Page 129 of The One That I Want

Three rings, and nothing.

Bollocks. His shop manager usually opens The Daily Grind, but maybe he went in early.

‘Yes? Oh, hi,’ he says, his voice falling off the cliff of disappointment. He must have answered before he realised it was me.

‘Hi,’ I say.

Remy barks twice in the background. ‘Shush, Remy,’ he says.

It’s strange not being able to see him but knowing he can see me. I take a bracing breath.

Be brave, Greta, I will myself.

‘I know you asked for some time, but… I wrote you something,’ I say, holding up an envelope. ‘I just wanted to drop it off.’

He doesn’t respond so I keep talking. ‘I understand if it’s too late but I…’ My breath hitches and tears flood my eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea showing up sleep-deprived and desperate.

‘Sorry,’ I continue, talking to the silence. There’s a loud beep and then absolute silence, and it takes me a moment to realise we’ve been cut off.

‘Fuck!’ I stab in the number of Ewan’s flat a second time. It rings and rings and then the three loud beeps sound again. ‘Fuckety fuck fuck!’ I shoutrightas a well-dressed, elderly woman exits the building, giving me a look that would turn me to stone if this were a Greek myth.

‘Sorry, madam,’ I say feebly. ‘Ahhh, fuck,’ I whisper to myself.

‘Greta?’

It’s him.

He’s half in, half out of the building’s front door wearing an oversized Take That T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

‘Hi,’ I say, dragging my eyes from the T-shirt to his face. ‘Robbie or Gary?’ I ask.

‘Sorry?’

I drop my gaze to the T-shirt, then he realises. ‘Oh, uh, neither. My mum was a Mark Owen fan, so…’

‘Ewan, I’m so,sosorry.’

‘I understand.’

‘You do?’

‘Well, no, actually. It’s just what you say, isn’t it?’

We look at each other, the silence taking form, and my eyes rove the features of his face, memorising it in case I never see him again. Oh god – he owns the coffee shop half a block fromNouveau. What if I run into him by accident, just going about my day?

Be brave, Greta,my mind whispers again.

‘I brought you this,’ I say, holding out the envelope. ‘I wrote it. For you.’

He takes it and a microscopic part of me rejoices.

He looks at it, turning it over in his hands. ‘Thanks,’ he says quietly.

‘You don’t have to read it now…’

‘I wasn’t…’

Our voices fall away.

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