Read Online 50 Reasons to Say Goodbye by Nick Alexander - Free Book Online Page A

see,” he continues, “you’re the only person I can count on.”
    I glance at my watch, smooth my shirt-cuff back over it. “Look. Mr Soda,” I interrupt.
    He folds his hands on the desk, leans forward earnestly. “Tell me what’s on your mind Mark,” he says.
    It reminds me of a computer program we used to have at college, Eliza. It gave the resemblance of aconversation by saying, “Tell me about it,” and “How do you feel about it?” and other such inanities. I wonder briefly if my boss is an android. The thought makes me smirk; I stifle it.
    â€œCould we just get to the where and the when? You know I only got back from Hong Kong yesterday. I’m extremely tired. I haven’t even
unpacked
yet!”
    He nods. “Of course, Mark, sorry. Los Angeles,” he says. “Now they’re very …”
    I stop listening and think of Dirk. Even now, years later, say,
America
, or
tall
, or
California
, or
love of my life
, and I think of Dirk.
    I wonder how I can get his address, wonder if he’s still in L.A. I say, “Sure, when?”
    Mr Soda frowns at me. “Oh, erm, Wednesday.”
    I groan. “Wednesday! What,
this
Wednesday?”
    He clenches his teeth, nods as if to say,
I’m really sorry about this
.
    I shrug. “OK.”
    He looks at me like a kid who just found out he’s getting a bicycle for Christmas.
    â€œBut I need two things,” I say.
    He nods again.
    â€œI need today and tomorrow to rest, I need sleep, so you’ll have to get someone else to finish the Hong Kong stuff.”
    He nods. “That’s fair.”
    â€œAnd I need Carol to track down an old friend of mine in Los Angeles. I don’t have his number any more.”
    He nods. “Give me the name,” he says, “I’ll make sure she does it.”
    I pull his Post-It pad towards me. I write,
Dirk Flaubert
. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” I say. “I don’t suppose that there are a lot of Flauberts in Los Angeles. I’m sure Moneypenny can handle it.”
    He frowns at me. “Sorry?”
    I shrug. “Nothing.” I straighten my tie. I stand. “I’ll call in tomorrow to pick up the sales packs,” I say.
    He nods. “Thanks Mark!” he says. “You’re our star player you know!”
    I turn towards the door. I roll my eyes and internally I groan.
    *
    It’s a risky strategy, and when my second visit fails I start to wonder if he has a boyfriend who he stays with, if he has gone away on vacation, if he has moved away, died …
    I wonder if I will ever catch him in. I know I could have organised this differently, I know I could have called, but in some way I have chosen to leave it to fate.
    I stand; I reach out, press the buzzer. It’s my third visit to his apartment. “If this is
meant to happen
,” I think,
“then he’ll be in.”
And if he’s in then it’s
a sign
. It’s the kind of logic my grandmother used to use.
    The intercom crackles, then nothing, a false alert. I sigh; I turn away.
    â€œYes?” asks a metallic voice behind me.
    Beneath my breath I say, “Yes!” I turn back to the intercom. “Dirk Flaubert?”
    â€œSure. And you are?”
    I can tell, even through the intercom, that his voice hasn’t changed – that he still has that relaxed Californian drool. I grit my teeth, put on my best American accent. “FedEx,” I say. “Delivery for Mr Flaubert.”
    I hear him say, “Oh!” He sounds surprised. He sounds excited.
    â€œI’ll be right there,” he says.
    I stand to one side of the glass doors, peer to the back of the lobby, wait for the door to move.
“Surprise,surprise!”
I think.
    A light comes on; I wait. A door opens and I see him walking towards me. As he reaches for the door handle he pauses, looks at me through the glass, frowns.
    â€œHey!”