Page 10 of Wish You Were Here
Dear Saskia, singer/care-worker,
The term ‘pebbly beach’ is simply a description of the sort of beaches we have here in England. It is a beach where instead of sand we have small pebbles. I don’t often feel sad, although now you mention it, when it is quite bleak in winter and I haven’t seen the sun for two months straight, I do sometimes wake up crying uncontrollably. Is that a problem?
A singer! Wow. That is very cool. What sort of stuff do you sing? Also, you work at a retirement home. Perhaps you really are the total package! Do you happen to also love Englishmen and find deep-seated insecurity strangely attractive? You are correct about asset managers. The clue is in the title!
If we are to continue whatever this is – email pals? – then I must insist you stop bragging about the weather and the beaches in Sydney because it just isn’t fair. Right now I am in my office. It’s grey and dull, and all I can see are dull greybuildings outside. And they have forecast heavy rain! Hardly fair, like the time I was attacked with the cheese, and no, I definitely didn’t deserve it! I broke up with her as gently as I could. She, on the other hand, used ‘find my phone’ which I didn’t agree to, then she tracked me down and attacked me with the burrata! Have you ever been attacked with a food item? A lamington perhaps? A jar of Vegemite?
For the record, I don’t think being afraid of gloves is silly at all. What is my most embarrassing secret? Okay, here goes, and mum’s the word. When I was a kid at school, one day I wet myself in class. You might think that’s fine until I tell you I was fifteen! It’s a long story involving an extremely cold morning, a large cup of coffee, and a strict teacher, but anyway, I ended up peeing myself in class. Obviously, other boys soon found out, and it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. The teacher demanded I leave his class and go to the school nurse, and so I had to get up and walk with wet trousers, stinking of urine, with all the other boys laughing at me. Fast-forward to now and I still have nightmares about peeing myself at work, or in front of family and friends. So, I guess I have an irrational fear of wetting myself in public. Is that embarrassing enough for you?
All the best,
Ben ‘quite sad in winter’ Armstrong x
PS. I located the correct Saskia Conway. She lives somewhere called Watson’s Bay.
PPS. Yes, I am currently single. What about you?
5
Ben
I am sitting in the living room with Flatmate Simon, who is donning a rather fetching white and blue dressing gown he acquired from a hotel in Dusseldorf, preparing myself for a date with Cressida. Cressida Reed works with Abigail and does something with magazine shoots. Cressida is twenty-eight, recently single after a long-term relationship, and according to Abigail, is perfect for me. I am having a pre-date drink with Flatmate Simon, who is watching a film with Emily Blunt and Tom Cruise, and I’m telling him about Saskia.
‘So you sent her an email by mistake and now you’re what, friends?’
‘Yes, it’s so weird. It turns out that I missed the underscore in the email address, and so instead of sending the email to Saskia underscore Conway, I sent it to just plain old Saskia Conway, she replied, and we’ve been emailing each other every day since.’
‘She lives in Sydney?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she hot?’
‘I have no idea. We haven’t been sending each other photographs of ourselves.’
‘Have you looked her up?’
‘As in social media because you know I don’t do social media?’
‘Oh yes, I forgot you were a massive freak.’
‘Not a massive freak. I just have better things to do with my time.’
‘Whatever, it’s weird,’ says Flatmate Simon, grabbing his phone. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Saskia Conway.’
‘Saskia Conway,’ says Flatmate Simon slowly, typing her name into Instagram before he turns his phone towards me. ‘Any of these?’
I look at his phone, and there are a few different accounts with that name, and he clicks on them for me, but I don’t think any of them are my Saskia Conway, but then something comes to me. I tell him she’s a singer, and so he types in ‘Saskia Conway singer Sydney’, and we find an account and it’s her! He clicks on it and there are videos of her singing in pubs across Sydney, and some publicity shots of her standing outside venues with her guitar and then some by the Sydney Harbour Bridge, looking dare I say, sexy. It feels surreal to put a face to the emails I have been sending across the world, and it is even stranger because the face of the girl is nothing like I imagined. I don’t know why, but I had assumed the person I was emailing would look a little older, and certainly not the fresh-faced, beautiful woman I see staring back at me with an incredible voice. She has long, slightly curly blonde hair, bright green eyes, surprisingly pale skin for someone who lives in Australia, and is just—
‘She’s fit!’ says Flatmate Simon.
‘She’s pleasantly attractive.’
‘Pleasantly attractive? She’s way out of your league, pal.’
‘She’s not out of my league; she’s just Australian. Anyway, it isn’t like anything can happen.’
