Page 17 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘What are you talking about? I’ve moved to the opposite end of the country.’

‘That’s called pulling a geographic.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘If you’d really moved on, we wouldn’t still be talking about him, would we?’

There was a beat as his words sunk in. He was right. And she hated herself for it.

‘I’m going to go now, George,’ she said, wanting to get off the phone. ‘Have fun at the Met. Take a picture of Courbet’s Woman with a Parrot for me.’

‘Think about it.’

‘Bye. Love you.’

‘Love you more.’

The screen of Maggie’s phone returned to her screensaver. A different George. Ginger and furry, he stared out her reminding her again of everything that was missing, everything that was lost. A sharp pain stabbed in her chest. She felt both annoyed by the phone call and anxious. It had stirred everything up again. Just thinking about Him gave her a knot in her stomach. A panic. A fear. She’d survived the tsunami of emotions that had once almost drowned her, but she was scared.

What if the tsunami came back? What if she didn’t survive this time?

She got up from the banquette. After talking to George, the caravan felt quiet and claustrophobic. She turned on the TV for a distraction. Some daytime quiz show appeared, bright and loud, its chirpy presenter chatting to the contestants. She glanced absently at the screen, watching until it went to the ad break. And now it was all those awful commercials for funerals and stairlifts and starving animals, cynically scheduled to tug at the heartstrings of the retired. As if watching daytime TV wasn’t depressing enough.

Quickly reaching for the TV remote, she turned it off. She felt restless. For so many years she’d had a purpose, a direction, a sense of control over her own life. But now she felt cast adrift. Like she had no control. And yet, if the truth be told, she was conflicted. Part of her wanted to hide away in this caravan for ever, to let life wash over her and not put up a fight. To admit defeat and just give up.

On the side she noticed the business card left behind by the journalist. She picked it up, tracing her thumb over the embossed lettering. She thought about her own business cards. All gone now. Her phone beeped, distracting her. It was a text from George.

So I’ve been thinking . . . You know what’s brilliant about losing everything?

Trust me, there’s nothing brilliant.

That’s not true. It’s actually empowering.

How so?

Because now you’ve got abso-fucking-lutely nothing left to lose.

Last Call

‘Thank you for calling 101. We are connecting you to Greater Manchester Police. If you require an alternative force, press hash.’

Early Saturday morning and Flick was standing at a condiment bar in a cafe, looking for brown sugar for her oat milk flat white while listening to the automated voice in her AirPods. Ah, there it was. Grabbing a packet, she located a stirrer. Actually, on second thoughts. She grabbed several and pressed hash.

After following several prompts and giving the name of her local station, a real person came on the line.

‘Hello, this is Police Constable Kahn. Can I take your name?’

‘Hi, yes, it’s Felicity Lomax – hang on, is that you, Tariq? It’s me, Flick, from The Local Echo.’

‘Oh, hi, Flick, you’re at work early, and a weekend too! What can I do for you?’

The official voice gave way to a friendly one as he recognized her. Having spoken lots of times about various local crimes reported in the newspaper, Flick and Tariq were on first name terms.

‘Actually, it’s the other way around. I’ve got some information about a Mr Theo C. Stratin who is wanted for questioning in connection with a romance fraud.’

‘I see. And what would that information be?’

‘I’ve got reason to believe he’s in Europe.’