Page 5 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Off the Record

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar.’

Ten minutes later and the kettle was on, puffing out steam and condensing on the window. Well, what else do you do in times like this but put the kettle on?

Should be the story of my life, thought Maggie, who had lost count of the number of times she’d put the kettle on these past six months for want of something else to do. She attempted a quick tidy round; the place was a bit of a tip – worse, she’d just done a load of handwashing and the clothes airer was filled with damp bras and knickers that had seen better days.

‘Oh, that’s fine. My boyfriend says I’m sweet enough.’

On its way to being manoeuvred into a corner, the airer collapsed in on itself. They both looked at each other. Flick gave a nervous laugh, then shook her head.

‘Actually, that’s bollocks.’

Caught off-guard, Maggie smiled self-consciously.

The kettle clicked off.

‘I’ll do this later.’ Abandoning the airer, she hastily turned her attention back to making the tea in the small galley that was her kitchen. Squashing teabags into the tiny plastic sink and stooping down to retrieve the small carton of milk from the miniature fridge, she tried not to think about her old kitchen, with its granite-topped island, acres of counter space and all the latest appliances.

At a memory of sitting at the kitchen island, sharing a bottle of wine and romantic meal for two, she felt a sudden yearning and caught herself sharply. No point thinking about that. It was gone, along with everything else in her old life. She firmly grabbed the two mugs.

‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’

As she passed Flick her tea, Maggie took in the young reporter who was now sitting at the small banquette in the corner of her caravan. It was the first time she’d had someone in her space and she felt acutely embarrassed by her situation. She noticed the mould around the windowpane and averted her eyes. What was she thinking, inviting her inside?

‘I don’t get many visitors.’ Cradling her own mug in her hands, she sat down opposite, squashing her long legs underneath the Formica table. ‘Don’t have the entertaining space,’ she added, forcing a laugh in a lame attempt at humour.

Flick smiled politely. ‘I like caravans. They always remind me of holidays to Wales with my mum.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yes.’

Flick didn’t mention the bit about the mouldy beds and never-ending rain. Best not.

The pleasantries over, the two women turned their attention to their tea. Flick took a large gulp – ugh, God, it was that awful Earl Grey stuff that tasted like perfume – and tried not to gag.

‘So, anyway, after we spoke on the phone I printed off some pictures,’ said Maggie.

After waiting what she hoped was enough time to not appear like she was trying to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, Maggie put down her mug and reached for the photos she’d set aside. At least she’d got that organized. Laying them on the table, she started showing them to Flick.

‘So, this is George when he was a kitten. I called him after my best friend George, and also Dad’s a big Beatles fan. I mean was,’ she quickly corrected herself. ‘George Harrison was his favourite. Said he was the most underrated Beatle. I mean, everyone goes on about Lennon and McCartney, but when it comes to song-writing ability you don’t get better than “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, wouldn’t you agree?’

Flick made an agreeing sound. She had no idea what Maggie was going on about. She made a mental note to check Spotify later.

‘George isn’t used to the countryside. He’s been a city cat his whole life. My flat had a small roof terrace and he liked to sit on it and sun himself.’ Maggie pulled out a photo of George doing exactly that and smiled, her thumb affectionately rubbing over his picture. ‘We only moved up here a few months ago, after . . . well, after everything.’

For a brief moment her mind flicked back again, before she forced it briskly on.

‘He’s been missing over a week now. The farmer says there are foxes, but I think he might have just run away. I wouldn’t blame him.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Anyway, you can take them if you want. I have copies on my phone.’

Shuffling the photos into a neat pile, she passed them across the table.

Flick smiled awkwardly. ‘Actually, that’s not why I’m here.’

‘It’s not?’ Maggie frowned, confused. ‘But when you called, you said you’d seen the posters I’ve put up around town about my lost cat.’