Call Me, Maybe Read online

  I got into it on a grad scheme. I thought I’d get into buying (on account of my love of shopping) but ended up in merchandising instead.

  Gotcha.

  Pretty sure I sound like a giant cliché with my love of shopping line. Still, I can’t erase it now, better to just commit to it and carry on.

  Are you doing any gigs at the moment?

  No, I have some downtime right now. Which is pretty nice.

  Are you all still musicians?

  Us all, as in me and my brothers? Of sorts; Brandon is producing, Adam DJs and Travis is still a drummer. He’s actually recently married.

  Oh wow that’s very lovely. You can pass on my best wishes. If you like.

  Is that weird?

  LOL. Thanks.

  He definitely thinks so. Shit.

  Suddenly I want to ask if he’s spoken for. I didn’t see anything to indicate a girlfriend on his profile but that doesn’t mean jack. Mainly out of masochistic curiosity, because I’m terrified of the answer, but at the same time, I have to know if there’s a chance he could be for me after all, because obviously that’s where my mind’s gone since all this started. And definitely since he told me he liked my photo.

  I can barely look at the screen as he’s typing. This is where he tells me he’s happily married and has a herd of pretty children who play right outside the house every day and who catch a yellow bus to school. This is where I learn she’s sitting right next to him. She’s probably laughing at me for asking such banal questions and getting my hopes up, because she’d definitely know they were up. They probably had a stunningly beautiful beach wedding, with reportage photography later showcased on a trendy bridal website. Her dress would have almost certainly been floaty. He probably rolled up his trousers to his ankles and didn’t wear shoes. I bet the Foo Fighters played in person at the reception and then Dave Grohl did a speech. Obviously, because if you have Dave Grohl at your wedding, you definitely get him to chink a spoon against his glass and talk for a bit. In fact, he probably got ordained to marry them. I can’t bear it. It’s all too sickeningly perfect and cool. He’s still typing. What the hell kind of paragraph is he writing? I’m about to get the wedding story and I’m bracing for impact.

  LOL no, I’m not.

  Yes! The image in my head pops like a bubble. Back in the game.

  Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.

  A barefaced, shameless lie if ever there was one.

  It’s fine. I’m sure when I find her, I’ll know it. Are you? Since we’re asking ;)

  Not since I found a lipstick print on a wine glass in the kitchen of the flat that we shared in a shade of baby pink I haven’t worn since I was fifteen. But he’d been so adamant it was mine that for a while I’d begun to doubt myself. He might have been a gaslighting prick, but it turned out he didn’t have an answer about the earring I later found under the pillow in our bedroom. It’s fair to say that catching him out in the way that I had soured the relationship somewhat. I moved out the next day and slept in Rachel’s spare room and the house share in Shepherd’s Bush came along soon after. She still loathes him for being a cheating bastard to this day.

  No, I’m free as a bird :-S

  I’m not resentful. I’m totally over it. Good luck to you, Jack, pal. I hope life’s giving you everything you deserve. Crabs, for starters. With a side order of the clap.

  My friend has just signed me up to a dating website, as it happens. It’s called Date My Mate. It’s just about as hideous as it sounds.

  Sorry, but that’s hilarious. You had any luck?

  God. Am I really talking about this with him?

  No. Just dick pics. Unsolicited, I hasten to add.

  Ha! Well, good luck with your search for the D.

  Argh! No. This is suddenly terrible. He’s going to think I like the dick pics. That I actively seek out the type of man who sends grainy, hastily snapped photos of his junk as a means to getting laid. We’re both quiet for a few minutes, and just when I’m beginning to think he’ll sign off, like he did the last time we spoke, he asks me if I like living in London and I, relieved by the change in conversation, launch into a spiel about how much I adore it here. This city is the one other crush I never really got over. So much to see, so many opportunities to grab. Something new around almost every street corner. And always, always somewhere to get a decent cocktail.

  Did you like it when you came here?

