting drenched and at risk of catching pneumonia.
“Giovanni Caboto, or John Cabot as we call him, set sail to find Asia. However, he ended up going the wrong way and found North America instead,” I shout over the sound of the rain clattering against the concrete. “He called it Newfoundland. Giovanni wasn’t the most imaginative guy.”
The rain starts to pelt down, harder and harder. It feels like I’m on a kids’ game show where I’m being pelted with buckets of water while trying to answer questions. As I’m halfway through the story, I notice Jake walking hand in hand with the other Jake past the back of the group.
What are they doing here?
He stops to make silly faces, trying to put me off. Clearly, he has not grown up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s deliberately tracked me down to remind me to revise for the TV quiz, which he’s getting overexcited about. Fortunately, he hates getting his hair wet so he doesn’t hang around long enough to heckle me. I don’t need any more irritating customers today.
As we approach the end of the two-hour tour, I point out one of Banksy’s stencil artworks at the bottom of Park Street. As I turn to my group, having to shout to be heard over the noise of cars, a rival tour group emerges on the other side of the street. The guide is dressed as a pirate. Perhaps I should be thankful I’ve not sunk to that level.
Yet.
“As I said at the start, there is no set fee for the tour, but it would be really great if you could give however much you think the tour was worth. Thank you very much, and enjoy the rest of your time here in Bristol.”
As the small group claps mutedly, and I step back, my clothes soaked through, I wait for the first person to dig into their pockets. I’ve quickly learned the significance of group mentality. However much the first person gives, everyone else copies.
The American woman, coming from a country where tipping is standard practice, approaches me first.
She hands me 20p.
17
After spending the last twenty-two days giving walking tours around Bristol, I am looking forward to a day off relaxing in front of the TV. Unfortunately, Mum has other ideas.
“Hurry up, I said we’d meet Nan and Pap at eleven at the garden center.” She unfurls my bedroom curtains, blinding me with the bright summer daylight.
I struggle to see why old people like garden centers so much. What is the attraction?
“Do I have to come?”
“Yes, you haven’t seen them for ages. I said we’d see Julie afterward to drop off her birthday present.”
Julie O’Nion is one of Mum’s friends, whom she met at her post-natal group after having me. We used to spend lots of time together with her and her daughter, Elizabeth, when I was a child. Mum always says that their actual surname is Onion, and they added the apostrophe to sound posher. However, they really are the kind of people who talk about polo being a sport rather than a mint.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, come on.”
“I’ve got to ask the coin first.”
“Go on, then.” She sighs.
“Heads, I get to binge-watch Netflix all day, tails I come with you.”
THE GARDEN CENTER has been transformed since we used to visit when I was a child. Far from selling just plants, it is now described as a “shopping village,” complete with home, fashion, and pet departments. At least it means I can buy some food for Jeremy. Pap’s back is bad so after walking around for twenty minutes, we decide to sit in the café while Mum and Nan browse the plants.
“So how are you feeling about the quiz?” Pap asks. “Not long to go now.”
I finish chewing a mouthful of the Danish pastry he has bought me before I speak.
“I know, that’s what’s worrying. I don’t think we’re going to do that well.”
“I’m sure you will. You’re a very clever lad, and we’ll be there to cheer you on.”
“Thank you, but please don’t get your hopes up. We should have probably listened to Jake and revised more.” I take another bite of the pastry. “This Danish is lovely, by the way. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
Maybe the café is the real reason old people like garden centers.
“No. I’d better not, thanks, I’ll just stick to the tea. How’s everything else?”
“The job is OK, although I’m bored of saying the same things over and over again. I’ve met some interesting people, at least.”
“Anyone special?” He raises his eyebrows.
“No one like that, unfortunately.”
“What about this girl you met in London?” Pap winks.
“How do you know about that?” My voice gets higher as I ask.
“Your mum might have said something.”
“Of course she did. No, I don’t know. I didn’t get her contact details and don’t even know where she lives, so I think there’s more chance of us winning the quiz than me finding her, and that’s not saying much. Even then, I don’t have the money to go and find her.”
Pap takes a big sip of his tea, looking like he’s trying to remember something.
“Can you remember when we used to take you to the Bristol Museum when you were young and you’d search for the paintings?”
“Yes, of course I do. I remember it really well. I was telling the girl about that. We actually did the same.”
“So think of this search for her in the same way. It is just a bigger treasure hunt.”
“Just a little bit bigger.”
“OK, but do you remember what we used to say to you?”
“Yes, you would always tell me, ‘Don’t give up.’ Although I remember that time we were looking around for hours until we realized the painting was on loan somewhere else.”
“Yes, we were there for ages that day, weren’t we?” Pap chuckles. “But the point is, you really can’t give up. When I was courting your nan, it took me six attempts before she let me take her dancing. If you think this girl is special, don’t give up.”
I listen intently as I finish my pastry.
“How did you eventually win her over?” I ask.
“She used to come to the village hall for dance classes, and I played the organ there. Each week while I was playing, I’d watch her dance. At the end of every class I’d ask her if she would dance with me sometime. Finally, she said yes, and I guess we’ve been dancing together ever since.” He looks up as Nan and Mum head back toward us with a plant.
“How are you both getting on?” Mum asks when she reaches our table.
“Good, thanks. We were just talking about the football.” Pap smiles to me.
“We’d better head off now, as I’ve got to go to Julie’s. Are you leaving too?”
“You go on, I need to pop to the loo again. You know what it’s like when you get to my age.” Pap makes a face at me.
We hug them both goodbye, and I pick up the plant to help Mum take it to the car.
“We’ll see you at the quiz. If I don’t get to talk to you beforehand, best of luck.” Pap shakes my hand and slips a twenty-pound note into my palm. “That’s to go toward the search fund,” he whispers.
WE PARK IN Clifton outside the front of the O’Nions’ beautiful four-story Georgian house, complete with a wrought-iron balcony, Mum’s Ford Fiesta looking the anomaly in a street full of Jaguars and Bentleys.
“When did you last see Julie?” asks Mum.
“It must be at least ten years, I reckon, but I don’t think I’ve been here to their house since I was a kid.”
Before we get out of the car, Mum pauses and turns to me. “Did I mention that Elizabeth is here too?”
Now I know why I’ve been dragged along.
“No, you didn’t, Mum, you definitely didn’t.”
