Free Virtual Strangers by Lynne Barrett-Lee Page A

your kitchen. Though personally, I’d put my cash into the trip and make it a great one. A new kitchen is fine, but it won’t make you happy. Being (almost) on top of the world certainly will.
    Griffithxx
    Thought; Oh! G riffith! With a capital G! Ah! Griffith with a capital G who is male who knows me who knows I was ratted at Rose and Matt’s party who thinks it would really be best if we left it at that. Oh, really . I’ll bet . But not a chance, buster. Not an earthly of a chance. Will work on a process of elimination from Rose and Matt’s party guest list just as soon as Rose digs it up and emails it to me. Oh, yes . And if the list fails to establish mystery-griffith identity, I will simply trap all passing men-friends and engage them in fact-finding disingenuous light conversation at every social engagement until the matter is resolved. (Plus Everest thing very - very something . Very what?) So send;
    [email protected]
    Dear Griffith,
    Sweet-talk all you like, it’s still not good enough. But, okay, let’s do a deal. We will take this no further. But to that end we must work on the need-to-know principle. If you want this to end, you’ll appreciate that I need to know who you are. And if you don’t want me to spend any more time trying to find out (and I will - I have a guest list, and it’s a simple case of elimination) then you need to tell me who you are. End of cyber-dialogue.
    Charlotte Simpson.
    PS But before I go - what about that guy you know who can give me the advice about my trip? You never told me who he was, and I think you at least owe me that.
    ‘Mum, what are you doing? It’s quarter to six in the morning!’
    ‘Er, nothing, Ben. Just popping a plant stick in my yukka.’
    ‘At this time? So why’s the computer on then?’
    ‘Erm...silly me. Must have left it on overnight.’
    ‘No you didn’t. I used it last, remember. Unless you’ve been - Mum, you do know you’re on-line, don’t you?’
    ‘Erm...ooops! Er.. that’s because.. in fact...LOOK! What is this? Twenty questions? If you’re up, make yourself useful and put the kettle on or something! Don’t come in here quizzing me about... well, about anything, quite frankly. Go on then! Don’t just stand there!’
    ‘Okay, okay, okay! Moo- dy or what?’
    And all that for a deeply uninformative;
    [email protected]
    Dear Charlotte Simpson,
    I know I owe you that, but if I tell you who he is then you’ll find out who I am, won’t you? So, regrettably, I can’t. I’m sorry I said I would put you in touch - I wasn’t thinking. I will find out anything I can however, and get it to you, promise.
    Griffith.
    Pah! On the way to work I compile a mental list of the male contingent of Rose and Matt’s party and come to the depressing realisation that, to the best of my belief, all men-friends of my acquaintance at said party are either married/have partners or are somebody’s Grandad. Or are gauche teenage sons of more mature friends. So Griffith is either a rogue pensioner, an unusually eloquent juvenile or a furtive, unavailable, out of bounds man.
    Hmmm. Cyber-flirtatiousness is not a good idea.

Chapter 7
    Definitely not good idea. Stableford Saturday. Late pm. Tense.
    What a funny thing. Having started the week in a mood of strident indignation and full of zeal about exposing my phantom email stalker etc., I find that I have ended the week in an unexpected romantically charged flap. I waved Phil off on Thursday with a peculiar surge of end-of-term excitement, imagining myself and griffith engaged in a frantic clinch at the much talked about Stableford Bonfire Night barbecue - which I am certain beyond question griffith will attend.
    I’m now oscillating between cogitating anxiously about what to wear and being very angry about having developed the worrying (nay, pathetic ) perception that what I look like merits any anxiety in the first place. I look like I look, and will look so whatever. i.e. unremarkable,