So, shoot me some recommendations.
Much love,
Emmy.
15th March 2012
My lovely Emmy,
I love the idea of the bucket list. If you get it through to me early enough, I’ll work out a rough itinerary. How long are you thinking of staying for? A week? Two? A month? Let me know all of that and I’ll work around it. I’ll show you all my favourite ‘outside London’ spots, too.
William.
31st March 2012
Dear Mr Tour Guide,
I’ve attached a mini-list of everywhere I think I should go. I want all the kitschy, flag-waving tourist experiences. I want high teas and night-time cocktails, fancy theatres and bus tours. Buckingham Palace is open in the summer, right? Let’s go there, too. Have you been?
What do you think of my list?
Emmy.
20th April 2012
Hey there,
Just checking in to see if you got my last email? I’m guessing you’re run off your feet now, so that’s why you’ve been quiet. It’s okay. I’ve been dealing with some stuff here, too.
Dad’s not well. The idiot went and had a heart attack, so we’re all sitting in the hospital waiting room at the moment. The doctors think he’ll be okay, so that’s a good thing, right?
Can I ask you something? I know we’ve always emailed or posted, but can I call you? I need someone to talk to about this, and I think you’re the only one who’d make sense. You know, being a doctor and all.
Looking forward to hearing your voice.
E xo
15th May 2012
William,
Okay. I’m getting worried now. I have no other way of contacting you. Heather checked Facebook and can’t find you. Are you okay?
Emmy.
21st June 2012
William,
I’m not sure what’s going on. I hope it’s that you’re busy and you’re kicking ass at your job. Saving lives and taking names, right?
I have some news. Heather and Josh are moving to London in January. They’ve both picked up work, and they’re flying high. I’m a little jealous, and a whole lot of sad but, more than anything, I’m excited for them. Her career is kicking along nicely, and I’m so proud of her. I’ll miss them both terribly, but it’s a good excuse to visit, right?
Are you okay?
Emmy.
3rd August 2012
William,
Where are you?
Emmy.
I tried one last time to send an email.
This message was created automatically by mail delivery software.
A message that you sent could not be delivered to one or more of its recipients. This is a permanent error. The following address(es) failed:
No Such User Here
***
When Dad was sick, William was the one person I would have trusted over anecdotal websites, misinformed family, or sanitised for the public doctors. Talking to him, though we hadn’t physically spoken to each other in almost eighteen months at the time, would have put my mind at ease and pointed me in the right direction. And when my two best friends decided to pack up and move to London, he was the one person I thought I could count on for … something. What I hadn’t counted on was this. This was cold, and it hurt.
I tried to email from another address, but that one bounced back, too. Good to know it wasn’t just me, then. I went so far as to check the local phone directory. The results page was blank. Facebook offered me a whole heap of blonds and brunettes, but no flame-haired Londoners. I was shit out of luck.
Thinking about it constantly only turned sadness to anger, and when I finally got past that point, I wanted to be done with the reminders of that holiday and the months afterward that were tacked to walls of my bedroom. I removed the photos, postcards, and notes, and placed them in a box along with all the trinkets, toys, mugs, and books he’d sent. William had been relegated to a box underneath my bed.
New Year’s Eve 2012
The post office smelt of sunscreen and agitation. A fly buzzed about my head, and I could feel sweat making a beeline from my neck right down to, well, where the sun didn’t shine. My backpack was laden with books, photos postcards, dog-eared envelopes, and a tea set. They were all memories I needed to give back.
I stepped forward, said all the right things, signed the customs declaration, and forced the last few years of my life into the nondescript brown cardboard box. Behind the counter, a woman with a weathered face tapped her artificial nails and suggested maybe I needed a bigger box.
Forcing a smile, I bent the lid over the contents and taped it shut. ‘My box is perfectly big enough, thanks.’
Behind me, someone sniggered.
I tossed the roll of packing tape back at her, along with my parcel, and hoped for the best.
‘I really don’t care if it breaks.’
As far as I knew, William hadn’t moved, he’d simply vanished. I’d never found a ‘Return to Sender’ in the letterbox, and his emails or letters never indicated that I’d done or said something untoward. He’d obviously lost interest, moved on to a girl closer to home, maybe. Probably. I couldn’t imagine he’d be single for long, as much as that thought irked me, irrationally, a little.
Stepping outside, away from the confines of a barely-there air-conditioner, I slipped my sunglasses on and, feeling a little lighter, made my way out into the street. The sunny glint of an old steel bumper and front wheel caught my eye.
‘Hey, you.’ I smiled.
‘Hey yourself.’ Craig waved an arm at his car in a flourish. ‘You like?’
The same Craig who’d saved my skin in class – when I’d been caught more than once laughing at a letter – was slumped against the pillar of a car that was probably older than both of us combined. After that very first class, we began searching for each other before lectures. Our buddy system soon extended to study blocks in the school library and coordinating subjects, because what’s better than having someone to pinch notes from? It was especially helpful when one of us didn’t feel up to going to class or needed an extra shift at work. It helped that we were both considered mature-aged students; two old souls looking out for each other. He became one of my closest friends.
Now, he stood in the street looking like a retiree floating the wave of a mid-life crisis. All he needed was a set of golf clubs to go with his wide-brimmed