“Yes, correct, I’m Charlie Jones, the new farm shop manager,” he said impatiently. “And who are you?”
“No, sorry…I’mCharlie Jones, the new farm shop manager, is what I meant.”
The deep furrow between his eyebrows became—impossibly—deeper.
“No,” he insisted. “You’re not Charlie Jones. I’m Charlie Jones. AndI’mthe new farm shop manager.”
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day one sober
Hi. Hey. Here I am, holding myself accountable.
…This already feels incredibly strange. What do I do, just write down everything that happens? How do I know which things to pick? Do I write about the weather, or the walk up from the harbor, or the fact that the sadness is still clinging to me, as though it refuses to be left behind?
I feel incredibly self-conscious right now, but I suppose that’ll wear off. A deal’s a deal, so here goes.
I’m on the Isle of Ormer, starting my new life, but there’s a woman here, too, and she’s trying to nick it.
My new life, I mean. She wants it. She just stood there in the middle of my farm shop looking like she might have been literally dragged through a hedge backward, and told meshe’sthe new farm shop manager. She’s Charlie Jones, she said.
I told her she’s not. Obviously.
“No,you’renot Charlie Jones,” she snapped back. “Or, well, I suppose you could be Charlie Jones. But you’re nottheCharlie Jones. You’re not the person who got offered this job. Because that’s me.”
She was tall, with a thick, dark fringe that almost touched her eyelashes. Her dress was bright blue and tied with a ribbon, the sort of thing you’d wear to a wedding or something, but she had sturdy trainers on and scratches all over her legs. She was also beautiful, in a classic, poised, regal sort of way. Probably worth mentioning, as it somehow made the whole look even stranger—the mismatched outfit, the disheveled hair. I couldn’t really get a sense of who she was.
But anyway, whoever she was, she wasnotthe new farm shop manager.
We did a bit more “you’re not Charlie Jones,” “no,you’renot Charlie Jones,” and then Rosie Nicole showed up, which is probably a good thing, because me and Other Charlie could’ve been at it for a while, otherwise.
Rosie stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw us both. Her hair was pulled back with a flower-patterned scarf, and she was in long drapey tie-dye clothes, but in a music-festival way rather than an art-teacher way, if you know what I mean. She was younger than I’d expected—twenties. Her boots were sturdy and caked in mud.
She stared between me and Other Charlie with total bafflement.
“You must be Rosie!” Other Charlie trilled into the bemused silence, heading toward her with arms out for a hug. “I’m Charlie Jones.”
“Oh my God! Hi! Welcome!” Rosie said, hugging her right back.
Hang on, I thought.
“Sorry, no.”
I stepped forward. They both looked up at me, a little alarmed, maybe. I tried to look less ogreish than usual.
“I’mactually Charlie Jones,” I said. “And this ismyjob.”
Rosie’s mouth fell open.
“You’re Charlie Jones?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But I thought…”
“I’m Charlie Jones,” said Other Charlie. “That guy just…is as well.” She spread her hands. “I’m as confused as you are, Rosie.”
