Forget About Her, Mate
Early on a Sunday morning, the ringing phone jolted Andrew awake. Half-asleep, he grabbed his mobile and stared blankly at the dark screen. Then the doorbell chimed. He bolted up, threw on some clothes, and rushed to answer—everyone knows when someone’s banging on your door at dawn, it’s never for nothing.
“Alright, sleepyhead! Taking the piss, are ya? Not happy to see an old mate?”
Standing there was Nick Moss, his university friend. “Mind if I come in?”
“Nick? Bloody hell, what brings you here?” Andrew clasped him in a bear hug and tugged him inside. “Could’ve given me a heads-up, you git. How’d you even find me?”
“Stopped by your folks’. Your mum gave me the address. Told me you’d divorced and buggered off here. I’m just passing through—booked the ticket this way on purpose. Show me where the kettle is.”
“Kitchen’s there. I’ll freshen up quick. Stick the kettle on!” Andrew shouted, shutting himself in the loo.
When he returned, a bottle of red wine sat on the table, and Nick was slicing cheddar.
“Sorry, mate, helped meself. Your fridge is bare as a bone. Starving yourself?” Nick scolded, assembling neat cheese toasties. “What are mates for if not to keep you from wasting away?”
“Wine? This early?” Andrew spun the bottle to read the label.
“Who’s gonna stop us? Just a nip to grease the wheels, yeah?”
They drank, munched on toasties and scrambled eggs, and talked—endless reminiscing.
Nick had married young, right out of uni.
“Father-in-law retired, so I run the construction firm now. Go on, be jealous. Eldest lad’s finishing school, youngest is in Year 8. Life’s sorted,” Nick bragged. “But I’ve heard about you. Never found your Annie, then?”
“Remember her? No, never did.”
“Don’t tell me you’re rattlin’ round this place alone.” Nick shoved the last bite of toastie into his mouth.
“Got my boy, Sam. He’s at his mum’s for a birthday—should be back soon.”
Back then, the lads had warned Andrew not to marry Laura. But he’d dug his heels in—she reminded him of Anne, “Annie,” as they’d nicknamed her. Her son had called Andrew “Dad” straight off, and Andrew had grown fiercely attached. But the marriage didn’t last.
Laura remarried almost instantly. Sam never took to the new stepdad, often running off to Andrew’s. Laura accused Andrew of deliberately luring the boy away. Sick of the rows, he moved to Bristol.
“Sam spent every summer with me. Laura had another kid, stopped botherin’. After A-levels, he moved in for good,” Andrew explained.
“Bloody soap opera, this,” Nick said, pouring the last of the wine.
“Nah, it’s smoothed over now.” They clinked glasses.
“I’d hoped you’d find her. Proper love story, that was,” Nick sighed.
Andrew stayed quiet. Lately, he rarely thought of Annie—but Nick’s visit had stirred the past.
At the station, they vowed not to lose touch again. Back home, Andrew dug out an old album and found Anne’s photo. He stared, helplessly dragged back to those long-gone days…
***
Nick had wheedled his dad’s old car out of him, and the three mates drove south to Freddie’s relatives’ place. With uni term still weeks off, why not a holiday?
In Devon, peach and apple harvest was in full swing. The lads took on picking work—extra cash never hurt, especially for students. They toiled at dawn, then bolted for the sea when the sun got vicious.
That’s where they saw Anne. She sat on the shore, staring at the horizon.
“Annie’s waitin’ for her Prince Charming,” Nick joked.
The name stuck. The others had steady girlfriends, but Andrew had never been serious about anyone.
Nick and Freddie whooped into the waves, leaving Andrew to approach her.
“Waiting for a ship with golden sails?” he teased.
She looked up. Anguish in her eyes killed his smile. She turned back to the sea. He sat beside her, hugging his knees. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Hear that?” Andrew asked, listening to the waves.
“The sea’s talking,” she murmured.
