Authors: Lynne Barrett-Lee
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Mystery & Detective, #Electronic Mail Messages
Minnie continues to trouble me. No, she has no family to speak of. Her husband died about ten years back. There is a son called Edward, but he’s in Australia or somewhere, and nobody seems to be able to find out anything about him. I’ve known her a couple of years now, and she certainly doesn’t get letters or phone calls from him. The social worker thinks she lost a child very young, but they don’t know any more than that. It’s all very depressing. I took her one of my Dad’s Madeira cakes last week and she cried. I think she used to make them for her husband.
But listen to me! You don’t want to hear me droning on about all the dreary bits of my life! Let’s talk mountains - ever been up one? You sound quite knowledgeable.
Charliexx
Dear Charlie,
More knowledgeable than some, far less so than others. I too have a lot of big dreary bits in my life, regrettably, so don’t get to do half of the things I would like to. On which note, I spotted the two kisses. This is new, isn’t it? Does it signify a subtle development in our relationship? I wonder what the conventions of this sort of thing are.
griffithxxx
Dear griffith,
Three
kisses - you raver, you! Actually, I could do with a little more passion in my life; I am concerned that my virtual relationship is looking like becoming more exciting than my actual one (with Phil, to whom you’ve already been (virtually) introduced, and who - bless him - has had a rather bad press). He’s a good, kind, sweet man, but I don’t think he’s the man for me. Come to think of it, if you have to point out that someone is good kind and sweet then you’re on a hiding to nothing, are you not? Trouble is, I can’t seem to find the right moment to finish it, you know? Which is all a bit pathetic for a woman of my age.
Listen to me! What has my age got to do with anything? This isn’t the real world, so I can be what I like! There’s a thought. Perhaps I should develop an alter-cyber-ego. Call myself something like Gentian Foxglove, and regale you with lurid suggestions for sex games and so on (there must be a copy of Razzle or Rustler or Hustler or whatever around the house somewhere; there’ve been times when I couldn’t change a bed-sheet without finding myself face to face with a crotch).
Charliexxx
‘Gentian Foxglove! You sad person, you! Though I have to say, it does rather suit you. You’ve always had a Kate Bush-ish flower fairy kind of look. Mind you, I’ve heard a lot about this sort of thing. There’s a maths teacher at school who has been having cyber sex with a professor from Baltimore for two years now, apparently.’
Rose, who has spent much of the intervening week failing to get hold of me by telephone, wants to know just what it is that is so compelling about my clam digger.
‘Oh, there’s none of that,’ I tell her. ‘He’s just really nice, that’s all.’
Which is a lie. There’s plenty of ‘that’. In my head at least. I hear her tut.
‘Must be. You’re spending a heck of a lot of time emailing him. Is this a twice a week obsession or are you getting a fix daily.’
‘It’s getting that way. God, Rose, am I that sad?’
‘Hmm. Depends on what your intentions are, I guess. Should I mention the P word?’
For a second, I think she’s referring to the phone bill. Which says it all, really, as she actually means Phil.
‘Fair comment. Okay. And, yes. I guess you should. And, yes, you are right. I should do something about things. And yes, you’re right again. I should do it forthwith.’
She sighs. ‘But Charlie, are you - you know, with this email stuff - barking up a dead horse here?’
‘And you Head of English! Yeah, right again. Okay, I probably am.
Definitely
am. But I haven’t any other livestock on the go right now, have I? It’s just a bit of fun, Rose. A bit of zing in my life.’
And speaking of zing - good grief! Almost November already.
11.57 pm.
Dear griffith,
Oh dear. I’m pathetic and then some. had absolutely decided to - what’s the word here - Chuck? Give the elbow to? Dump? Whatever.
End
it with Phil yesterday. But failed miserably. Status all very much quo still. Well, what was I to do? I didn’t ask to go to the cinema, did I? And yes, I know I could have said, no, I don’t want to go and see a film, couldn’t I? But
how
could I? He was so keen to see it. Plus he’d already got tickets over the phone, which made it worse. As it would, wouldn’t it? And how can you compete with surround sound? And then, of course, the film was the
only
thing he wanted to talk about, and, God, I’ve already invited him over for Sunday lunch! And I feel so guilty about it all - what with you and everything, and - Oh, listen to me! Sorry.
Sorry
. The deal is that we don’t talk about this stuff, isn’t it? You never talk about this stuff. Ever. I know nothing about you. If we were having an
actual
relationship it would be a bit one-sided, wouldn’t it? In fact, pretend I didn’t send this. Though I will anyway, obviously.
Charliexxx
12.32
. Twelve thirty two in the morning!
Dear Charlie,
I don’t remember making any deals of that nature. And wouldn’t dream of doing so. What did you mean ‘what with you and everything’? I’m online right now, by the way.
Love griffithxxx
Oh!
Dear griffith,
I’m not sure what I meant. What do
you
think?
Charliexxx
Dear Charlie,
I don’t know. It’s not my situation, is it? But if your relationship with Phil is not giving you anything you need then he’s probably not getting much out of it either. So you should end it, shouldn’t you? For both your sakes. Move on and all that stuff.
griffithxxxx
Ah, but move on to what?
Dear griffith,
Move on as in staying in a lot, you mean?
I doubt that. I’m sure you get plenty of male attention.
Dear griffith,
How would
you
know? Anyway, I was thinking more along the lines of reflection and yoga. And I meant staying in as in sitting at the computer emailing you, by the way. Which is male attention of a sort, isn’t it?
Which would certainly be good from this end. As Gentian Foxglove? She’s grown on me.
No. As me. Such a shame you’re only ephemeral.
I’m just as real as you are, Charlie. Though virtual, certainly. But why ephemeral? I’m not going anywhere, am I?
