Suddenly Tristan grabs the letters and runs. I think he’s joking and that he’ll stop running any minute, but he doesn’t. He continues across the road, almost gets hit by a car, disappears around the corner. I grab my stuff and chase him. I see him racing up Townyard Lane. Despite my state I take off after him. I’m breathless by the time I reach the top of the lane and see him outside Insomnia café, by the big green postbox, a grin on his face, and the envelopes hovering halfway to the postbox. He wobbles them threateningly close to the slit.
I’m so out of breath I feel like I’m going to pass out. I lean over, my hands on my knees. Dizzy. I’m never drinking again, I say.
Famous last words, he says, with a smile. Come on.
I straighten up.
The letters are no longer teasingly dangling in the slit, he’s holding them out to me. You’ve got to do this yourself. Post them. Finish what you started.
It’s like he read my mind earlier. How could he have known. He doesn’t, it was just luck of course, coincidence, but it’s enough for me. I take the envelopes and post them, one by one, a smile growing on my face as each one disappears. Three people, sending my wishes out to the universe. Just posting letters really, but all the same.
Now what, I ask, feeling elated, my heart pounding with excitement and not just from the run.
Now, you wait, he says. For a response.
Oh. I feel myself deflate.
No. Now you don’t wait, he says, changing his mind. That was only three people, wasn’t it. What about the one you ripped up.
I’m still working on it. It’s kind of a long game.
Are you going to tell me who it is.
Maybe. Sometime.
He looks at me intensely, then at his watch. Are you still on your break, he asks.
I check the time. Fifteen minutes left.
Do you want to come on a tour of the office, he asks to my surprise.
Nineteen
This is Andy, Tristan says as we poke our heads into the first office on the right. I’m inside at last. I take a good look around, finally able to penetrate the Cockadoodledoo building of mystery. High ceilings, a white marble fireplace. I wonder if they can light it or if it will burn out a family of wood pigeons. Expensive-looking candles line the mantelpiece, pure white wax in glass. Panelled walls. Two workstations with white desks and enormous white Macs. Dark wooden floors, polished. A white fluffy rug. I look at everything in the room before I turn to Andy.
Andy looks at me warily.
Ah, I say, Andy’s your parking angel.
My what, Tristan asks, grinning.
Some companies employ them. A team, or in your case a person, to move cars every few hours, or top up the meters.
Tristan laughs. What a sweet parking angel I have.
Andy doesn’t like this job description. Sits back in his leather chair, swinging left to right, legs splayed to communicate that his penis and balls are too enormous to be able to push his thighs any closer together.
I’m EVP of production and development at Cockadoodledoo Inc, he says lazily.
OMG, I say flatly. I’m not impressed. Which bothers him. His title is designed to impress.
Where’s Ben, Tristan asks.
He stepped out for a minute, Andy says, scrolling through something on his computer. I step back to look at his screen. Sports cars.
He has the phone call with Nintendo this afternoon though, Tristan says.
I think they postponed it until tomorrow, Andy says, still not looking up.
No, I spoke with them this morning, Tristan says. They were ready. It’s taken me literally months to set that conversation up.
Andy shrugs, which annoys me, I can’t imagine what it does to Tristan.
Sounds like Ben cancelled the meeting, I say, and Andy glares at me as if I’ve ratted out his friend, because his obnoxious responses were doing such a good act at hiding the truth. What’s in there, I ask, looking at the panelled double doors. White, of course. With this headache, the brightness should hurt but it’s calming. Maybe it’s off-white. Grey. I don’t know.
I’ll take you in there, Tristan replies to me. Maybe tell Ben to come up to me when he’s back and has a chance, yeah, Tristan says, his voice is soft, too friendly, too quiet, giving Ben a million reasons to not bother.
Sure, Andy says, his full attention on his computer screen.
Tristan glares at his back before leading me out of the room and into the room next door. The phone at Jazz’s station in the hall is ringing. She’s not there. Tristan ignores it and twists the doorknob. It’s locked. He tries to shoulder it and knocks but nothing happens. We can hear people inside. The phone at reception is still ringing. He answers the phone.