Page 5 of It's All Sun and Games

I cock my head at him.

‘I’m not sure that’s who you mean,’ I tell him. ‘He’s a psychic.’

‘Who do I mean then?’ Tom asks.

Dad scoffs so loudly it makes me jump.

‘None of you mean anyone because it’s all nonsense,’ Dad insists. ‘There’s no such thing as bloody psychics.’

‘You say that, but I knew that you were going to say that,’ Mum tells him. Then she turns to me. ‘Whether it’s fate or just coincidence, you should contact her.’

‘What are the chances she still lives where she lived when she was, what, thirteen, fourteen?’ Tom says in disbelief.

‘We swapped email addresses,’ I tell him. ‘I’m young enough for us to have made it to that stage, at least.’

I think I say that little reminder, that I’m not that old, mostly for my own benefit.

‘You seemed to lose touch all at once – why is that?’ Mum asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, which is a lie – I do know. I was a teenage girl, I had discovered boys, and suddenly sitting in my room writing letters to a girl who lived over a thousand miles away didn’t seem like a priority. Obviously now, as an adult, I’m kicking myself. Well, making friends as an adult isn’t as easy as when you’re younger, especially not ones who you feel like you have an actual connection with. Thinking about it, and who my friends are now, they’re either from school, uni, or work.

‘Will she still have her old email address?’ Mum asks curiously.

‘Well, I still have access to mine,’ I reply. ‘I think a lot of people do. When Amelia got married a couple of years ago, her RSVP email address was “millymoo69”.’

Tom sniggers.

‘Send her a message,’ Mum encourages me.

‘Yeah, then me having to carry all of this down from the loft wasn’t for nothing,’ Dad says.

‘Erm, I carried all this down,’ Tom corrects him.

‘Same difference,’ Dad says with a shrug.

‘Either way, I don’t think this stuff is much use to me, sorry,’ I say – I don’t know why I thought my old school projects would hold anything insightful. ‘It was worth a shot.’

‘It’s been fun, reminiscing about old times,’ Mum reassures me with a smile.

‘Just not Jonas,’ Tom says under his breath.

I look over my letters from Andrea. Honestly, this feels like it’s from another life, like it was something I saw in a movie. Confusingly, though, I can remember sitting at my desk like it was yesterday, handwriting my letters to her, rambling on about everything and nothing.

I skim her letters, and she talks about her parents, their restaurant, her siblings, her dog. Then I find one talking about her dreams for the future – of becoming a chef like her dad, of having her own restaurant and starting a family. I smile until I realise something – what did I say to her? What were my hopes and dreams? I’m assuming I had them, obviously, but I doubt it was to grow up to work in advertising. And whatever I said, no matter what it was, I can guarantee it didn’t say I wanted to be single, busying my days with overworking and silly rivalries. I think if teenage me could see me now she would think I was old and sad and boring (which might be harsh, but teenage girls can be harsh) and I kind of hate that.

I wonder if Andrea has done a better job than I have, if she has been able to make her dreams come true – even if it’s just landing her dream job, or starting a family. I know she might not still have access to her old email address, but I’m curious enough to give it a go, to drop her a message and see how she is.

I don’t write much – just a ‘hello, remember me, how are you?’ kind of thing – but, after finding one of Andrea’s old emails in the darkest depths of my inbox, I send it.

Right, now that trip down memory lane is over, I need to think of something useful to bring to the pre-meeting drinks tomorrow, seeing as though I’ve talked a big game.

‘Why don’t we watch an Italian movie to go with our pizza?’ Dad suggests.

I look to him, surprised, because that could actually be helpful.

‘I’m thinking The Godfather,’ he adds.

Okay then, maybe not.

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