A summer treat

Drop everything, lie back on your garden lounger and enjoy an exclusive short story by Alexander McCall Smith, author of the bestselling No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series

Could ordinary Lizzie’s life be about to take an exciting turn? Exclusive short story by Alexander McCall Smith

I SAW YOU

When asked to describe her, Lizzie’s friends would hesitate. ‘Ordinary?’ said one. ‘Not in a plain sense, of course. Just… well, just fairly average, so to speak…’ Another said,

‘Lizzie? Well, where does one start? Forty-ish, I think, or close enough. Fairly attractive… in a comfortable sort of way – and I mean that nicely, I really do.’

And yet another said, ‘She’s a primary school teacher, you know. She’s fun, but not in a loud way – she’s quiet, actually; not at all pushy – no, definitely not pushy’ – and so on. Nobody said she was a great looker or the life and soul of the party, or somebody who could charm the birds from the trees; nobody said anything like that about Lizzie.

And then, if you asked, ‘Is she… is she with anybody?’ people would think for a moment and then say, ‘I don’t think so. There was a man wasn’t there? Some time ago. I think.’ And then everybody would look uncertain, and move on to the next subject, because Lizzie was not the sort of person whom people would discuss at length. She was just Lizzie – solid, dependable Lizzie, whom everybody liked, and who was loved by the children in her class.

And they did love her, those eightyear-olds, who could be unruly at times, and sometimes downright impossible – but never when Lizzie was in the room. They obeyed her and did her bidding because she knew how to make each of them feel that they were doing things just for her, and they wanted her to be happy.

‘She has a wonderful way with young children,’ people said. ‘She’s a born teacher.’

That was true enough, but it’s often the case that the qualities that others see in us are not the qualities that we ourselves would like to possess. And so, while others may see us as solid and reliable, we might really prefer to be a bit exotic or romantic. And while others may think us conventional, we might really want to be considered free spirits, blazing a trail that the timid would be loath to follow. The mirror, it seems, is a place not many of us care to look into all that much.

✢✢✢ Lizzie was popular not only with the children she taught, and with their parents, but with her teaching colleagues. But none of these was a single man looking for a relationship. There were, it seemed, very few of those, and such as they were, seemed to be snapped up before Lizzie had a chance to get to know them. Where are the men? she thought, and then qualified the thought with the rider: by men, I mean acceptable men.

But she had her pride.

‘I’m all right,’ she said to a married friend, Anne. ‘I’m single at present. I might meet somebody, but then again I might not. There’s nothing wrong with being single.’

‘Of course not,’ Anne assured her. ‘And plenty of married people would agree with you. Plenty would like to get back to being single but can’t.’

Lizzie looked at Anne. Was her friend simply being tactful, or was that what she believed? The pressure once brought to bear on people to settle down and get married was certainly no longer there – at least where liberal individualism prevailed – but the fact remained that people still liked to have somebody to share their life with.

Anne was being tactful. In reality, she thought it a great pity that Lizzie had not found a man because she believed that this is what her friend really wanted. She had seen her in mixed company and had noticed where her eyes went. Lizzie looked admiringly at men, and the betterlooking the man, the more admiring her glances became; it was obvious to anybody at all. But in spite of her willingness to meet men, she somehow failed to attract one who was suitable.

‘It’s very unfair,’ said Anne to a friend. ‘She would make a wonderful partner for somebody, but so far, nothing doing.’ They both sighed. There was a chance that somebody would turn up, but he seemed to be taking his time.

✢✢✢

The local paper was published every Wednesday. Everybody read it because it had the news that really mattered to people: the local politics, the planning applications, the burglaries, the weddings, the opening times of the local shops, and so on. It had a new editor, though, and she felt that the age profile of the readership was becoming unbalanced. She called a meeting of the editorial staff and announced a call for new ideas.

‘We need to attract younger readers,’ she said. ‘We need to get the late 20-somethings, as well as the 30-and 40-somethings, to buy the paper.’

‘Easier said than done,’ replied the features editor. ‘They get their news online. It’s just the way things are.’

