Page 5 of The Typo

Hello Amy,

Cameron Armstrong here. Cheers for making the effort to track me down despite my meagre online presence and for forwarding the message from the Packwood Gallery. I’d have been very disappointed not to have seen it and to have missed out on what you were right to say is a great opportunity. Although thinking about it, I suppose you can’t miss something you didn’t know existed. Or can you? I went a bit deep there. Sorry about that. And sorry I couldn’t get back to you straightaway to send my thanks. The internet is somewhat patchy where I am right now—on a ship, trying not to throw up. I always thought I had a strong stomach, but the captain informs me that the Southern Ocean could turn Iron Man into a quivering wreck. And this is allegedly much better than the Drake Passage which we’ll be travelling across on our return leg. I was hoping they were joking when they said the expedition ship’s nickname was the ‘Vomit Comet’, but apparently not.

And another couple of hours have passed and I’ve still not finished this email and hit send. I could blame it once again on the dodgy internet, but honestly, it was because I had to go and have a lie down as the swell was sending me cross-eyed. I’m probably sharing far too much information with you—I can only apologise and blame it on the seasickness. I don’t normally ramble on this much, honest.

If you’ve got this far, well done, and thank you once again.

Cameron

PS: I remembered that you asked me to let you know if I got selected for the exhibition. I managed to adapt the application so I could send Pixie Packwood a link to my private online portfolio, as the internet is not powerful enough for me to send the images themselves. It probably wasn’t the best application I could have done, but the sea state was abysmal and I could barely type. I’m very much looking forward to reaching calmer waters. I’ll let you know if I hear good news back from the gallery. You deserve to be informed after being my guardian angel by forwarding the email.

ChapterThree

There was no need for me to reply to Cameron. He’d promised to let me know if he got the exhibition, and there was no other hint in his email that he’d welcome further correspondence. But reading his message had put a smile on my face for the first time since the boss had made his announcement, and frankly, it wasn’t like I was inundated with missives from my actual friends. Besides, his mention of the vomit-inducing Southern Ocean and the Drake Passage had set me googling to find out where in the world he was. When I realised that the boat which he was on must be sailing the treacherous waters between South America and Antarctica, I knew I had to find out more. So, I took the plunge, the distance between us making me feel liberated enough to tap out a much chattier message than I would have otherwise dared with a stranger.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 18 Jan, 20:42

Subject: Re: Thanks

Hi Cameron,

Goodness, you sound like you’re on a real adventure. I hope you’re feeling better now. Seasickness is the absolute WORST. My friends and I once went on a boat trip on the Firth of Forth. I say boat trip, but it was actually a distillery cruise. Thinking about it, that could have been why we felt so ill, rather than the actual condition of the water. And I’m sure the waves on the Firth of Forth aren’t a patch on the Southern Ocean, even at their very worst. I’ll admit that I’d never heard of the Drake Passage. When I discovered where it is, I went down the YouTube rabbit hole searching for videos, and even watching them made me feel queasy. The boats in the footage looked like toys in comparison to those angry waves. It gave me serious Titanic vibes, even though I know that’s completely the wrong ocean. I hope it’s not bad luck to mention Titanic on a boat like it is to say *looks around and lowers voice* ‘Macbeth’ in a theatre. Are you sure it’s safe out there?! Should I be informing the coastguard?! Though I guess it’s not like the RNLI can come out and rescue you in Antarctica. The RNLI is the lifeboat charity in my country—that’s the UK, Scotland specifically, the best bit, though I’m biased. Sorry if that’s woman-splaining. I realise that I have no idea whereabouts in the world you’re originally from, although thinking about it you have been to Mersea because of that gorgeous murmuration picture I saw online which helped me track you down, so you probably do know the UK and have heard of the RNLI, doh. And now it sounds like I’ve been stalking you, which I promise I haven’t. My research was limited to finding your email address so I could forward Pixie Packwood’s message. You don’t have to tell me where you’re from by the way. In fact, you don’t have to reply to this email at all. I may have had a cheeky midweek gin and tonic after a particularly busy few days, and so my personal filter has been reduced, for which I can only apologise. It’s a much less valid excuse for rambling on than seasickness, not that your email was rambly at all. It transported me from frosty Edinburgh to a completely different world, although doh again, it’s going to be way frostier where you are, so ignore that comment. Feel free to mark my stream of consciousness missive as spam and move on with your life…

But if you do fancy replying and letting me know on a scale of one to ten how cute penguins are in the wild, I’d love to know. I’m assuming you will be lucky enough to see penguins on your trip? It would seem like a poor return if you don’t after enduring a passage on the ‘Vomit Comet’. I recently discovered that Edinburgh Zoo has a live penguin camera. It’s going to make me sound like a complete voyeur to admit I spend quite so much of my spare time watching the feed, but they seem like such adorable creatures.

