Page 3 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

It was ironic really that words were the weapon the bullies used to make Jo’s life a misery, yet at the same time, words were her consolation, her solace. As soon as she began to learn to read, Jo had been fascinated by how letters could be put together to form words, and how in turn, those words could be assembled into sentences, and those sentences into stories. Jo quickly learned she could escape from her misery into the pages of a book.

One Christmas, she’d ripped open shiny wrapping paper to reveal a Junior Scrabble set and her love of words for their own sake began. Jo loved Scrabble from the very first moment. Before long, her parents bought their serious little daughter the adult game too, and Jo began to collect words in her mind. Words that needed Qs and Zs and Xs and Js, so would gain her the most points. Those high-scoring words jostled for space in her brain alongside the negative ones: ugly, fat, pathetic, scabby, horrible.

Another good thing happened that same year; Gemma joined their class. It was midway through Year 3 and Jo finally had her first proper friend. Life became easier then. The taunts of ‘Nobody likes you’ subsided a little. The two girls were inseparable for the rest of their school days and into adulthood. Well, apart from when Jo was married; Si hadn’t liked Gemma much. Jo never understood why. In fact, he had pretty much banned Jo from seeing her. After the divorce, the friendship had resumed – thankfully, Gemma had been understanding – and the two of them had shared a flat in Manchester. But then Gemma had left for Watford. Bloody miles away. Jo wondered if she’d ever stop missing her.

She tapped out a text to Gemma now.

He’s cancelled on me.

The reply came back quickly.

Not again? What was his excuse this time?

No reason given. Vague as usual.

Think you should face it – he’s not that interested. Get back on the app. Find someone new! There are loads of single men out there.

It was all very well for Gemma to say, ‘Get back on the app’. She’d never tried it. She’d met Jack in their first year at secondary school and they’d been together since they’d snogged at the school disco aged thirteen. Gemma had never even been on a date, let alone a dating app.

She tapped out a reply.

Loads of single men but I always choose the wrong ones.

A minute later, her phone pinged again.

Saw an article online the other day that might help. I’ll send you the link.

Jo sighed. Not another article! She put her phone down and opened the spreadsheet showing the programme budget for Pop! Productions’ latest offering to Channel Five: a show that combined dating and cookery. She double-checked but everything was accounted for, from the crews’ overnights in hotels near the location to the cost of the presenter’s fake eyelashes.

Her phone pinged again and she saved the spreadsheet and shut down her computer.

She clicked on the link that Gemma had sent:

Could Numerology Help You Find The One?

The article suggested applying the ancient art of numerology to the more modern world of internet dating, working out your compatibility with someone using numbers derived from the letters of both your names. It sounded like a load of hocus-pocus, but apparently Pythagoras himself had believed in this stuff. And if Pythagoras thought there was something in it, who was Jo to argue? After all, the man had a theorem and how many people could claim that?

You had to use the name you went by rather than your full name, and according to the chart, Jo’s relationship number was seven. Lucky seven? Well, she hadn’t been so far.

Jo scrolled down. Her ideal man would, she read, have a relationship number of three, five, seven or nine. She looked at the chart again and calculated that Dan’s number was one. Maybe there was something in this.

She logged onto Buzzz, the dating app onto which she’d pinned her hopes. She’d left her profile up there, intending to remove it once Dan said the magic word: relationship. Or asked her to be exclusive. Only he was never going to say it, was he?

No new messages.

Still loath to make the forty-minute train ride back to her empty house, she decided to rearrange the contents of the stationery cupboard. What a lovely surprise that’d be for her colleagues on Monday morning; they’d actually be able to find an envelope, paper clip or drawing pin should they ever need one.

Monday morning: sixty-three hours and nine minutes to go.

The cleaner arrived.

‘Hi, how are you?’ Jo said, hopeful of a conversation, but he didn’t hear her through his headphones. He hoovered under the desks, strutting to an inaudible beat.

Twenty-five to eight. She couldn’t put it off any longer. Time to go home.

Her phone pinged as she pulled on her coat. Gemma again probably, thought Jo pulling it from her bag. But it wasn’t Gemma; it was a new message on Buzzz.

You look lovely. Fancy meeting for a drink tonight?