  We were never around long enough to really enjoy it. It was always a day or two there, before we headed off again. But it looks fun. I’d like to see it again some day, especially now you’ve sold it to me so enthusiastically ;)

  You are in California, right?

  Yep, Orange County. Just south of LA.

  Of course he is.

  And what’s LA like? I’ve never been.

  Busy. Sprawling. Nice beaches. Some crazy-ass people though.

  I flick to a new window and search Google for LA beaches. They are quite appealing. Surfy waves and endless stretches of golden sand dotted with lifeguard huts. Palm trees and pink sunsets and piers and the fairground at Santa Monica. There are definitely worse places to live. I glance outside my window through the crack in my curtains. A couple are arguing with a cab driver out in the street. A fox knocks over a bin and scuttles away with a chicken carcass, and I rest my case.

  Sounds lovely. But if I lived in the OC, I’m not sure I’d be sitting online when there is a beach to lie on. Just saying.

  Ha, well, I can go down the beach whenever. Plus it means I get to sit and talk to you :)

  This is nothing like how he was at all those signings. It’s as if he’s given me the eye contact we all craved and I am here for it. And talk we do, until my eyes feel heavy and I’m scared to look at the time because I know it isn’t many hours until I have to get up. There’s a team meeting in the morning, and it would definitely behove me to be compos mentis for that. Begrudgingly, I decide it’s probably time to call it a night.

  Alright. Well, it’s been fun. Until next time?

  For sure. Sweet dreams.

  You too… for much much later on ;-)

  Sweet dreams! How cute! As if I could ever have anything but, after this. I keep telling myself not to read too much into it, not to overthink it, but I’m shit at taking my own advice.

  In the morning I can hardly concentrate. My mind wanders. I dream up ways to get him to notice me when I should be thinking about stock uplift in all our stores in time for the Diamond Jubilee, and have to wing it a little when my boss, Mimi, asks for sales reports. I’m pretty sure she knows I’m not with it today, but Sam rescues the situation by inviting us all to the street party he’s throwing.

  ‘A party for the Queen, by a pair of queens! It’s going to be fabulous.’ He wiggles in his seat. ‘You have to come: the dress code is red, white and blue-tiful. Bring cake and champers.’

  We all nod along and then my mind’s gone again. Maybe I’ll just put up a witty status and see if he likes it. I’m in such a predicament. On one hand, I am a grown woman and ought to know better than to get mixed up in all this again. On the other, I’m talking to Jesse Franklin on Facebook. And he liked my slutty picture.

  This cannot be healthy. I need to get a grip. At lunchtime I take myself off for a walk around the flagship store, underneath our offices, and give myself a stern internal pep talk at the make-up counters. I am acting like a crazy person and I know it, mooning around like a lovesick teenager. It’s the middle of the night in California. The chances are Jesse is sleeping. He doesn’t care about my witty status update. Oooh, that’s a nice eyeshadow. Pearly. And even if he is awake there’s absolutely no way he’s sitting around waiting for me. And I definitely need a new lipstick. Be rude not to with my staff discount. I need to see Rachel. If there is one person who will be able to sort me out, it’s her.

  I don’t like to admit it, but the truth of it is that I’m a bit worried she’ll want in on it all. After all, she was just as into Franko as I was. Who�
�s to say she won’t fancy a chat too? I mean, she did start mine for me. But then, she’s far too preoccupied with her wedding to revisit old crushes. She’s got George, and they own a flat in Crouch End. I’ve got Jon and Sara and expensive rent in W12. She’ll let me have this, I’m sure of it.

  Free tonight? Quick drink? Chat? X

  Sure. Usual haunt? x

  * * *

  She’s already there when I arrive, and I sit myself down opposite her and take a long sip of the drink she’s bought me.

  ‘Hello to you, too,’ she says, curtly, after I set the glass down.

  ‘Sorry. How’s things? Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘Hey, have you had a chance to look over those menus yet?’

