‘Are you from around here?’ he’d asked.
‘No, we’ve come up from Birmingham for a girlie weekend.’ She’d pointed towards her six friends, then immediately wished she hadn’t when they’d blown exaggerated air kisses in his direction. He’d responded by doing exactly the same. Libby had liked that.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ she’d asked, and he’d agreed.
As the two had made their way towards the bar, it was as if the pub had emptied around them because all they had seen and heard was one another; not the dancing, drunken bodies and voices filling the room or the thumping beat of the dance music. Libby had chatted about her job in nursing while he’d explained how he’d worked in the automotive industry until the driverless car revolution made his role redundant. Their dislike of the vehicles appeared mutual, but Libby hadn’t wanted to put a dampener on the evening by explaining why she wasn’t a fan.
She’d appreciated that he’d asked her as many questions as she’d asked him and there had been a warmth to his eyes that had made her want to dive in and learn everything about him. When he laughed, the dimples in his cheeks appeared. The walls she had spent two years constructing since William had left were falling quickly. She had never experienced anything so intense as her desire to kiss him there and then. However, she’d held back.
‘Shall we go outside where it’s quieter?’ he’d asked and she’d agreed.
The beer garden had been illuminated by lines of cables and electric lanterns offering the night sky a creamy white glow, stretching the length and breadth of the outside space. Fairy lights were wrapped around the branches of three trees and a fitting playlist of laid-back Balearicbeats music came through speakers. A table emptied of drinkers as they’d arrived so they had taken it, while a waitress had placed a lit candle inside a terracotta pot between them.
For the first minute they’d just sat, looking at one another, both comfortable with the silence. ‘It’s probably the alcohol making me say this,’ Libby had begun eventually, ‘but I feel like I’ve known you for ages and not two hours.’
‘Ditto,’ he’d replied. ‘And no, I don’t think it’s the alcohol talking.’
He’d moved his hand to reach for his glass. His little finger had brushed against hers before he’d moved it away again. Libby had slid hers back so they were touching.
Another hour passed as they’d talked again until Libby couldn’t hold back any longer. She’d leaned across the wooden table, placed her hand on his arm and moved her lips towards his until they’d connected. It had been a first kiss, a kiss between lovers and the kiss of two people who knew each other inside out, all rolled into one. She hadn’t wanted it to end.
Suddenly she’d felt a tugging at her sleeve. ‘Libs, I’m so sorry but we need you,’ Nia had said urgently.
‘What?’ Libby had snapped.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she’d mouthed towards Libby’s new friend.
‘Cerys has fallen off the toilet cistern.’
‘Fallen off it? What was she doing on it?’
‘She’s had too many vodka and oranges and was dancing on it when she slipped and smashed her face on the floor. She’s out cold. We’ve called for an ambulance.’
‘Shit,’ Libby had cursed and turned to face the man whose name she still didn’t know. ‘I’m coming back,’ she’d said and smiled hopefully at him as she’d risen from the bench. ‘Please, just wait here.’
In the ladies’ bathroom, it had been clear Cerys’s injury was more than just a superficial wound. Then as she’d walked alongside the gurney carrying her friend to the ambulance, she’d turned her head to seehimone last time, only drinkers had blocked the doorway to the rear and she hadn’t been able to make him out.
Six long months had passed and Libby still hadn’t put the stranger out of her mind. Once, she even caught herself wandering between the fragrance counters of department store John Lewis, spraying colognes onto pieces of card and trying to match them with the scent she remembered him wearing.
She cursed herself for not asking him to repeat his name, because without it, her online search for him became a Herculean task. Hours were spent trawling the internet and placing his description on social media, leaving her email address as a contact if anyone recognised him. With the exception of a handful of prankster replies, she’d drawn a blank.
Twice she had made the ninety-mile journey to revisit that Manchester bar on the off-chance he might be a regular patron. But despite hours spent sitting alone in a booth and people watching, he was nowhere to be seen. The bar staff didn’t recognise him from his description and he had not ‘liked’ the pub’s Facebook page. Taxi operators couldn’t search their records without a name; a LinkedIn trawl of former car manufacturers didn’t throw up any recognisable pictures. Her last resort, a psychic, was of predictably little use.
In her heart of hearts, Libby knew that it was time to admit defeat. The man with no name would never be found. She wondered if, deep down, she was using her search as an excuse not to return to the dating scene. Perhaps it was the perfect relationship for her – if she couldn’t locate him, she could never trulyknow him and he couldn’t let her down. He could never be another William.
Without realising it, Libby had reached her destination. She hesitated, staring across the busy road and towards a two-hundred-year-old building. Birmingham’s former Town Hall stood out from its more modern surroundings. Its Roman-influenced architecture was made up of limestone and whiteish-grey bricks and featured dozens of pillars supporting its pitched roof. It was an impressive construction, but one she dreaded spending the rest of the day inside.
Chapter 8
Libby dragged her feet along the flagstones, through the glass sliding doors and into the foyer. The aroma of pastries and coffees caught her attention so she bought a pain au chocolat and a banana from a café.
She avoided the elevator and chose to delay the inevitable by climbing five flights of stone stairs. At a set of solid oak doors with hinges as wide as boat paddles, shepatted out any creases from her outfit and pressed the buzzer. A bright-blue LED panel illuminated.
‘Fingerprint scan required,’ an automated female voice began, and Libby held her right hand towards a camera lens. ‘Verified,’ it continued, and the doors opened.
Inside the room, she counted six formally dressed men and women. Some spoke into ear pods linked to mobile phones; others worked on computer screens but Libby couldn’t see what they displayed. Two male security operatives clad from head to toe in black approached her. They each had one slightly discoloured iris that Libby recognised as Smart lenses.Why does everything these days have to be Smart?she wondered. Perhaps Nia had been right and Libby would have been better suited to the dark ages, albeit without the dinosaurs. They escorted her towards a table.
‘Put your belongings in this box,’ asked one in a gruff tone and Libby obliged, placing her handbag, watch and mobile phone inside it.
