My Legendary Girlfriend by Mike Gayle Read Free Book Online Page A

them.
    It occurred to me as I listened to his pitiful story that Peter was being naive in the extreme. He’d been in a relationship for less time than it takes to make a baby and here he was wanting to make commitments. If I’d been his age I would have been over the moon at the prospect of hitting university as a single man – able to do what I want, when I want, with thousands of like-minded individuals who also think they’ve just invented sex, alcohol and staying up past 2.00 a.m.; people who’d want to party, party, party ’til they were sick and then party some more. Peter was guaranteed to have three years more exciting than my next ten.
    I was so entrenched in my bitter attack against Barbara’s caller I managed to miss most of her solution. All I heard her ask was, ‘Do you love this girl?’ and he replied he didn’t know – he thought he did but probably wouldn’t be sure until it was too late. As Barbara announced she was going to a commercial break, the phone rang.
    I knew it wouldn’t be Simon – his gig didn’t finish until eleven; it was too late for either of my parents; I’d just spoken to Alice and as far as I knew no one else had my number. The odds were, of course, that it was Martina, because my life was like that: too much of what I didn’t want and a permanent drought of the things my heart desired most. I hoped with all my strength that it wasn’t Martina, because as well as not feeling up to listening to her complain about how terrible her life was, I especially didn’t want to dump her, at least not right now.

    Ring!

    Please don’t let it be Martina.

    Ring!

    Please don’t let it be Martina.

    Ring!

    Please.

    Ring!

    Please.

    Ring!

    Please. Please. Please.

    Ring!

    Please. Please. Please. Please!
    I answered the phone.
    ‘Hello?’ I held my breath and waited for the first sounds of Martina’s placid yet disturbing voice.
    ‘Hello,’ said the female voice on the other end of the phone, which clearly wasn’t Martina’s. There was a school-girlish enthusiasm about it that would’ve been refreshing had it not been me she was talking to. Whoever this person is , I thought, this call is going to disappoint her .
    ‘Can I help you?’ I asked politely.
    ‘You can indeed,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry to call so late but I thought if you’re anything like me it’s better to have a call late at night rather than early in the morning. My mum tries to ring me at seven in the morning sometimes just to tell me I’ve got a letter from the bank. Mind you, I’m never in at that time these days because I’m on my way to work, but if someone rang me on say, my day off, then boy, would they be in big trouble.’
    She was rambling. The more she rambled the more adorable she sounded.
    ‘I was wondering,’ she continued, ‘whether you could help me. I used to live in your flat up until a week ago . . .’ She paused as if reaching the punch-line. I suddenly recognised her voice. She was Crying Girl from my answering machine. ‘I was wondering . . . has there been any post for me? I’m expecting a cheque to arrive. I was doing a bit of casual office work for a temp agency and they’ve sent my cheque to my old address, even though I’d told them a million times that I was moving to Brighton.’
    ‘Mmmm,’ I said, thinking it sounded sympathetic.
    There was a long pause.
    I was about to offer another ‘Mmmm’ to fill the gap in the conversation when she spoke again. ‘Well . . . is there any post?’
    Instead of answering her question I deconstructed her voice. It was quite pleasant, really. The sort of voice that made me feel at ease; it was a bit well spoken at the edges but far from aloof. No, this girl sounded like she was definitely worth investigating, especially as there was the small point of her tearful message. I wanted to ask about it but couldn’t quite work out how to do it.
    ‘Sorry?’ I said.
    ‘Is there any post?’ she repeated. ‘I’m