  ‘Argh. ’Fraid not. Been super busy.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Okay. Do you think you can look at them soon? I really just need another opinion on whether tarte Tatin is going to work better than strawberry shortcake.’

  ‘Okay, tarte Tatin. It’s more autumnal than the strawberries. And you won’t run the risk of them being woody.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiles at me, but it’s weak. ‘What did you want to chat about?’ she asks, composing herself.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, chickening out. ‘Just wanted to have a gin with you.’

  ‘Rubbish. I’m here ready to be offloaded on. So… offload.’ She holds out her hands and wiggles her fingers. Closes her eyes and laughs. ‘Come on, I’m passing up an M&S Dine in for Two with George for this.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. She raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s been an update. I spoke to him.’

  ‘You are welcome.’

  ‘Yeah, please don’t do that again.’

  ‘I was going to type out the lyrics to that Carly Rae-whatever-her-name-is song that was number one a few weeks ago… Jetson? I almost gave him your number and told him to call you, maybe.’

  ‘Jepsen. And thank you for not doing that.’

  ‘Next time. Anyway, was I right? Is he boring?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘You’ve gone red. What happened?’

  ‘Well, it was awkward at first, but the second time it was actually pretty great.’

  ‘It was awkward at first, but then it was pretty great,’ she repeats, slowly. ‘Cassie, this is like when you lost your virginity to what’s his name at uni. Harry. Did you actually just get your tits out on cam?’ She smirks, and tears open the bag of Kettle Chips she’s bought, flattening out the bag so the crisps are in a mound between us.

  ‘I mean, they weren’t totally out,’ I say, taking a couple. Rachel coughs.

  ‘So they were out a bit? Nipple out? Or just a lot of cleavage out?’

  ‘Cleavage out.’

  ‘Only you, Cass.’

  ‘He said he liked it.’

  ‘Of course he liked it. He’s a man who fancies women. Chances are boobs will be one of his enthusiasms.’

  ‘I definitely fancy him again. I feel like I did when we were sixteen and met them.’

  She sips her drink, and thinks for a bit.

  ‘Do you reckon you feel like this because you’ve been single for a while, and now you’re getting a little bit of attention, or do you think you feel like this because of who you’re getting the attention from?’

  I shrug. ‘Probably a bit of both. I mean, it’s been ages, hasn’t it? And I haven’t really been making any effort to date. So maybe more the fact that it’s him than the fact I’m suddenly getting attention, because I could go on dates if I wanted to. Does that make sense?’

  The way she sighs makes me think she’s a bit irritated with me, probably about those menus.

  ‘That’s why I signed you up to Date My Mate. So that you might meet somebody. Okay, I’m just going to say it. Don’t read too much into this. He’s very far away, and he’s probably just… killing a bit of time, and I daresay this is very flattering for him. I’m sorry, you look a bit sad. I feel like I’ve burst your bubble. Maybe I’m being a bit cynical.’

  ‘Maybe you are,’ I say. ‘Maybe this is me meeting someone. What’s wrong with it? It could happen. Why couldn’t it happen?’

  ‘It’s just not very likely.’ She wrings her hands and crunches down on some more crisps. ‘Is it? Be realistic, you don’t really know anything about him.’

  She’s right, of course she is, saying all the things I know in my heart when I really think about it, but don’t want to admit.

  ‘Well. Okay, fine,’ I say, and shut up. I don’t want either of us to say anything we might regret.

  ‘Any joy with anyone a bit closer to home?’

  ‘Still no,’ I say, sullenly.

  She presses her lips together. ‘Are you sure it’s definitely him?’

  ‘Oh, it’s him alright. He sent me a picture which absolutely proved it. He has very nice hands.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to need to see these messages, and the picture. We’re going to scrutinise the fuck out of this, nice hands and all.’