But the graphics designer had an idea. He said, ‘Look, I’m 27. I don’t want to read about council meetings or road closure reports. I want…’

They looked at him. ‘I want…’

They waited.

‘I want something exciting. Something with a bit of mystery.’ He paused.

‘What about an I saw you column?’

They looked at him blankly. That shows how out of touch they are, thought the graphics designer. If you don’t know what an I saw you column is, then how can you expect to attract the 20-somethings?

Patiently, he explained. An I saw you column, as the name suggested, published small messages from people who had seen somebody they fancied and would like to see again. It was all about missed opportunities, about meetings that did not quite take place, about ships that passed in the night. The idea was that the other person would read about the incident and then be able to get in touch – if he or she wanted to.

The editor listened. She liked the idea. ‘Rather poignant,’ she said. ‘Who among us hasn’t been in that position?’ They looked at her.

‘Well,’ she challenged. ‘I’m just being honest.’

‘I saw you in the French bakery on the high street’

‘It’s the human lot,’ said the features editor. ‘A measure of disappointment awaits us all.’

‘I think we should run this,’ the editor announced. ‘We’ll invite submissions next week.’

✢✢✢

Lizzie read the first I saw you column over lunch in the staffroom. She said to Stella, one of her colleagues, ‘Listen to this: I saw you, but you didn’t see me. You were at the station coffee bar, reading Stephen Hawking’s book. You, male, 25, obviously doing a PhD. Me, female, same age, brunette, wearing a red scarf, sitting at the next table. I wanted you to make eye contact, but you had your nose in that book. What’s so interesting about Stephen Hawking? If you’d like to meet for coffee, get in touch. We can talk about particle accelerators, if you like.’

This brought laughter, but Lizzie thought: I know how she feels.

She read out the next entry. I saw you. We were in the supermarket. You, female, 30?, were at the cheese counter asking about Parmesan. I, male, 32, was standing behind you, wearing a blue zip-up windcheater. I know all about Parmesan, but you went off before I could say anything about it. Can we meet for wine and cheese?

Lizzie looked at Stella. ‘Sad, isn’t it? These people would probably get on very well but are unlikely to meet.’

Stella nodded. ‘Read another one,’ she said.

Lizzie looked at the third entry and began to read it out. I saw you in the French bakery on the high street. You were going out just as I was going in for my usual Saturday morning croissants. You, female, 40-ish, had just bought a baguette. I, male, same age, was carrying a tote bag stuffed with onions. I held the door open for you and one of the onions fell out of my bag. You picked it up for me. You didn’t stay to be thanked, but went on your way. I like the colour of your eyes. I like the way you smiled. I’m sure I’d like everything about you if we had the chance to meet properly.

She stopped. Stella looked at her, and then said, ‘That’s really sweet. Just imagine. She picks up an onion for him and he doesn’t have the chance to thank her. But he obviously fancies her. Sweet. Sad too, I suppose. They’re never going to meet, those two.’

Lizzie said nothing.

‘Sad,’ Stella repeated.

Stella said something else, but Lizzie didn’t catch what it was. She was too busy thinking. I was there, she thought. I picked up an onion for a man as he left the bakery. That’s me. Me.

✢✢✢

She said nothing to Stella, but that evening, when she returned to her flat, she sat and thought about what she had read. She had a copy of the paper with her, and she read the column a second time, and then once more after that. There was no doubt in her mind: she was the person leaving the bakery. And now that she came to think about it, she had a vague memory of the man himself. She remembered approving of the look of him, and liking his voice, although she couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like. She didn’t think she would recognise him: one never retains details from these fleeting encounters, she thought.

She drafted a reply, and read it out to herself. Yes, I was the person who picked up the onion you dropped in the bakery. I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to thank me – not that any thanks are needed. I’m sure that if I had dropped the onion, then you would have picked it up for me! Shall we meet?

She read this through twice, and then struck a line through it. What was she doing, getting in touch with somebody about whom she knew absolutely nothing? This was very different from a dating site, where you declare your interests and at least know something about the other person.

How did she know that he was even single? What if he was one of these people who went around dropping onions from his tote bag purely to meet women? Were there such men? Probably not, but you never knew…

The next day she had a staffroom conversation with Stella.

