F2F
Louise felt as if she had stepped into a foreign country, full of people with unfamiliar names. The messages flashed onto the screen too quickly and she was distracted by the brightly coloured fonts and lurid smilies.
Gradually, threads of conversation began to unwind and characters started to emerge, butterfly-like, from the text. At first she was too nervous to join in, until blu_eyes asked Mr Cool if she should tell her boyfriend that she was pregnant.
“He’ll make me get rid of it,” said blu-eyes, “he won’t want to be lumbered with a kid”.
Mr Cool, who Louise visualised as a spotty, sixteen year old computer nerd, proclaimed haughtily that it was her boyfriend’s right to know. After all it was his child as much as hers, he said.
She wanted to scream at the screen “run away – do whatever you need to do to protect your baby,” but instead she typed “tell him about the baby, but don’t get rid of it or you may regret it forever”.
The Internet group soon became part of her daily life. Go to work, come home, talk to Adie politely over the evening meal, then log on to chat. It was easier than talking to ‘real’ people. Certainly easier than talking to Adie, or her friends who asked her difficult questions like “how are you?”
She started to look out for familiar names – blu_eyes who had finally walked out on her boyfriend, Ameeeee who was unfailingly good-natured and radiated happiness and Harleyguy.
At first she didn’t like Harleyguy. His humour verged on the sarcastic and his comments often caused arguments to flare up in the group. Then they discovered that they had both gone to the same university, although he graduated two years before she started her course.
Gradually they started to exchange more intimate wafers of information. They both enjoyed reading, although he preferred biographies while she enjoyed fiction. They both wanted to travel, especially in the Far East. They even shared the same favourite restaurant; a small bistro near their university.
“Perhaps we could meet up there one day,” he said.
“Perhaps we could,” she replied, the idea sending a small thrill down her spine.
*
She started logging on at work; in her lunch break at first, but then she started to sneak five minutes here and there during the day. Five minutes stretched to half an hour. Harleyguy was a freelance draughtsman. He worked from home and popped in and out of the chat room all day. She missed deadlines at work and had to stay late to catch up.
Adie began to tire of the take-aways she grabbed on her way home.
“You never cook anymore,” he said.
“I don’t have time. You cook if you want to” she said, before turning back to the screen.
He was quiet for a while.
“I think I’ll go to the pub,” he said, “It’s someone’s birthday – from work.”
“Fine,” she said, as the back door slammed shut.
When he came home he found her asleep at the computer. Her fingers were still on the keyboard, but her head had slumped onto her chest and her long dark hair fell forward in a veil. He lifted a strand on his fingers and felt the silkiness of it slide over his skin. It smelled of flowers.
She couldn’t have been asleep long because the screen saver still flashed images of their first five years together: wedding photographs, their honeymoon in Corfu, the house on the day they moved in, holidays, all carefully chronicled until the day they discovered they couldn't have a family.
“I’m sorry,” the specialist had said, “but I’m afraid it’s unlikely that your wife will ever be able to conceive normally. Her fallopian tubes are blocked.”
“How can they be blocked?" Adie asked, "I don’t understand”.
“It’s difficult to say,” the doctor replied, “an infection probably; maybe a complication of the abortion.”
Abortion – the word sliced into the room - the abortion that he didn’t know about, the one that had been carried out just before their wedding.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” he screamed at her.
‘Because it probably wasn’t your baby,” she said quietly.
*
Louise gave her email address to Harleyguy. He sent a long message saying that he believed they were kindred spirits, destined to be together. He wanted to meet, face to face, go to the restaurant they both remembered, to talk, properly. He wanted to discuss their ‘future’.
It had been a long time since she had thought about the future.
She waited outside the restaurant. He was late. It was a dark day, the clouds half-drawn against the sun. She saw Adie’s car pull up on the other side of the road. He didn’t get out; just sat perfectly still, looking across at her. She had known that he would come; had left Harleyguy’s email open on the screen, wanting to provoke a reaction.
Harleyguy roared around the corner and pulled his bike up next to her. He was much shorter than she had expected. He took off his helmet. His hair was lank and it flopped over one eye. As he pushed it back she noticed his hand.
His fingers were long and slender – guitarist's fingers. Her stepfather played the guitar. The nails on Harleyguy's right hand were long for plucking the strings, just like her stepfather's nails. The similarity made her shudder.
Harleyguy looked at her anxiously, not sure if she was the person he was looking for.
“Are you Louise?” he asked, with an embarrassed smile.
“No, I'm so sorry” she said, stepping quickly away from him, “but I think you're looking for someone else.”
She walked across to Adie’s car. The passenger door was open and she slipped inside.
Neither of them spoke for a while. It was Adie who broke the silence. “The baby,” he said, “it was your stepfather’s wasn’t it.”
“How do you know?” she whispered.
Adie slammed his hands hard against the steering wheel.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, "I could have protected you."
It had started to rain and condensation misted the car windows.
Harleyguy was still waiting across the road. He put his helmet back on and pulled down the visor; becoming just another anonymous guy on a motorbike.
Louise turned slightly to look at Adie.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, "I love you".
Adie took her right hand and lifted it to the windscreen. Her nails were clipped short and scrubbed clean. He traced a message with her index finger in the condensation,
LUWAMH.
(c) Jan Harris 2008