QUICK FICTION

PART ONE OF A NEW SHORT STORY BY KIWI NOVELIST BRONWYN SELL

Read part one of Love, Virtually!

His friend request came in late one night. I stared at the name for a good minute. James Brewer, the shape of those words still so familiar. Just lines and curves on a computer screen, but you could track with a GPS the route they took through my body. A flush, but not the suffocating ones of menopause. Pricklier, sweeter, gentler.

I shut my laptop and pressed the backs of my fingers to my cheeks. For goodness’ sake.

“You’ve never mentioned this guy,” my daughter Emily said the following day, after I arrived to babysit. “Where does he live? What does he do – or is he retired?” she added, as if that meant one no longer did anything.

“Last I heard he was down in Nelson,” I said, dropping my handbag onto a bar stool, “but that was before his wife died. I’m guessing he’s finished up teaching, or he’s pretty close – he’s a few years younger than me.”

“You mean you haven’t Facebook-stalked him?” She leaned towards the living room mirror and dug a blob of eyeliner from the corner of her eye. “I haven’t what?”

“Gone through his posts and photos.”

“I tried,” I confessed, grimacing. “They’re all private.”

“Wait – you haven’t accepted his friend request?”

“I’m not sure I will. I’m thinking I should leave him in the ‘80s where he belongs.”

“Mum.” She said it in that admonishing tone both my girls have taken to using on me.

“But what if he thinks I’m, you know, interested?”

“So what if he does? Give me a look at this guy.” She grabbed my phone from my hand, open at his page. “There’s no photo of him.” She scrolled down. “He has 89 friends,” she declared, as if that meant something and I would know what.

“Is that good?”

“It’s enough that he’s not a spammer stealing someone’s identity but not so many that he’s going around friending every woman he knows, hoping one will take the bait.”

“They do that?” I wasn’t sure what “they” I was referring to. Men who frequented the internet, sending friend requests to women from their pasts?

I’d only joined to keep up with my daughters’ photos. I wasn’t planning to actually use the account. My idea of a social network was gossip with girlfriends. In person. With wine.

“Are you interested?”

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly, going by the speed with which Emily’s eyebrows shot up. Was I interested? I’d slept poorly the previous night, ever weirder scenarios running through my head. I’d told myself that part of my life was over and that was okay. I didn’t particularly need or want another husband.

In fact, I suspected this whole growing-older-together lark was oversold. My older friends seemed to have a lovely time hanging out with their girlfriends, and the ones who had husbands mostly just whinged about them. One of the latter had taken to rhapsodising so passionately about how wonderful single life must be, I couldn’t work out if it was sympathy or envy.

Emily handed the phone back. “What exactly is your history with this guy? I’m guessing more than a friend, with the way you’re over-thinking this.”

I winced. “I am, aren’t I? We worked together for a few years. His first job. It was a very social crowd.”

Just how much should I let on? Name, rank and registration number were probably palatable. Less so the night he’d kissed me, tasting of Tequila Sunrise and illicitness, seeing as I’d just started going out with Baz.

“He’s not the right guy for you,” James had said – and how very far-sighted of him. (On the upside, I no longer had to feel guilty about that kiss.)

“I always considered him too young,” I continued, “me being all of about 24 to his 21, when we met.”

No, I’d seen myself with an impressive man in a suit. A Baz. Not a skinny, floppy-haired piano-playing music teacher with an unguarded grin.

And there it was again, the non-menopausal happy flush. Were those… hormones? Where was my body thinking this would lead? I was remembering a boy who hadn’t existed for 40 years and was probably only getting in touch because he was doing one of those self-help courses where you have to ring everyone from your past and berate them.

“I guess he’s not too young now,” Emily said, packing her handbag – unpacking it, technically. Out came a nappy, a dummy, wet wipes...

I groaned. “Neither am I.” And I could no longer count in my favour the allure of being the experienced sophisticate (huh!) to his ingenue.

“Mum, don’t say that about yourself. You’re still pretty hot.”

I registered the still and

‘Who wanted to be rejected by an idiot? Being rejected by George Clooney, I could take’

the pretty while I waited for the inevitable caveat.

“For your age,” she said, after a beat. I bit down a smile. Always the disclaimer. Had I done that to my mother? I looked up to the skies – well, to the textured ceiling Emily hated. Sorry, Mum, I communed.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Emily continued.

“You said the other day that you’re happy doing exactly what you want without having to compromise. What did you call it?”

“My selfish phase.”

“So if this doesn’t work out, you get annoyed for a few days and then you go back to doing whatever the hell you want. Man,” she added, to herself, “I can’t wait to be retired.”

“But it’s like Flowers for Algernon.” Once an

English teacher, always an English teacher.

“Let’s pretend

I don’t know what that is.”

“Short story. Famous. What did they teach you at that school of yours?” (I laughed at my own joke. I’d taught at her school.) “It’s like, once you’ve sold yourself on the idea of living on the other side, how can you go back and be happy with what you had, even if you were reasonably satisfied? Won’t you just see the lack, the empty spaces?”

“That’s way too deep for someone who hasn’t slept for four months.” Emily’s eyes widened. “Shoes!” she declared, and ran to the front door.

“I’ve left instructions on how to get onto the TV,” she called back. “Dan has subscriptions to everything.”

“I’ll be fine.” As if I didn’t sit at home alone most nights. As if single life was all that different to before the separation, Baz and I inhabiting different worlds within the same house – separate sofas, separate laptops, separate TV shows, separate headphones. (How many marriages had his-andhers screens destroyed?)

“He’s an idiot, you know, for leaving you,” my older daughter, Alex, had said.

No argument there. But who wanted to be rejected by an idiot? Being rejected by George Clooney, I could take. Though it would no doubt be the same with a George as it was with a Baz – when the person who knew you better than anyone no longer wanted to be with you, you couldn’t help taking it a little personally. Would it be the same with a James? I’d done pretty well to get to my sixties before getting my heart broken. I should quit while I was ahead. Or was I behind now? Either way, I should quit.

“If the baby wakes, let her cry for five minutes,” Emily called, her voice echoing from inside the cupboard by the door. “I will.” (I wouldn’t.)

“If she keeps crying, give her the dummy, roll her onto her side and pat her bottom and make shushing noises until she goes back to sleep.”

“I will.” (I wouldn’t.)

Emily clattered back in strappy heels, smoothing her hands down the front of her black jeans. “How do I look?”

“Pretty hot.” I waited a few seconds. “For your age.”

Embryonic wrinkles bunched around her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Catch the second and final instalment of Love, Virtually in next week’s issue!

‘Once you’ve sold yourself on the idea of living on the other side, how can you go back and be happy with what you had?’