  But her words about my lack of realism puncture me and hook themselves into my subconscious, and even though Jesse and I start talking almost every day, I resolve to try to leave past crushes where they are, and just see it for what it is. That would be the grown up and sensible attitude to take. Except I lose my resolve whenever he’s online, and those good intentions fall by the wayside, and it turns out I definitely am the sort of girl who waits around for a man. I stay up late just so I can feel the buzz of seeing that little green circle next to his name and hear that message notification sound, provoking an almost Pavlovian response in me. What does it matter? There’s always coffee, and afternoon naps at the weekend.

  I start to worry about things outside of my control. What I’d do if Facebook got shut down, or if something happened and I just never heard from him again. Would it be easier this time around because I’m twenty-nine now, and have bills to pay and a job to hold down, and therefore no choice other than to pick myself up and get on with things?

  Or would it be harder? Would it reopen the cavity that was left when the band broke up and they stopped coming to England? Because I’m back to exactly where I was when I was sixteen; talking to him in my head and wondering what he’d think of me. And it’s gone further than it ever did before, because this time I’m getting something back. I’m getting responses and I feel as if I’m being let in, if only a little bit.

  And I like how it feels; exciting and exhilarating. I stop checking Date My Mate and everything seems brighter, more positive. There’s a skip in my step and I’m sure it’s down to him. So it must be okay to feel like this because how can it possibly be wrong?

  Chapter Seven

  Jesse

  Brandon got the go ahead for whatever his project is, so I visit as planned, at the beginning of July. Laurel Heights, San Francisco, via the Disney Store. Nancy is now the delighted owner of a sparkly Merida purse, a packet of Brave-themed crayons, and a silver plastic tiara. She insists on showing me all her Disney toys, one by one, in minute detail, and instructs me to put the movie on. Nancy is the sassiest two-year-old I’ve ever met. She puts on her new tiara and parades around the room, before insisting I wear one, too.

  ‘You spoil her,’ Lainey says, leaning against the door. ‘Nice tiara.’

  ‘Of course. She’s a princess.’

  ‘I’m a princess,’ Nancy agrees, nodding at her mom.

  ‘Looks to me like you both are. Hey, it’s almost time for dinner, come wash your hands before we eat,’ Lainey says. She holds out her hand for Nancy to take, but Nancy hangs back and looks reluctant. She hasn’t finished showing me all her Disney stuff.

  ‘I wanna sit next to you,’ she says, looking at me.

  ‘Sure you can, sweetie,’ I tell her, ‘if you go with your mom and wash your hands.’

  Later in the evening, Lainey is settling Nancy, and Brandon and I are sitting up in his office. Clouds billow across the sky, visible through the skylight. His desk is messy. There are piles of pa
pers, stacks of hard drives, printed off emails, random bits of kit and equipment. A blown-up photograph from his and Lainey’s wedding, taken in a vineyard, hangs on the wall. They’re standing amongst the grapevines, in front of a gnarly old oak tree. The sun shines through the branches and they’re holding hands and kissing and for a few seconds, as I’m looking at it, I think that it must be nice to have that with someone. He’s going through this job he wants me to work on.

  ‘You’re going to laugh. It’s a tiny job and I took it on as a favor.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s for a couple of commercial jingles for radio. They want heavy on the slap. Actually, the client sent me this.’ He pulls up a commercial for Nike with Michael Jordan slam dunking a basketball in slow motion. It’s very ‘of a time’. That time being the nineteen-eighties. I can’t help but snigger. Brandon generally works with well-known recording artists.

  ‘How exactly did this end up with you? Surely not through your agent?’

  ‘No, through someone I met at a dinner. I may have been a bit liquored up. I was asked to pull together some musicians and obviously I thought of you. They have everything composed, you’d just have to show up, run through, and record. Up for it?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘It’ll be very easy money for you.’

  ‘You don’t need to convince me. When is it?’

  ‘Next Tuesday. The tenth. You can expense your flights. It’s in New York.’