My eyes lift to the spiral pad, a pencil hanging off a piece of string next to it. There’s a name written down. I’m almost too scared to get any closer in case it’s not hers.
My vision blurs. I blink, leaning closer.
Alice. Not a figment of my imagination. Not a prank call. Her name is there, scrawled in my dad’s handwriting with a half-chewed pencil.
‘Thanks. I…’ I clear my throat, scan the number written below. ‘I’ll…’ I swallow. ‘I’ll give her a quick call now.’
My parents stand there, looking at me, then the phone.
What I wouldn’t give for one of those fancy phones you can walk around with right now. ‘In private?’
Dad rolls his eyes but follows Mam into the kitchen. I scrape my hair back, lift the receiver and force my shaking finger into the dial. I lean back against the wall, twisting the green plastic rings around my fingers. A woman’s voice answers. ‘52080?’
‘Oh, hi. Um, is Alice home?’
‘Hold on, let me check.’
I fidget with my collar, the heel of my shoes tapping against the skirting board.
‘Hello?’ the woman says.
‘Yes. Um, hello?’
‘She’s out for the day.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Sorry. No. She’s renting the room, keeps herself to herself. Can I tell her who’s called?’
‘Yeah. It’s Mike, Michael. If you can ask her to call back? I’m out for most of the day, but… if you can tell her that I’ll be at Whitby Abbey today if she… if she fancies it?’
‘Whitby?’ the woman says like I’ve just said ‘Mars’.
‘Aye. Never mind. It was daft. Just tell her I’d love her to call back. Tell her she dropped something and…’ My mind flicks back into action. ‘And the address? I think I had it written down wrong. I’ve got 76 Pinewood Road but?—’
‘Oh, you’re a ways off. This is number sixteen.’
Sixteen. It was a one not a seven. I write it down. Twice.
‘Well, have fun in Whitby,’ she trails off.
‘Thanks, and, well, just tell her that… I’ve been thinking about her.’
‘Right.’ The woman’s tone becomes sharper, and I realise I sound like a bloody stalker.
‘Great. Well, I’ll be off then.’
‘Tara, Michael.’
‘Bye.’
I lower the receiver in the cradle carefully, a smile creeping across my face.
‘You look like the cat who’s got the cream,’ Dad says, dipping his hand inside a bag of Murray Mints. Mam clips him round the head. ‘Those are for Mike, for the journey, love.’
‘He’s not going to miss one bloody mint, now, is he?’
Mam sighs, shakes her head, folds over the packet and passes them to me. ‘Drive safe, love.’
