Wherever You Go

By Jeb Olsham

Jennifer lived the dream: Traveling the world with the love of her life, Nick. They shared their happiness with a global audience, making a living out of being in love with each other and blogging about it. That was then. Now Jennifer is living alone in cheap hostels, glued to her phone waiting for updates on Nick’s social media. He is still traveling and she follows him, staying in the same cities and anticipating his moves to be near him. She obsesses over the drunken night six months before when her life fell apart, and she is prepared to do whatever it takes to fix it. If only she can get Nick alone, without his gorgeous new girlfriend clinging to his arm in fear, Jennifer is sure she can get through to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeb Olsham
• Release date: Nov 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463769669

Book preview

She had become unsteady on her high heels, and if fear of falling over had not made her stop for a breather before returning to the pub she might never have heard anything. Over the following year she would often wish that had been the case. Other times she would wish she had reacted differently. But it was over so fast, and she had stumbled over the name she heard. The name had frozen her and trapped an uncertain grimace on her face in place of a smile.

She had not gone far from the pub. Down the deserted side street running parallel to the city’s famous beachline, the big trees and parked cars had blocked her view. Not that she had been looking for anything but fresh air and a connection on her phone. They had gone for drinks in swanky Leblon that largely turned in on itself at night, with thick metal bars in front of the luxury residences to keep out the abject poverty that in Rio was never more than a brisk walk away. But she had not been alone.

The voice had drifted to her ear on a light wind, an uninvited monologue dismissed as drunk-talk until she became unsure.

Don’t’ be frisky. I told you I feel funny...

Just a little bit funny, you know. And I want to go to the bathroom…

You know, Nick, you look funny. Have you also been drinking? Do you feel funny too? Naughty, drunken Nick. What are you up to, naughty Nick?

A car door had slammed then and the voice died, or at least it became muffled so she could not make out what words it was saying anymore. All that remained was the wind rustling the trees and the hem of her best red dress, and from half a block down faint sounds of music and voices, English and Brazilian, laughing. The motor had started and she had felt a lot more sober all of a sudden, but still dizzy. Exposed to a wind that had turned cold and a dress that had become flimsy. Once the car was gone she had still been perplexed by the voice and the name but by then it was too late anyway. She had smoothed down her wavering dress over her thighs and fiddled with her phone thinking she should maybe try calling Nick again, a few more times, and see if he picked up.

Chapter Two

We try so hard to be what we’re not. To possess what we don’t need. I should know. Been there done that. But I’m here to tell you to stop struggling to live up to the crazy expectations someone else has put into your head, and start following your heart. It knows what you really need. Don’t swim against the current of happiness inside. Swim with it, or even better, just let go and see where it takes you.

- Nick Wade, speaking at TEDx London

Jennifer swirled a fork through the boiling pasta and extracted a single strand, whirled the slippery but firm string deftly around the fork, and lowered it dangling end first into her mouth. She needed it to be encouraging - if not inspirational – pasta to keep her spirits up after reading the post Nick’s new girlfriend had added to his blog earlier that day. Half a year had passed and Jennifer still thought of Isadora as Nick’s new girlfriend.

The post was titled Sulawesi Shenanigans and proved that the gang was still on the wrong Indonesian island. It had been a genuinely funny/romantic post and reading it had wound Jennifer’s stomach so tight she was not sure she would actually be able to squeeze any spaghetti into it. But she still had to cook. What was ‘Jen’s travelling kitchen’ without Jen’s cooking? And what was Jen with without her traveling kitchen? What else was she going to do, go back to school like her parents wanted? Admit defeat at twenty-seven, while there was still time to start over? Jennifer shuddered at the thought, then shuddered at the thought of time ticking by. Half a year.

It did not salvage her appetite that the pasta was indeed boiled to perfection. But it did soothe her pride to be reminded that she could get something just right, despite getting most everything else in her life just wrong as she had been getting it for the past six months. Ever since she made the biggest mistake of her life. Ever since she had forced Nick to leave her. Somehow it had all fallen apart then, and it seemed he had taken everything with him but the ability to cook perfect pasta.

