Free Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace Page B

of me.
    There were others, of course, but this was the only one I really needed to see.
    ‘She’s married!’ he said.
    I don’t know what I’d been expecting. I don’t even know what I’d been hoping for.
    We’d done it, of course. Picked up the photos. It had only taken the one we’d came for, and we were in Snappy Snaps like a flash.
    And now, here she was.
The Girl
. There was a glow on her face, and that smile.
    I kicked myself. Of
course
she was married.
    ‘Mind you,’ said Dev, pointing at The Girl. ‘Doesn’t look like a wedding dress. Who gets married in something like that?’
    ‘Yeah, what
is
that?’
    Whatever it was, and despite what she brought to it, it was hideous. Pretty much the only word applicable, though not one I’d use in her presence, obviously. It was a very odd green, and looked like it’d been designed by someone who’d never seen a girl. Or a dress.
    ‘But that’s definitely her boyfriend. Check the body language.’
    The man – handsome, urbane, probably good at skiing, owns a number of powerful motorcycles, can doubtless tell you the difference between red and white wine – had his arm around her, and she looked pleased. Really pleased. He looked pleased too, and why not. She’s stunning. Despite the dress. I found myself cursing his chunky watch and tan.
    ‘Nice looking, isn’t he?’ said Dev. ‘Probably quite cultured, too. Probably calls them “bosoms”. Still. I imagine it’s for the best. You wouldn’t want her turning up at the pub dressed like that.’
    ‘You’re wearing a
Street Fighter
T-shirt.’
    ‘Just wearing it in. Planning on seeing Pamela soon.’
    ‘Who’s Pamela?’
    ‘That waitress. Pam
-eh
-la. That’s how you say it in Poland.’
    I flicked through the photos, taking in each for a second or two, but what was the point? The Girl had a man with a chunky watch and powerful motorcycles putting his big tanned arm round her.
    ‘Oh, that’s a good one,’ said Dev.
    She’d taken a photo of her shoes by accident. And one of the pavement. But the others … the others seemed to tell a story. A wedding, an old car, a cinema.
    ‘We should leave the photos back at Snappy Snaps,’ he said. ‘Say there was a mistake. She probably bought the camera there, or maybe she meant to develop them. She might come back.’
    Yes. He was right. He was quite right.
    I flicked through the last few, almost like a goodbye.
    ‘You never know, if you leave your number, she might get in touch, and—’
    But suddenly …
    … Suddenly, I wasn’t listening.
    I was hearing, but not listening.
    Because something about this photo – this last photo – had caught my eye.
    ‘Where now?’ said Dev, draining his pint. ‘What shall we do?’
    But I was still staring, still struggling to comprehend.
    This photo … it was a photo taken in a café. There was a table in front of whoever took it, with a half-finished coffee and the remains of a slice of something, and a spoon to one side. The café looked warm, and welcoming, and through the window the bright yellow light of a black cab was just about visible. A waiter was clearing up, and there were checkered tablecloths and monochrome photos on the wall of minor celebrity diners, like Andy Crane and Suggs, and over to one side, cut in half by the framing and reading a copy of
London Now
was a man.
    In fact, over to one side and cut in half by the framing and reading a copy of
London Now
was
me
.
    ‘One who refused advice was later seen bleeding.’
    Traditional Shona Tribe proverb, Zimbabwe
    Hello?
    I hope there’s someone out there. Is there a button I can push that will tell me?
    Hello?
    I will listen to my friends in future. If you’re my friend, maybe you’ll help me work through this. I will listen to your advice. So if you’ve got something to say to me, you just go right ahead and say it to me and I will listen, and it sounds as if that means I will not bleed, which is a good thing all round, isn’t it?