Page 6 of Lost Luggage
‘No. I had a quick look once I’d unearthed my password. And I put her name into Google.’
‘You’re a whizz at Cluedo; this is a chance to polish up those detective skills. Her surname is quite unusual.’ Dolly would need to look on Twitter, Instagram and TikTok, then there was LinkedIn.
‘But if she’s not on any of them, I can’t read the whole notebook, Leroy, it wouldn’t be right. I should shred it myself. The pages are full of her most private thoughts.’
‘For that reason she’d want it back.’ He stared at the cover. ‘Of course, there is an obvious answer to your dilemma if social media’s no help.’
‘What?’
‘Do the list of firsts yourself. Go to the places she’s planning to go to. That way, you stand a good chance of finding her.’
‘Leroy! Please. This is serious. Anyway, I think I’m more than six months behind.’
‘Forget about the ones you’ve missed, then, and start with the upcoming January challenge. You might meet her in person, and be able to give the notebook back without reading the whole thing. Month by month more clues might surface, so if you haven’t found her by the end of January, then try the February “first”, and so on.’
‘I can’t do that!’ Dolly exclaimed, despite her insides fluttering just like they did every December when she bid on a suitcase. ‘In any case, she said the challenges might be scary. What if they are dangerous, like doing a bungee jump or skydiving?’ Or meeting a monster created by a scientist? Or eating jellyfish?
‘Or flying to Jamaica,’ Leroy said and took her hands. He pulled Dolly to her feet as a favourite track played. He twirled her in a circle, before slipping an arm around her waist. ‘It’s time we both moved to the beat of the drums again, baby.’
As her body bounced up and down, as her feet followed his, an unfamiliar effervescence inside, warm and fizzing, kept her moving. The only challenge Dolly had faced this last year was crawling out of bed before the sun set. They sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and drank more rum as distant fireworks burst into glittering bouquets.
‘No more moping, then,’ he said, slurring a little. Dolly hoped he wouldn’t be sick on the plane. ‘We both need to get back on track.’ He cocked his head. ‘Did you get the results back from those tests the doctor ran last month?’
Dolly had slipped on an empty pizza takeout box and sprained her ankle. Leroy had persuaded her to get it checked out. Whilst at the surgery, the doctor had suggested checking her vitals, weight, blood pressure, cholesterol levels… Dolly had a moan to Leroy about it when she came out. If only she’d kept her mouth shut.
‘She rang me. We discussed everything.’ Back on the sofa again, Dolly prised the lid off the tub of brownies.
‘And?’
She pushed the moist dough into her mouth. Her blood pressure was high. So was her cholesterol. The doctor had worked out a ratio that said she was at risk of a heart attack. What a fuss over a bunch of statistics. She had her appetite and her mum always said that was the most important thing. Not that Dolly remembered much about her mother, who was always at work, often too tired for a hug or a natter. It was Greta who took Dolly to school, who wiped away tears, who provided her with a home when, Dolly aged ten, Greta got her first flat and their mother lost her job. Everyone said it made sense. Mum always seemed closer to Greta who, being older, had more in common with her. She’d named her after the sophisticated actress Greta Garbo, famous for playing strong-willed heroines, whereas Dorothy must have been inspired by a girl with sparkly red shoes and pigtails who got lost.
‘So what if I eat too much cake and pizza? I’ve got my eyes and ears and can walk from A to B.’
‘What exactly did the doctor say?’
‘Leroy, don’t ruin things. You’re the one person who doesn’t think I need fixing. You haven’t tried to jolly me along with sentences starting withat least…’Yes, Dolly had a decent pension, a nice home and Maurice, but none of that would bring back Greta. ‘You’ve just been there for me. Please don’t change now.’
He folded his arms.
It spilled out, how the doctor thought she was at risk of heart problems if she didn’t change her ways; that she needed to revamp her diet, and exercise. The doctor wanted to put Dolly on tablets.
‘Ridiculous. I’m as fit as a fiddle.’ As for the doctor offering to visit, to discuss her situation, ‘I said no, of course, I’m sure she has far more ill patients to concern herself with. Don’t worry about me, Leroy. We’d joke Greta had scones with her butter, and not the other way around, and look how long she lived for.’
Leroy looked her straight in the eye. ‘Yes, and look what happened…’ He bit his lip. ‘This notebook could be a sign from the universe. You can’t carry on as you are, gal.’
She took his hand in hers, lifted it up and gave it a kiss, before they relaxed back into the sofa and their heads leant against each other.
* * *
Dolly stumbled home after waving him off in a taxi. Hadn’t she spent tonight dancing, up until all hours? She wouldn’t be able to do that if she was on the verge of snuffing it. She’d just felt a bit out of sorts this last year. No one, not the doctor, not Leroy, needed to know she had occasional chest pains. Everyone knew indigestion was more common as you got older. Shaking her head, she went inside, took off her anorak and headed into the lounge.
Oh, bugger. She’d left the lid off the fish tank. The hole to drop Maurice’s flakes through had become bunged up and Dolly had lifted the lid off to push a finger through, but, running late, she’d placed the lid on the floor, her mind on the buffet bits she’d needed to take to Leroy’s.
Squinting, she bobbed down by the tank, about to put the lid back on. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of weed, she peered closer to see if Maurice was hiding under his bridge. The lights might have woken him up. Where was he?
A shudder spread across her shoulders and Dolly studied the carpet around the bottom of the tank. A shiny object caught her eye and stole the breath from her body. No. It couldn’t be. Poor Maurice gasped for his life, flipping his gold body from side to side. He still looked wet; he couldn’t have been there long. Carefully Dolly scooped him up, terrified of damaging his scales as she eased him into the water. He gulped and twitched and after a few minutes she took her hands away. Maurice sank to the gravel, his top fin flat.
‘Come on little chap,’ she said, gravel in her voice. ‘Don’t leave me. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’
