Charlotte Street Read Free Page A

straight to my screen, straight to my stomach? These photos … these snapshots … taken from the point of view and angle
I
used to see her from. But now it’s not
me
behind the camera. It’s not
me
capturing the moment. These memories aren’t
mine
. So I don’t want them. I don’t
want
to see her, tanned and happy and sleeveless. I don’t
want
to see her across a table with a cocktail and a look of joy and love and laughter on her face. I don’t
want
to search for and take in the tiny, pointless, hurtful details – they’d shared a Margherita, the curls of her hair had lightened in the sun, she’d stopped wearing the necklace I gave her – I didn’t want
any
of it. But I’d opened up the laptop again and I’d looked again anyway, pored over them,took in
everything
. I hadn’t been able to help it. Sarah was having the time of her life, and I was … well. What?
    I’d looked to see what
my
last update had been.
    Jason Priestley is …
eating some soup
.
    Jesus. What a catch. Hey, Sarah, I know you’re off having the time of your life and all, but let’s not forget that only last Wednesday I was eating some soup.
    Why didn’t I just delete her? Take her out of the equation? Make the Internet safe again? Same reason there was still a picture of her in my wallet. The one of her on her first day at work – all big blue eyes and Louis Vuitton. I’d not been strong enough to rip it up or bin it. It seemed so … final. Like giving up, or something. But here’s the thing: deep down, I knew one day
she’d
delete
me
. And then that really would be it, and it wouldn’t be my decision, and then I’d be screwed. Part of me hoped that she wouldn’t – that somewhere, in that bag of hers, the one full of make-up and
Grazia
and Kleenex, somewhere in that bag would be a photo of
me
…
    And yeah, there’s that hope again.
    But then one day it’ll be cruelly and casually crushed and I’ll be forgotten, probably just before she decides that her and Gary should move in together, or her and Gary should get hitched, or her and Gary should make another, tiny Gary, which they’ll call Gary, and who’ll look exactly like bloody Gary.
    I’ll probably be sitting there, on my own, when she finally deletes me. In a grey room with a Paddington duvet above a videogame shop next to that place that everyone
thought
was a brothel but wasn’t. A momentary afterthought, if that. Staring at a screen that informs me I can no longer obsess over her life. That I’m no longer deemed worthy of seeing her photos, seeing who her friends are, finding out when she’s hungover, or sleepy, or late for work. That
she’s
no longer interested in finding out when
I’m
eating soup.
    My life.
    Deleted.
    Misery.
    Still. Could be worse.
    We could have run out of
Żubr
.
    An hour later, and we’d run out of
Żubr
.
    Dev had suggested the Den – a tiny Irish pub next to the tool hire shop, halfway down to King’s Cross – and I’d said yeah, why not. You never know. I might have the time of my life.
    ‘Ah, listen,’ said Dev, waving one hand in the air. ‘Who wants to go to Andorra anyway? What’s so good about Andorra?’
    The Pogues were on and we were now a little drunk.
    ‘The scenery. The tax free shopping. The fact that it has two heads of State, those being the King of France and a Spanish bishop.’
    A pause.
    ‘You’ve been on Wikipedia, haven’t you?’
    I nodded.
    ‘
Is
there a King of France?’ asked Dev.
    ‘President, then, I can’t remember. All I know is it’s somewhere you go and have the time of your life. With a man called Gary, just before you have a pride of little Garys – all of whom will look like tiny thuggish babies – and then you buy a boat and make cheese in the country.’
    ‘What are you
talking
about?’ said Dev.
    ‘Sarah.’
    ‘Is she having tiny thuggish babies?’
    ‘Probably,’ I slurred. ‘Probably right now she’s just popped another one out. They’ll take over the world, her