Ephemeral precisely
because
you are virtual, griffith. Does the phrase ‘get a life’ strike a chord? Anyway, stop playing with words. The fact is you
could
have a face like a pudding, couldn’t you? In which case I think you should email a picture of your horrific self
now
to give me some incentive to get out more.
I’m sure you get out plenty. Just with the wrong guy.
I know, I know, I know. Plus you must think I’m completely pathetic. Do you?
Charlie, is what
I
think a factor here?
Yes, it is, griffith.
Yes-very-much-so, come to think of it. God, Simpson.
Sad
. I have to pause to collect the fizzy sensations that are presumably trying to pass for my thoughts at the moment. I pause some more. What is it with this guy? What is it
about
this guy?
What exactly do you get out of all this, griffith? I mean, it’s all a bit of a novelty for me, of course. Plus it’s great to have this complete stranger dispensing wisdom on my shambolic love life and so on. But what are
you
in it for? Is your life crap too? no, scrub that. My life’s not crap, just a bit lacking in whatever it is that means most normal happy people don’t spend their evenings staring at screens. Plus I’m a bit non-plussed by life right now. Plus
you
seem to.... Plus I can’t help but think......God! Listen to me!
I
like
listening to you. I like that you enjoy
being
listened to. Anyway, I could listen for Wales. It’s what I do best (cursor based or otherwise).
Okay. Listen to this, then. I had this dream. ? And in it, I lost your email address. I mean
really
lost it. I ran through my whole hard disk and it had gone. Completely. And I couldn’t seem to remember what it was. I was trying, oh, I don’t know - every surname in the l phone book - sending emails in this mad frenzy. And no-one responded. Every one came back. Then I woke up - as one does - and I thought ‘this is crazy!’. This is just some guy I swap emails with. Probably with a face like...no, scrub that. We’ve done that bit, haven’t we! Anyhow, the point is that if I’m having ridiculous dreams about guys who don’t even really exist (bodily speaking) then I really should pluck up the courage and call it a day with Phil, right?
Dear Charlie,
You said it. But, for God’s sake, get on with it, will you? Life is far too short to waste your time on anything that doesn’t make you happy. Oh, and how about this - I read it just this morning, and I thought of you (it’s a quote by Colleen McCulloch); ‘the lovely thing about being forty is that you can appreciate 25 year old men more’. So it makes sense, doesn’t it? Do it. Do it now. Then you’ll still have plenty of time to appreciate a twenty five year old man or two.
griffithxxxx
Or three. Though perhaps one will be enough.
Dear griffith,
Wow! You’re surely not twenty-five, are you? It never occurred to me! What a wonderful, uplifting thought! Actually, it all makes sense. What with Bill Gates and silicon valley and so on. (Though he
is
forty odd by now, isn’t he?) But, hey! What a lovely surprise; a toy-cyber-boy! How
exactly
would you like to be appreciated? Tell me now.
Yours, in feverish anticipation,
Charliexxxx and X
I have to wait twenty four hours for a response, but as I’m still sailing blissfully on a high fluffy cloud of silliness, anything-being-possible and ridiculous speculation, I care little. I care not a jot.
Dear Charlie,
Oh dear. Sorry, but I’m going to have to disappoint you. Not
quite
twenty five, I’m afraid. But feel free to pretend, if it makes you feel better. And what I lack in muscle tone I can certainly make up for in imagination. And in a dim light - no - forget that. When you reach a certain age you’re not so demanding about that sort of thing anyway. I’m certainly not. Give me enthusiasm and a big bed and, well..... Did I say ‘disappoint’?
griffith.XXXXX
Dear griffith,
Much relieved. There’s nothing so daunting as the sight of young flesh rippling with great expectations. Because while I’ve no doubt I could give it a run for its money, I’m less certain the concept would hang together so well, once the flesh in question clapped eyes on my almost-forty-year-old-packaging...
I pause to grope for an appropriate adjectival grouping and find myself suddenly transfixed. Hang on a minute. Hang
on
a minute. I bring up the last few emails and re-read them more carefully (at least, with less childish emphasis on the bits
between
the type). Aha. Hang. On. A. Minute. Delete email, and send instead;
Hang on a minute. How did you know I’m going to be forty?
Await answer. Make tea. Await answer. Drink tea. Await answer. Take mug back to kitchen and wash up. Await answer. I have been here before.
Do not get one
. I type;
Come on. I’m waiting. And this silence feels guilty.
And unexpectedly scary. I send the email and wait some more. Then go to bed.
Well, what else is there
to
do? I come down obscenely early in the morning but there’s
still
no post. I spend some minutes groaning and pulling on my fringe. Spend a further few thinking, then groan a bit more. Type;
Oh, God. So it
is
true, isn’t it? All this time and you’ve done it to me again! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe
me
. You
do
know me, don’t you? You know exactly who I am. Oh my God. You bastard. Grrrrrr. I am
so
cross with you. I can see I’m just going to have to move to Canterbury. God, I hate you. I’m going back to bed.
I click hard on the mouse and send the email in high dudgeon. I recall also what griffith said about action. I’ll give him action. But who him?
Who
him?
I have ample opportunity to consider his identity, as I do not receive a response until late Saturday night.
Look Charlie,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. And you don’t hate me. Really. I can see you might be a little riled, but it has been a laugh, hasn’t it? And, believe me, I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone anything you told me. I’m not that kind of guy. Look, can’t we just forget all about this?
griffith.
Sunday. Late a.m.
Stomping irresolute and irritable around the house while the implications of my admission of my (albeit wistful rather than actionable) sexual inclinations flood nerve-janglingly into the quagmire of my consciousness. I telephone Rose to run this depressing development by her.