She lifted the pot off the plate and poured the steaming pasta into the sieve she was holding with her other hand. She was still pouring when her phone vibrated where it lay on the other side of the sink. Still holding the sieve, Jennifer leaned over to see. It was Nick! He had twittered. Jennifer twisted her body and craned her neck to read the first few characters. To access all one-hundred-and-forty of them she would need her hands free to swipe and press, but if she was quick and limber she could read the first line of his post before the screen dimmed again. Get the general idea of what he was saying, rather than having to wait excruciating seconds to find out.

She read: When you’re just chillin’ while your girl… Jennifer spilled boiling water on her right hand, swore out loud, and dropped the sieve into the sink. Perfect pasta spilled out and a few strands slithered down the drain. She quickly scooped most of it back up and rinsed it briefly with bottled water - lab results of tap water controls were state secrets in Indonesia - and bottled water was cheap. She poured the pasta back in the pan, wiped her hands down on her pants, blew on the scalded parts, and picked up the phone again.

The full tweet read: When you’re just chillin’ while your girl takes care of the biz #easymonday. It was basically a link to the blog post Jennifer had already seen but it came with a picture of Nick, Jonas and Trevor in a bar. They were relaxing with beers in front of them and Trevor’s arms around a dolled up Indonesian girl Jennifer did not recognize.

At least Isadora was not in the picture, but the praise of her made Jennifer’s stomach clench even tighter. Beautiful, fun and carefree Isadora was apparently a capable businesswoman now. Jennifer remembered Isadora’s marked Brazilian accent and endearing struggles with the English language. A fast learner, then. Now Isadora was Nick’s trusted partner. A layer of sweat started to coat Jennifer’s skin despite the air-conditioning in the kitchen.

In the picture, Nick was wearing a tightly fitting shirt and a stupid hat he somehow managed to pull off even though it hid most of his exquisite brown curls. He’d probably chosen that hat precisely because he knew he could swing it even though that should not have been possible, and he wanted people to wonder how he did it. Of course, he would claim it had simply been the nearest hat on the shelf. Would say Jennifer was overcomplicating things.

Jennifer longed to hear him say it, something gently ironic but reassuring, like: I can tell you’re jealous, Jen, but you can have a cool hat too, you know. I’ll even help you pick it out. That way you too can benefit from my expertise and style. She could almost hear his voice and she started to actually want a matching hat of her own. That was how powerful her memories of Nick were.

Chapter Three

Harper let the phone ring itself out while she changed the settings to ‘ignore everything they throw at you’. It was not that she was avoiding the call, she just did not want to take it for another couple of hours. She had told her client she would call back in the afternoon and would be working until then, which was entirely true. She had implied she would be working on the case the client would be calling about, which was slightly less true.

Harper leaned back and took a deep breath, leaving the disarmed phone on the ergonomic desk in front of her. She was pondering her reputation as a daydreamer and admitting that it was true.

At the neighboring station, two youngsters high-fived each other. They must have done something clever on their computers. As far as Harper knew ‘doing clever things with computers’ was their job description. Sal had told her so. The youngsters had not been her neighbors yesterday. Apparently fluid seating arrangements were good for productivity. Harper would not try to deny it, but the arrangement did make it more difficult to get familiar with them. She recognized them just fine and she knew their names, as in she knew there was a Daniel in the mix, a Trudy somewhere, an Aicha and so on. She had just not figured out how to combine names and faces yet. It made her feel old and slow. She shook her head, wondering what sixty would feel like when this was thirty-seven. She reminded herself she was still sort of young. Young enough to start over at least.