‘That was me,’ she said.

Stella looked blank.

‘In the I saw you,’ she elaborated. ‘That was me. In the bakery. With the baguette.’

Lizzie thought her friend looked surprised – as if she didn’t imagine she would know the sort of person who went round picking up onions for strange men. But then Stella said, ‘Are you going to meet him?’

‘I’m not sure. What do you think?’ Stella hesitated. ‘It could be dangerous, you know nothing about him. You need to be careful.’

‘Yes, I do. So perhaps I should just leave it.’

‘But on the other hand,’ Stella continued, ‘beggars can’t be choosers…’ She stopped herself. ‘Oh, I’m really sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to say that.’

Lizzie made light of it. ‘No offence taken.’ But she thought: that’s what people think of me.

They think I’m desperate.

Stella had an idea. ‘He referred to his usual Saturday croissants, didn’t he? So you know he goes there every Saturday morning. Why don’t you go this Saturday – at the same time? Wait on the other side of the street. Have a look at him. See what you think, and if you like the look of him… well, strike up an acquaintance, so to speak.’

‘You mean I should approach him? That I should tell him I read the I saw you and it was me?’

‘Exactly. You’ve got nothing to lose. If you think he looks, well, a bit seedy, then you don’t need to do anything.

If, on the other hand, you like the look of him, then you could suggest a cup of coffee there and then.’

Lizzie thought for a moment.

Stella was probably right. And there were stranger ways of meeting people, she told herself, than responding to an I saw you.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’

✢✢✢

That Saturday morning Lizzie stationed herself in the coffee bar immediately opposite the bakery. She was there a good half hour earlier than the time at which the original meeting took place, and she had to watch numerous

people going in and out of the bakery. Some of them looked as if they had purchased croissants, but none of them reminded her in any way of the man with the bag of onions.

At length, after she had sat in the coffee bar for two hours, had spun out two large cups of latte, and read and reread the same magazine three times, she gave up. Rising to her feet, she made her way out of the coffee bar and started back for her flat. She felt disappointed. Perhaps she should just accept the situation, she thought: life was full of missed opportunities, of meetings that never quite took place. Life required acceptance, rather than regret.

The following Wednesday one of the children in her class was ill and vomited all over her. That was part of being a primary school teacher: children were sick over you. You accepted it. You had to.

She cleaned herself up. There was a spare blouse in the office for precisely such situations and once she had changed into it she prepared to return to her classroom, but her eye fell on that week’s paper, which somebody had left in the staffroom. She picked it up and turned to the I saw you column.

She read the first entry. I saw you

– I, male 58, but looking about 40, saw you, female, tall, maybe late 20s, in the cinema. You were with a man, but you didn’t look too happy with him. Shall we go to see a different film?

She laughed. Then she saw the next one. I saw you sitting in that coffee bar opposite the French bakery. You were there for two hours – I timed it. You looked unhappy. I was the man near the window. You didn’t notice me, but I’m 40-ish and quite tall. I was on my way to the gym. I was feeling a bit sad too, as I had broken up with my girlfriend after six years. She went off with somebody else. I hope she’s happy. I think we could get on with one another – I had a feeling we could, but you never looked in my direction. I don’t want you to be miserable.

She sat down. She reread the column. She had not seen him because, as he said, she had been looking in another direction. That, she thought, is the problem with this life: we spend a lot of time looking in the wrong direction.

And then somebody comes along and says: look the other way, and when we do, we find whatever we were looking for in the first place. There it is, under our nose, so to speak.

This time she didn’t hesitate.

She drafted a reply and sent it to the paper. She suggested that they meet in the coffee bar.

They did meet. He was called Bill, and he was an optometrist. ‘I look at people’s eyes,’ he said. And then he said, ‘And I must say, I like yours – I really do.’

She smiled. His manner was gentle. He had a sense of humour. It was not his fault that his girlfriend had left him. Lizzie took to him immediately.

He said, ‘I saw you, and I knew. I saw you and I realised I wanted to see you again.’

‘Well, here we are,’ she said. Alexander McCall Smith, 2021

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Life required acceptance, rather than regret