All the best,

Amy x

I hit send before I could change my mind, then immediately wished I could press undo and delete the kiss. Not that that was the biggest issue with the email. I once read an article about someone who’d invented a way of attaching a breathalyser to a phone so that you couldn’t drink and text. I should probably investigate getting one installed. The poor man was definitely going to block me when he opened the email and saw my slightly sozzled babbling. There he was, no doubt a seriously cool tough guy, because who else but that kind of person would be on a boat sailing in dangerous Antarctic waters, and there was me wittering on about getting sloshed on a pathetic estuary tourist trip and mentioning the Titanic of all things. I cringed. How ignorant had I made myself sound?

I chucked my phone to the other end of the sofa before I could do anything else self-destructive like contacting an ex, which, given my track record of dating guys who turned out to be egomaniacal control freaks, rather than the sensitive musician types they’d originally presented themselves as, would be a seriously bad idea. The sudden movement elicited a sleepy mewl of protest from Fraser who did not appreciate me moving his pillow, aka my arm. His sister Eliza took it even less well. She stood up and stretched, fixing me with a disapproving look before daintily jumping down and prowling across the room in search of trouble.

I tried to sit up, but Fraser flexed his legs against my arms, gently pinning me to the spot. The pair of them were definitely working together to demonstrate their position of power over me.

‘No, Eliza, stay away from that, please,’ I pleaded, to no effect. In fact, my entreaty only seemed to spur her on. She settled on her back and then started padding her paws against my violin case, her claws clicking and catching on its canvas cover as she used it as a makeshift scratching post.

‘Eli-za.’ I tried again with my sternest voice, but the impish puss completely ignored me, digging her claws in more vigorously. The case shifted, about to fall to the ground. ‘Please, don’t attack my violin. Yes, I know I’ve not played it for ages, but there is a reason for that. I’ll pick it up again one day. Just not yet.’

Why was I attempting to explain myself to a cat who at best viewed me merely as a provider of food? Ignoring Fraser’s complaints, I managed to extricate myself and marched across the room to confiscate the violin, shoving it in the cupboard under the sink so it would be safely out of the way. It was probably better not to have it on full view in my living space, silently berating me and reminding me of what could have been.

I clattered around doing the washing up, as if by trying to act normally I could assert that the instrument had no more power over me. It was ridiculous to feel guilty about mistreating an inanimate object. The days of believing my violin had a soul which sang only for me were long gone. I had moved on, and my life was better for it. A glass slipped in my soapy fingers and smashed against the worksurface, providing me with a welcome distraction. I quickly arrested the cats and put them safely out of the way in my bedroom, hoping the novelty of being in a room which had previously been closed off to them would be sufficiently entertaining while I cleared up. Then I set about carefully sweeping up the shards of glass, cursing myself for my clumsiness.

The rare sound of my phone ringing made me jump and I flinched as a glass fragment pierced my thumb. I swore out loud, dithering about how I was going to answer the call. But by the time I’d managed to remove the splinter and wrap the nick in a piece of kitchen paper so I didn’t bleed all over the place, my voicemail had picked up. It was probably only a scam call, I told myself, trying to stem the disappointment. It was too late for my parents to be ringing, and it was unlikely to be anyone else. Nevertheless, I went over to the sofa and dug my mobile out from its cushioned grave.

One missed call from Meg. Typical. I didn’t hear from her for weeks, then when she did reach out, I was too clumsy to pick up the phone. I quickly checked the voicemail, but the only message on there was one from my bank weeks ago which I’d accidentally saved.

I hit redial and hoped I hadn’t missed my opportunity. Just when I thought it was going to ring out, she picked up.

‘What took you so long? Where are you? You’ve got to come and join us,’ squealed Meg at a volume so high I nearly had to hold the phone away from my ear. From the hubbub in the background, she was definitely somewhere exciting.

‘Meg, hi. How are you? It’s been ages,’ I said, thrilled to finally be speaking to one of my elusive friends, even if she was communicating at a pitch which even dogs would be uncomfortable with.

‘I can’t tell you what a fab night we’re having. Drop everything and come here at once,’ she demanded.

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