He blinked—she’d said his exact thought aloud. They sat in silence, just listening.
When the lads waved him over, Andrew reluctantly stood. “I’ve got to go. Tomorrow, same time?”
She glanced up briefly, silent. But next day, she was there.
Her name, Anne, seemed perfect. Yet when he probed for details, she stood and walked off. He followed, wordlessly escorting her home.
Her mystery hooked him. That evening, he tossed a pebble at her window. She stepped out—wearing shorts and a loose blouse, top buttons undone. He was smitten.
They strolled the promenade. She stayed quiet; he babbled to mask his nerves.
The sunset painted the sky crimson, reflecting softly in her eyes. Mesmerised, Andrew wished he’d brought his camera. When she refused to face him, he waded into the shallows and snapped the shutter. She hadn’t turned away fast enough.
That photo was his only proof she’d been real.
They walked the shore nightly. Once, he dared to kiss her. She didn’t pull back—but tensed so sharply he retreated. Her enigma only drew him deeper.
By holiday’s end, he’d lost weight, tanned to leather, and barely slept—too busy chasing stolen moments with her. His mates stopped joking; his lovesick haze was no laughing matter.
Time was almost up. Andrew resolved to confess his feelings.
That noon, the lads skipped the beach. He went alone—Anne wasn’t there. He sprinted to her place, but the gate was locked. Another pebble against the window.
A woman stormed out. “Clear off, or I’ll call the police!”
“Please, is Anne there?”
“Gone home.”
“Where?”
“None of your business. Forget her, lad,” she snapped, vanishing inside.
He begged for an address that evening, but she slammed the door.
Next morning, they left. The clunker might break down—best allow time for repairs. Andrew stayed silent the whole ride.
“If it’s meant to be, you’ll find her,” Nick said.
By term’s end, Andrew met Laura. She reminded him of Anne—same slight frame, though darker-haired. She had a son already. His parents warned against the marriage, but he’d convinced himself it was fate…
***
Andrew lit a cig by the kitchen window, dawn tinting the sky. “Hope Sam’s back soon,” he thought. No point sleeping now—work loomed.
At lunch, Sam called. “Got a surprise tonight. Don’t be late.”
“Your mum with you?”
“Nah, you’ll see.”
Home that evening, Sam chopped veg for salad. A cake box sat on the table.
“Blimey, what’s the occasion? How was the trip?” Andrew clapped his shoulder.
“Fine. Sit down—got something to say—” The doorbell cut him off.
“Dad, meet Vicky, my girlfriend. Vicky, this is me dad, Andrew.” Sam frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In the doorway stood a slim, flustered girl. For a heartbeat, Andrew thought it was Anne. He nearly asked why Sam called her Vicky—then realised. Same build, but Anne’s hair had been wavier, her eyes sadder.
Over tea, Vicky spotted the forgotten photo on the side.
“That’s my mum! We don’t have this one—where’d you get it?”
Sam peered over. “From his old album. Vicky—your mum’s name wasn’t Anne, was it? Where is she?”
Andrew barely held back the storm inside. “How old are you, Vicky?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“Dad’s implying you could’ve been his daughter. But it’s fine—we’re not blood,” Sam joked, defusing the tension.
“Don’t be daft,” Andrew snapped. “Anne and I—nothing happened. I just…”
“She died when I was three,” Vicky whispered, setting the photo down.
Andrew collapsed onto the sofa.
“Dad—”
“Wait,” Vicky cut in, sitting beside him. “Mum married young—got pregnant first. Doctors told her not to have me. Tumour. She did anyway. After chemo… Dad said she was too weak to hold me. Then she seemed better.”
“They went to the seaside—his aunt’s. I caught a cold, so Mum went alone. I remember her coming home crying, hugging me. I just wailed. Dad saysAndrew stubbed out his cigarette, realizing that some love stories aren’t meant to have endings—just quiet echoes that linger in the hearts of those who remember.
