Ultimately, though, I had too many unanswered questions. Ineededan explanation. So I jumped on my bike and rode past his house, telling myself it was pure coincidence that I was wearing the same long, floral skirt and hoop earrings I’d worn that first day he’d seen me. He lived in a small terrace in a pleasant street with a smart red door and a little front garden.
‘They went to Ireland for the summer.’ I turned to see an elderly neighbour and had a vague recollection that Sam’s mum was originally from there. His dad had never been on the scene.
‘Do you know when they’re back?’
‘Not a clue. But they forgot to pay their window cleaner.’
I went off to university, determined to forget him. Still, I thought about him constantly. I returned to Roebury at Christmas – hating the fact that he was still in my head – and decided to fire one last shot. I got as far as turning up at his house and ringing the bell. When there was no answer, I went to the window and looked inside. The place was stripped bare, with nothing on the walls except the faded outline of a few pictures. It was then that I knew for certain. Sam Delaney had ghosted me, before anyone had even heard of the word.
Chapter 12
I arrive at work on Thursday still half asleep and barely sentient, after Frankie sent me a late text, casually enquiring if her travel insurance covers bungee jumping. When I phoned to sayNo it does not, it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t bother leaving a message, already resigned to images of my daughter plunging into an 80ft canyon peppering my thoughts all night.
Obviously, the worst thing I could possibly have done when I couldn’t sleep at 3am was to click on my phone, but I couldn’t help myself. I was immediately sucked into a new type of video that I don’t recall ever asking Instagram to send my way. After that first Rusty Racquets session, I literally peeped at a reel about forehand techniques. Since then, the tennis-related content has been non-stop. Instead of scrolling through my usual fare – reels of neglected dogs finding happy new homes and over-forties fashion advice extolling the virtues of layering – I’m now presented with something entirely different.
‘The top ten tennis mishaps of all time’
‘How to hit the perfect kick serve’
‘Gain explosive power with this one easy trick’
By 4.30am I was nearly shouting at my phone, ‘NO, I do NOT want a killer backhand thank you very much!’,before actively seeking out a few videos of deaf babies hearing their mothers’ voices for the first time just to put the algorithm straight again.
I am still in two minds about what to do about next Sunday’s Rusty Racquets and have told Nora I’ll decide closer to the time. I can’t deny I enjoyed it more than I dreamt I would. But the last thing I want is anyone thinking I’m a prospective future member of this women’s team they’re attempting to revive. More importantly, I feel weird about bumping into Sam Delaney again. Which I know is silly given how much time has passed, yet somehow that almost makes it more awkward, not less.
Our head office takes up three floors above the Manchester branch of Fable & Punk, the ‘lifestyle’ brand that I work for. That isn’t as wanky as it sounds, by the way, though I speak as someone who’d shop here even without the staff discount. We mix up fashion and homeware with gifts, beauty products and jewellery, with each small but perfectly formed unit aiming to create a browsable, welcoming and generallylovelyexperience for anyone who steps inside. Our primary audience is the thirty-to-forty-five-year-old woman and we’re not afraid to be bold, eclectic, at times even eccentric.
I am a buyer. And like most of our senior staff, since the pandemic I’ve spent three days a week in the office and two working from home. Although that was a lifesaver when Frankie was around, it was always a double-edged sword, as I proved once when I was caught practising ‘face yoga’, oblivious to the fact that the video meeting I was waiting for had already started.
‘Perfect timing!’ Kayla, the branch manager, waves to me from the other side of the store before I have a chance to head up to the office. ‘Any chance you could give me a hand?’
‘What are you trying to do?’ I ask, crossing the shop floor.
‘Attach these pendant necklaces to the stand. They’re so fiddly!’
The fact that she has a new manicure to rival Edward Scissorhands has apparently not occurred to her as the problem. I put down my bag to help.
‘How’s the week been so far?’ I ask.
‘Pretty steady,’ she says happily. ‘Everyonelovesthose retro cocktail glasses, by the way. A woman came in earlier to buy some for her best friend’s birthday. She’d been racking her brains and said they were perfect.’
My heart still skips a little beat when I hear this kind of thing. I’ve worked here for nearly a decade and still love this part of my job – even if the company has faced some challenges lately, to put it mildly.
‘Hey, did you see that link I sent you on WhatsApp this morning?’ Kayla asks. ‘Jenny in the Birmingham branch forwarded it.’
I did see it – and tried to pretend I hadn’t. The piece in question was from a business website, with the headline ‘Fable & Punk in takeover rumours.’
‘Seemed to be speculative,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t worry about it. There was a similar one last autumn that came to nothing.’
From me, this is rich. But I haven’t got the headspace to panic about one more thing on top of my daughter’s adventures right now. Besides, the conjecture has been going on so long, we’ve almost learned to live with it.
The frustrating thing about this company is that, while it is beloved by its customers, steadily rising costs and high turnover have meant that it continues to underperform.
I’m no Bill Gates, but I know enough about business to recognise that our lovely CEO Angus is unlikely to ever get Fable & Punk listed on the stock market. The firm has tootled along, while other companies have opened stores at breakneck speed. I believe firmly in the identity of our brand, but this has been demoralising to say the least – and frankly, if another advert for our biggest competitor’s aroma diffusers pops up on Instagram, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
I clip on the final necklace and stand back to take a look.
‘Oh, how was your date?’ I ask, remembering Kayla was due on one at the weekend.
