Man in the distance, his arms outstretched on a sparkling carousel.
‘He’s definitely got some kind of weird fetish for those things,’ Zinnia says.
‘Or maybe he just likes that godawful old movie that you love.’ Daphne elbows me in the ribs, knowing full well I can’t retaliate while she’s pregnant.
‘Aww, stop mocking Carousel. It’s a lovely film. One of the best.’
‘Yeah, if you like things that are nonsensical, boring, and old. And then you have the nerve to complain that I like modern romcoms. Judging by these photos, I bet he loves that movie. Talk about your perfect match.’ She takes the phone back and scrolls further through the photos, picture after picture of wooden things, half-finished paint jobs on carousel horses and other animals, and a few of various scenery, beaches and mountains and hills. Train Man must get around a bit.
‘Well, he’s definitely not vain – he’s never taken a picture of himself in his life. Although he’s got half his shoe in with one of these horse legs, which tells us so much.’ Daph gives up and scrolls back to the photo of him on the carousel, zooming in on it and bringing the phone almost to her nose. ‘He looks handsome, though. Good hair.’
‘He had good hair on the train this morning.’
I don’t realise I’m smiling involuntarily until I catch the knowing look on Zinnia’s face. I blush and tuck my own shoulder-length lank hair behind my ear. ‘Unlike my messy split-endy thing that needs a trim.’ I always feel self-conscious of my hair around Zinnia, who never has a strand out of place. Mine still hasn’t recovered from an ill-advised home highlighting kit where the streaks went orange so I dyed over them with a brown that was supposed to match my own colour but ended up going lighter because of the orangeness. Daph calls them lowlights; I call them ‘can’t afford to go to the hairdresser’s’.
‘You hate taking selfies too,’ Daphne says. ‘I can already tell this guy is perfect for you. Now, what next? Text messages?’
She’s gone back to the home screen and is fiddling around in his message folder before I’ve even started to protest. ‘We’re just looking for vital contact information so we can get it back to him.’
‘And evidence of a girlfriend because so far there’s nothing,’ Zinnia adds. ‘He must be single or there’d be some photos of a girlfriend, boyfriend, or otherwise on there. My phone is packed with pictures of my husband.’
‘And mine’s packed with pictures of Gavin measuring things against my ever-expanding belly to show how big it’s getting,’ Daph says. ‘Well, this morning someone called Jack texted telling Train Man “not to miss that bloody train”. His parcel was “now with his local courier for delivery” last Thursday, he wished someone called Susan a happy birthday last week, and someone sent a message a fortnight ago asking if he wants to go on a fishing weekend in July, but he hasn’t responded.’ She glances at me over her shoulder. ‘This is just as boring as your phone.’
‘Still no girlfriend,’ Zinnia says. ‘Tell me this isn’t looking more and more promising.’
‘There’s nothing here,’ Daphne says. ‘Funny pictures someone’s forwarded him, the odd joke between mates, but absolutely no sappy love messages. Not even an “on the way home, see you soon” – and even I text Gavin one of them when I leave work every night.’
‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not interested.’ I ignore the flutteriness again. There must’ve been something wrong with that cereal this morning. Nothing more.
‘Right, notes. He could have written his address in there in case his phone ever got lost.’
‘Daph! This is his private property!’
‘Oh my God, Ness. He’s a vegetarian too. He’s literally the male version of you. Look, last week’s shopping list.’ She waves the phone in front of me. ‘Halloumi cheese, Quorn sausages, veggie bacon, Coco Pops, Nutella, and Cadbury’s Fingers.’ She sighs happily. ‘Any guy who buys Cadbury’s Fingers is a keeper. They’re your favourites.’
‘He’s probably buying them for his wife,’ I say, even though warmth floods my insides. I’m not interested in men, but if I could invent a perfect one, that would be his shopping list. ‘Besides, Cadbury’s Fingers only mean he’s a keeper if he bites both ends off and sucks tea up through it like a straw until it goes all melty and gooey on the inside.’
‘No address then?’ Zinnia asks. She’s all about yoga and detoxing teas. She doesn’t approve of chocolate. Daphne and I regularly joke that it’s all a front and she often leaves abruptly so she can get back to the bar of Galaxy hidden in her desk.
‘Nothing. What shall we do? Call the last number he dialled and see if they know how else to get in touch with him?’
‘Oi!’ I finally do protest. ‘I’m the one who found the phone. I should be the one doing this. It’s not right for us all to gather round it like some kind of soap opera.’
‘Yeah, and I’m pregnant so you can’t hit me to get it back.’ Daph ducks behind Zinnia and pokes her tongue out at me. ‘Right, call log.’
I sigh as I watch her go through the phone. ‘Again, no repeat calls to any specific number. No late-night booty calls. Here, last number dialled was local. I’ll ring it.’
She presses the dial button and puts the speaker on.
‘Cheap N Easy Pizza is closed at this time. Try again after five-thirty,’ a tinny voice comes through the phone.
Daph hangs up and bursts out laughing. ‘The last thing he did was get a takeaway pizza. Ness, he’s literally you. When did you last have a takeaway pizza?’
‘The weekend,’ I say, trying not to blush. ‘There’s nothing wrong with takeaway pizza. Not all of us have husbands who like to experiment with cooking gourmet meals for us, you know.’
‘Not for my lack of trying to find you one,’ she mutters. ‘And I bet he even likes pineapple on it too.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with—’ I start to protest but Daph drops her arm and I see an opportunity to snatch the phone out of her hand. ‘Ah ha!’
‘Okay, how are you going to find him then?’ Zinnia asks. I’m surprised she’s getting so involved in this. She loves anything to do with love, but she’s not usually got much time for me. I’m supposed to be a fact-checker for Maîtresse but my heart’s not in it. She knows it and I know it, and I’m not fast enough, thorough enough, or dedicated enough for her to like me.
‘There’s not even any social media,’ Daphne says. ‘I’m getting a bit worried here, Ness. Where’s his Facebook app? No Twitter? No Instagram? You are sure he isn’t a technophobe ninety-year-old, aren’t you?’
‘Well, maybe he just likes to keep things private. Not everyone’s on social media. Some days, I think we’d all be a lot less stressed if we weren’t. I don’t have the Facebook app on my phone either.’
‘See?’ Daph holds her hand up. ‘Perfect match.’
I sit there and scroll through the photos. He’s certainly got a thing about carousels. Almost all his photos are of them. There are photos taken of
