I linger on the distant photo of him standing on a carousel for longer than could be considered normal. My heart is pounding harder just at the sight of him in a zoomed-in photograph.
I have to stop thinking about it. The sooner this phone is out of my hands, the better. ‘Why don’t I try texting someone on his contact list and ask them how to get in touch with him?’
‘I volunteer my services while you go and get on with work,’ Daphne says quickly. ‘I’ll find someone who can get in touch with him and verify his relationship status.’
‘Chop chop.’ Zinnia taps her wrist like I’m on a schedule.
I scroll through the messages again but Daph’s right, there don’t seem to be any ongoing conversations or anything other than perfunctory messages and courier confirmations, so I go to his contacts list instead, hoping it might be in some kind of most-contacted order but it’s alphabetical.
‘Just text the first one,’ Zinnia says, and I get the feeling this has gone on too long for her. She’s efficient and doesn’t believe in wasting time, which is probably why she’s the editor of a popular women’s magazine and I’m the person who phones round publicists trying to find two sources to confirm that Brad Pitt’s name is actually spelt Brad Pitt. Nothing is too pedantic in fact-checking.
I slide my finger back up to the top. ‘Okay. Alan it is. Let’s hope he’s a good friend of Train Man.’
Hello, I type out. I found this phone on the train this morning and I’m trying to get hold of the owner to give it back. Do you know how I can contact him?
‘Now we wait.’
Daph starts talking about the baby pressing on her bladder, but within minutes, the phone lets out a low jingling noise and lights up in my hand.
‘Oooh!’ we all say in unison.
I unlock the phone and blink in surprise at the reply. ‘Oh. No “oooh” at all. Wow.’ I ignore the growingly insistent chorus of ‘whats’. ‘That’s not very nice.’
I read the text message from Alan aloud, cutting out some of the more, er, choice language. ‘Eff off Nathaniel, don’t involve me in whatever stupid game you’re playing now.’
‘Ooh, intriguing,’ Daph says.
‘Worrying,’ I amend for her. ‘What’s he done to this bloke? What “stupid game” has he been playing before?’
‘Why’d he bother to keep him as a contact if they hate each other so much?’
‘A mystery,’ Zinnia says. ‘To solve.’
‘Nathaniel is such a sexy name,’ Daph says, fanning a hand in front of her face again.
‘That’s what you took from that message?’
‘Well, at least we know what he’s called now. Although I don’t fancy texting dear old Alan back to ask for his home address or landline number, do you?’
I recoil at the thought. ‘Don’t you think we’ve invaded this poor man’s privacy enough? We’ve been through his pictures, his notes, his messages; we’ve even managed to text his number one enemy. I should have dropped this phone straight in at lost property in the station. It has nothing to do with me if he gets it back or not.’
‘There’s an amazing story in this. It’s so romantic. A man you’ve been silently flirting with on the train for months, eyes meeting across a crowded carriage, and now you being the one to spot his dropped phone and the quest to find this mystery man and return it … Our readers will love it.’ Zinnia looks between me and Daphne with an expression that means she’s plotting something, and then her eyes settle on me. ‘And you’re going to be the one to write it.’
‘Me?’ I shake my head in an attempt to clear my ears because I’m definitely not hearing her right. ‘Write what?’
‘This.’ She rolls her eyes, leaving me in no doubt about how dense she thinks I am for not getting it yet. ‘The story of The Guy on the Train. It’ll be like that novel but without all the alcoholism and murderyness.’
‘Oh, it’ll be so romantic.’ Daph picks up a magazine to fan herself with. ‘The playful flirtation, the eye contact, the smile, the dimples, the connection on a crowded train where the only thing anyone usually connects with is some drunken guy’s leering or the smell of wee where someone’s urinated on a seat. Again.’
‘Yes,’ Zinnia says. ‘A story about being in the right place at the right time to pick up the mysterious gorgeous man’s dropped phone and lose him by the whisper of a second in a crowded station. A romance for the modern woman who commutes to work every day on public transport. A magical connection with a stranger that could happen to any one of our readers at any moment.’
‘But … I …’ I have no idea what to say. I can’t believe she’s giving me a chance to write for Maîtresse. It’s what I’ve been waiting for since I started here. Fact-checking was only ever supposed to be temporary, but in the two years since I started, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.
‘I want this story, Vanessa, and realistically you’re the only person who can write it. I know you joined Maîtresse with the intention of writing features for us, and I know you’ve been hoping for a promotion since your first day and you’re probably wondering why I’ve always overlooked you, but the right way for you to prove yourself has never come up … until now.’
It’s probably meant as a compliment but Zinnia only succeeds in making me feel about as important to this office as the persistent bluebottle buzzing around the water dispenser.
‘I want this article on my desk today. We’ll put it on our website straight away, and if it gets a good response, then you’ll find your debut feature in print in the July issue of Maîtresse, and we’ll talk about moving you out of fact-checking and into a feature-writing role. We can start with Daphne’s maternity leave. You know she’s disappearing on us next month, and you probably know that I haven’t arranged cover yet. Impress me with this article, and Daphne’s job is yours for the twelve months of her maternity leave. If you do well, we’ll look into something more permanent.’
Daphne squeals in delight. ‘I told you ages ago that Ness should do it!’
I’m, again, unsure of whether the idea that my best friend and boss have been talking about me is a good thing or not, but it makes me feel a bit irrelevant. Daph mentioned that I should talk to Zinnia about covering her maternity leave months ago and I never plucked up the courage – if she mentioned it to Zinnia around the same time then Zinnia clearly wasn’t interested in the idea.
‘It’ll be a great start to a career as a writer here,’ Zinnia continues. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘More than anything,’ I say quickly before she has a chance to change her mind.
She nods once. ‘Good. I’ll forward this morning’s articles to be fact-checked to one of the temps so you can give this your full attention. I think this is going to be really special. Two o’clock this afternoon and not a second later.’ She goes to walk out but then spins on her heels and points a long red nail at me. ‘And, Vanessa? Leave it open-ended. You’re going to find this guy, and when you