Sal was the one who had suggested Harper lease a desk in the shared office space in Southwark that HG Investigations now called home. Sal had claimed she felt like an alien among the young tech-workers, though it now appeared Sal was basically their entire HR department and absolutely indispensable to everything the company did. Sal had made it sound like Harper would be doing her a favor by moving in, like the two of them could sit all day and shake their heads at young folks. Harper had figured that shaking heads at young folks would be useful practice for her later years.

Of course, on her first visit to the place Harper had seen that Sal was in constant demand despite her claims to be helplessly mystified by the business model and products of the company she worked for. Harper barely saw Sal during the day and had not really expected otherwise.

But it was looking like time for one of those rare sightings because Sal was whisking past the row of tables towards Harper’s desk in the corner, a cup of coffee in one hand and some thick folder in the other. A clear sign that Sal was multitasking vigorously, as usual.

Ah! There you are darling.

Yes, here I am. Harper said. Rather predictably, I’m afraid. Sal always found Harper at her desk, but liked to give the impression of having looked for Harper for a long time and that the sight of her was the tonic that gave Sal the courage to go on.

So, Harper. Sal made a serious face. I see you have booked M2 for the next hour.

Yes. But I’ll probably be done in thirty minutes. If my client is not too late.

I’m sure he wouldn’t dare. Are they often rudely late, these clients of yours?

Harper shrugged. From time to time. Not less than other people. Sal smiled sympathetically and cocked her head. Listen, pumpkin, do you think we might slip in there for a few minutes before your big meeting? We’ll be out again so quick you won’t hardly know it.

Well the only thing is that my client is actually due right now.

But you know how clients are. Sal said, undiscouraged. Never on time, doesn’t call to let you know and ten minutes later they cancel the appointment by e-mail. So here’s the situation: Chris and Aicha have a recording of Trudy at the karaoke bar last Friday, giving Beyoncé a run for her money. We can’t play it out in the open for everyone to hear. That would not be professional. Not before I’ve made sure it’s as funny as they say it is.

Sally how does poor Trudy feel about the HR department organizing a bullying campaign against her behind her back?

Bullying campaign? Behind her back? Trudy’s the one who’s begging me to find a room. Sal waved at a small group of young people waiting politely by the door to the meeting room. A very young woman, quite possibly Trudy, waved enthusiastically back.

Harper smiled weakly. You promise to herd them out of there if need be?

Sal put a hand on Harpers shoulder and turned her head to call out, rather loud: It’s alright. Don’t dillydally now! Let’s get the show started. Back to Harper: You’re a jolly good girl you know. And I promise that as soon as your client walks through the door I will drag those hipsters out of there by their non-prescription glasses myself. Trust me Harper. Have I ever let you down?

No. Harper admitted. And she knew that if anyone could successfully wrangle a congregation of hipsters, whatever those were exactly, it would probably be Sal.

Of course I haven’t. Now excuse me, I have to go and try not to laugh too hard at poor Trudy. Foolish girl.

Harper never could tell if being around Sal made her feel younger or older than she was, but she was happy with the office accommodations her friend had let her to. The price matched the still modest list of clients Harper was tending to and she was invigorated by the sometimes hectic atmosphere and the presence of young people. As long as Harper was not the one who had to disrupt the app-ecosystem and ‘change the game’ every few months, she was happy to soak up the lively atmosphere and once in a while relax in the bean bags.

And Sal was right. Her little group was soon filing out of M2 with no word from Harper’s client yet. They were still looking cheerful, even the girl who was probably Trudy. Especially her. She was performing a few dance-moves as they were leaving.

Harper leaned back in her chair with another deep breath. She saw him then, appearing just behind Trudy. At least a head taller than the crowd and with a bearing that made one think of morning assemblies in private schools, he took in his surroundings from up high.

He looked quizzically around, probably wondering if he was in the right place. He might have been expecting rows of fedoras and trench coats hung by the door, not karaoke cubicles and dancing hipsters. He would be looking for a private detective, after all. Harper imagined he looked pleasantly surprised when she caught his eye. She went over and extended a hand: Nick Wade, I presume.

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