What Lies Between Us(50)

I take a peek at Bobby’s profile. He lives in the neighbouring county of Leicestershire, about forty-five minutes away from here. I check to see if it might be a fake profile but if it is, whoever is behind it has gone to a lot of effort because there are dozens and dozens more photos of him in albums dating as far back as 2011. It doesn’t mean that he hasn’t stolen someone else’s online life, though. The truth is, it could be anyone behind that keyboard. You read about people being catfished all the time. Perhaps he’s really a prisoner with access to a mobile phone, a serial killer or a professional scammer on the other side of the world. My paranoia is working twenty to the dozen today.

‘Hi,’ he says on Messenger.

Imaginative opener, I think.

I pause. Do I really want to engage in conversation with a stranger? I have nothing better to do for the next fifteen minutes until a client arrives, so I reply with a ‘Hello.’

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘Good thanks, yourself?’

‘Great. I’m Bobby, by the way.’

‘I know. I’ve looked at your profile.’

‘Ah, okay.’

I’m not really sure what he expects me to write next or why I’m humouring him.

‘Are you busy?’ he continues.

‘I’m on my lunch break.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I work in a library. You?’

‘I’m a reporter.’

‘Who for?’

‘A newspaper in Leicester. I’m the news editor.’

‘Is this a work-related message then?’

‘No, not at all.’ He adds a smiley face emoji and I glance at his photograph again. Perhaps he has no hidden agenda and is genuinely just being friendly. ‘I should probably leave you in peace,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a deadline approaching.’

‘Okay,’ I reply.

‘Chat again soon?’

‘Sure.’

‘Great.’ He signs off with an ‘x’ which I don’t read anything into. However, back upstairs in the business suite, I log on and find he has profiles on Twitter and LinkedIn. I also find his photo byline in the Leicester Mercury online newspaper.

Later that night and back at home, I hear Mum downstairs loading the dishwasher while I’m watching television in my room. My phone pings with another Facebook message from Bobby.

‘Hey!’ he writes.

‘Hello there,’ I respond. I’m not sure why, but I am pleased to hear from him. Surely the antidepressants can’t be working after just a day? They are barely in my system.

‘What are you up to?’ he asks, and for a while we chat about television programmes. We both favour gritty dramas; we have the same taste in thriller films, actors and actresses. The conversation is effortless and flows and it’s as if I’m talking to an old friend. I flick through his photographs again, but this time to see if he has a significant other. I know I’m older than him and it’s mainly girls around his age who appear in his albums. His relationship status confirms he’s single and there haven’t been any pictures of just him with the opposite sex in more than a year.

Despite our similar tastes, he and I have our differences. While I’m no wallflower, I’m not the kind of woman who catches a man’s eye, either. He is young and attractive while I blend into the background. He wears fashionable clothes that reflect his age, and I favour what still fits and that I’ve had in my wardrobe since Britney and Justin were still together.

Our Messenger conversation is interrupted by Mum’s voice coming up the stairs. ‘I’m making a hot chocolate before bed; do you want one?’

‘No, thank you,’ I reply. I shake my head. She is a reality check. I’m kidding myself if I think this Bobby is interested in someone who still lives with their mum. What do I have to offer? When our conversation inevitably runs its course and he figures out what a dullard I am, he’ll stop responding to my messages and I’ll feel like crap. So what’s the point of this?

Taking charge, I turn off my phone for the night.



By the time the clock radio alarm wakes me in the morning and I switch my phone back on, there are already two messages waiting for me. One is a continuation of Bobby’s and my movie chat from last night. The second is a cheery ‘Morning!’ and a smiling sun emoji. ‘Did you have an early night?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘Sorry, I was shattered.’

Against my better judgement, I indulge him and allow the conversation to continue in between me showering, dressing for work and making a packed lunch. Mum eyes me in the kitchen hunched over my phone. I don’t offer to explain who I’m talking to and she doesn’t ask. After the adoption disaster, she is no longer welcome to know anything about my private life.

‘I’m enjoying talking to you,’ he writes when I’m on the bus. I feel the same but I don’t admit it. Instead, I turn on him.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ I reply. ‘I’m wondering who you really are. I’m not a prolific social media user, we don’t have any joint friends and our paths have never crossed. So how did you find me?’

‘I was looking up some old friends in Northants and you were a “people you may know” suggestion.’