It Started With A Tweet(84)
‘Might be able to? But everything was on that phone: my photos, my contacts, my messages .?.?.’
‘Relax, it’ll all be backed up on the iCloud. You’ll not have lost anything, and you can get a new SIM from your network provider. Obviously, I’ll pay for the iPhone.’
‘Too right you will. That was an iPhone 7.’
‘Nice try, toots. I know for a fact it was a 5s.’
No harm in trying.
I can’t help feeling a little relieved that I can put off connecting to the real world for a little bit longer. ‘I guess that’s that, then,’ I say shrugging. ‘I should probably crack on with the painting.’
‘Or I could drive you to the station and you could catch the train to Carlisle. There are Internet cafes there.’
‘Internet cafes? How retro.’
I was under the illusion that they had died a death along with the traditional phone box. Both, I’ve discovered on this trip, are still alive and kicking.
Rosie gives her magnetic fishing line one more go, but we both know she’s onto a loser. Apparently, she’d taped magnetic metal to the Tupperware boxes, thinking that would work.
‘Go grab your wallet and I’ll run you to the station.’
I take a deep breath. There’s really no getting out of this. Rosie seems to have decided that my detox is over.
I do as I’m told, and go into the house, trying to ignore the sadness that washes over me as I enter the decrepit kitchen. I never imagined when I first walked in that I could possibly get attached to it. But, Rosie’s right. I’ve done what I set out to do and there’s a company offering me an interview; I’ve got to at least go and see what they have to say.
‘You know, I’m so proud of you, how you’ve resisted the Internet for as long as you have. I was sure you’d have cracked,’ says Rosie as I climb into the car.
She looks genuinely proud of me and I hang my head in shame as I think of all the times I tried, and failed, to get the Internet. I almost feel guilty for trying.
‘Do you want to check the post?’ she says, pointing to the box as we approach it.
‘Sure,’ I say.
I haven’t checked it since my run-in with Jack and I’m half expecting him to have written a letter in apology. I unlock the box, and I feel a wave of disappointment wash over me as I see it’s empty. Of course it is.
I start to walk over to the car, when I see an old Fiesta drive up to the mailbox. Jenny’s waving from behind the wheel.
‘Hiya; you guys off out?’ she says as she climbs out quickly.
‘Uh-huh, I’m going to Carlisle.’
‘Oh, you lucky thing.’
‘Hmm. And you’re going to see Jack, again,’ I say, more of a statement than a question. I’m pleased I ran into her, it reminds me that argument or no argument, he’s got a girlfriend.
‘Yeah, I’ll, um, see you later,’ she says, a blush spreading over her cheeks.
I sigh as I get into the car.
‘Nervous about what you’re going to find on the Internet?’ asks Rosie.
‘Something like that,’ I say. I’m more nervous that E.D.S.M. won’t lead to anything, as right now I feel as if I want to get as far away from this village, and Jack, as possible.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Time since last Internet usage: 3 weeks, 22 hours, 5 minutes and 7 seconds
I waste no time when I arrive at Carlisle station, finding an Internet cafe close by. I’m practically shaking as I cross the threshold, like an addict about to get their fix.
At first, I’m so overwhelmed that the person behind the desk has to practically usher me over to a vacant desktop. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long that I have no idea what I’m going to check first.
My mind floods with options: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Gmail, and in the end I decide to start with my email, as, if there’s anything important, that’s where it will be.
I almost can’t bring myself to do it as I’ve worked so hard over the last few weeks to teach myself to live offline, but in the end I can’t help myself. I’m suddenly desperate to know.
My inbox is loaded – 1,264 unread emails. Holy Moly. This is going to take me ages. I start scanning rapidly through my inbox, ignoring the millions from ASOS and Boohoo, who have clearly missed me. I find one from an HR officer at my old work. My heart skips a beat as I think that maybe they’ve realised they’d been too rash in firing me so quickly. Maybe the whole inappropriate tweet had been a godsend with the PR and they’re begging to have me back.
Dear Daisy,
I am writing formally to advise you of your dismissal after gross misconduct. Attached are the terms and conditions of your leave.
If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours,
Sally Roden
Or maybe not.
That’s the only work-related email in a sea of advertising. I scan the rest of my inbox downheartedly, and other than an email from a Nigerian solicitor informing me of a large bequest from a long-lost relative, I seem to have no important correspondence. It takes barely any time at all to realise that I am an advertisers’ dream, having signed up to nearly every shop I’ve ever bought from. When I clear my digital backlog, I’m definitely unsubscribing from everything.