Mark sidled into the hall and picked up the handset. His parents had an old-fashioned phone with a curly cord. They called it retro; he called it archaic.
‘Angela?’
‘Thank god! I’ve been calling and messaging you for two days!’
‘I switched my phone off.’
‘Clearly. Is your computer off as well?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re not answering your emails either.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘I sent it on Monday. And again yesterday.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘An educated guess.’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Does it matter? Do me a favour and check your emails.’
‘Why?’
‘For god’s sake Mark, just do it!’
‘Wait there.’ His phone was upstairs, so he went to fetch it, wondering what could possibly be so important, but not really caring. Surely whatever it was could wait until after Christmas.
He turned it on and went back downstairs while it caught up with itself, and when it did, he was assaulted by a barrage of notifications.
He said, ‘Seven missed calls and nine messages? Really, Angela?’
‘Eightmessages.’
He looked again. She was right. Shehadonly sent him eight.
The other was from Beatrice.
His heart clenched, a spasm of pain in the middle of his chest so acute that he gasped.
‘I know, right?’ Angela cried.
‘What?’
‘It’s a tasty advance,’ she continued and said something else, but Mark had stopped listening. He was trying to find the courage to read Beatrice’s message.
Would there be any point? It would only make his heartbreak more acute. He’d suspected she might try to contact him, to apologise or to explain, and he hadn’t wanted to hear it. He still didn’t. Damn Angela for making him switch his phone back on.
‘Mark? Are you there?Mark!’
‘I’m here.’ His reply was wooden.
‘What do I tell Estelle?’
‘About what?’
