It was blinking at me, glaringly bright amidst the darkness of a sleepless four ante meridiem. Outlined by void little pixels on my laptop screen was the one word that had changed so many lives, staring through the static brightness under alarmingly technicolour letters spelling “Google”. My chest quivered as my breaths became more shallow and anxiety drenched my already saturated body. 

 

     I wanted to cry, scream and laugh all at once. Twelve hours earlier, my grandfather, Albert, had called me to organise afternoon tea. His call was brief, simply giving me some coordinates that I punched into my GPS that jumped around dangerously on the handlebars of my Sea Foam Green bicycle, threatening to dive into each iridescent puddle of oil and water that covered my path. When my GPS, who I had less-than-endearingly nicknamed Brenda after a peculiarly drab woman on my occasional train trip, had announced that I had “arrived at my destination” in stagnant syllables, I could have sworn my heart stopped. I was surrounded by signage. Victoria Hospital. I had approached the glass-automated doors to the tempo of my bicycle wheels, clicking at each 176cm interval. And just like that, Albert’s story was lost amongst all those of loss, sadness and miracles, insignificant between the spongy, sick-saturated walls of this time capsule of a building.

 

     I pressed Enter in one brisk downward flick of my right pinkie. Fate. Events that are predestined to happen in a particular way. I nearly cracked a smile at the thought of having turned to something so unhuman, a search engine, to inform me of what was currently making me feel more human than ever. Here it was telling me that the synonyms of fate included chance, circumstance, consequence, doom and termination. These words were so foreign in context to the story Albert had left forever to be absorbed by the walls of the oncology ward of Victoria Hospital and forever to linger over my own fate.

 

“Ma’ girl!” Albert had exclaimed as he saw me enter his room, his eyes tracing the familiar slight brown wave in my hair – always the same, I imagined him thinking as I suddenly became self-aware. Everything was white, making his English complexion appear the colour of tea-soaked prunes in comparison. I couldn’t take it. He seemed so lively, nothing seemed any different. I forced a smile and took his face in my hands.

“Albert, what have I told you about white?! It washes you out completely.” I unwrapped my Evergreen Green thick knit scarf from around my neck and slung it around Albert’s. I’d always hated the repetition of Evergreen Green; though the simplicity of just plain green tickled my annoyance even more so.

     “Much better!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands in an overly jolly excitement and tenderly kissing him on the little cap of exposed skin that had recently made an appearance. Two months earlier he was so proud when he finally started balding that he’d thrown a party, complete with egg races, Most-Creative-Lawn-Mower competitions and, on arrival of each guest, he had cupped his hands over that barely-there bald-patch and screeched “peek-a-patch!” before roaring with laughter.

    “Now, ma girl. Our meals should be served in approximately fifteen minutes. Only fine dining here, you see. Well worth the wait! So, ma girl. I’ll be off on a new adventure in less than four months it seems. The lady at the desk has been nice enough to surprise me with a booking to that unknown place everyone in this ward seems to go to. Beauty of a trip I’ve heard. Absolute beauty!” Albert paused to offer me an overly enthusiastic grin that made my returning half-smile look pathetic in comparison.

     “I have been quite a happy man, very blessed to have had your grandmother, your mother and yourself; however I do need your assistance with a woman…” Albert must have caught a glimpse of the confused, somewhat horrified expression on my face. My mother and grandmother had both been the victims of a fatal car accident when I was six years old. It appeared that my grandmother had been driving when a car had crossed onto the wrong side of the road. A woman, Albert had told me, though he knew little more than myself. Since, Albert had never allowed another woman in his life, nor, it seemed, another motorised vehicle other than his beloved lawn mower.

      “Ah, ma girl. I’ve had a long time to live and this woman ain’t a new bird. Not even your grandmother knew of her. You see, I was engaged when we conceived and married to raise your mother.

     “Emily. Emily was her name. You see, she was my only one true love. I loved your grandmother too, yes. Of course I did. Great woman she was, great woman. Biggest heart I could have ever asked for. I did love her, trust me I did. But never as deeply as Emily. She was a great believer in fate you know. A great believer.” Albert’s eyes were distant, coupled with a smile laced with nostalgia. He always became somewhat repetitive when reminiscing.

     “I was seventeen at the time. Seventeen! Such an innocent, silly young age. She was sixteen. I had left school, left home and travelled to England after saving just enough money to get me there and back. Took me all of seven months Holly. Seven! God, ma girl, I couldn’t wait to pack up and leave.

     “In search of love I was. And love I found. Emily. She was beautiful. Three months I was in England and I found myself engaged. I couldn’t afford much so it was just a plain gold band with a small emerald. I had to make it special though Hol. I had to. So I hand engraved our initials on the inside – such a romantic I was, so romantic!” Albert looked chuffed. His cheeks glowing in what was a mixture of happiness and embarrassment at the romantic, seventeen year-old Albert. 

     “I did it so she’d never forget me if we ever grew old together or demented. I always wanted proof you know? None of those horror stories of spouses not recognising each other on their deathbed.” Albert snorted.        

     “That’s how much I loved her Holly. Love can happen overnight, at any age. And she was the one.”

     “Then why grandma?” Confused would have been an understatement in describing my current state of mind.

     “Ah, ever the curious mind ma girl. Neither of us knew what we were going back to. Where we would be. There was none of this Internet crap you have these days. Nothing like that. Snail mail was the way! Only, we had no homes, no addresses.” He paused. “No addresses.” He raised his eyes to the stark white ceiling and sighed, defeated.

     “So we parted ways. We were both believers of fate Holly. Fate is an amazing thing. She told me that if it were meant to be, we’d find each other again. And she seemed so sure. So sure.” Albert hung his head and shook it, nuzzling the green knit of my scarf.

     I ran my fingers along the small loopholes of my Evergreen Green scarf and adjusted it endearingly around his neck. Why was he telling me this?

     “Ma girl. Holly…” Pause. “I need you to find her. To bring her to me. She should be 69 now. Still a young chicky, I tell ya!” He then gave a cheeky chuckle and I elbowed him gently, rolling my eyes.

     He rummaged under his hospital gown and pulled a folded photograph from the band of his jocks. “If women have bras for bags, then I’m using my jocks!” was always his argument whenever an eyebrow was raised regarding his bizarre choice of miscellaneous storage. He delicately unfolded it, the movement unfamiliar to his bulbous, weathered hands. A photo of a beautiful young girl revealed itself, her small pixie features glowing. Emily.

     “So what ya reckon, Holly?” Albert broke my thoughts of admiration.

     “Huh?”

     “Will ya find her and bring her to me? Could be your career-making article!” He winked at me.

     “I’ll do my best Albert.” I smiled a sad-eyed smile. I meant it. I would try my best. But the likelihood of finding a woman by the name of Emily with an emerald ring seemed slim. It must have shown on my face because Albert took my hand and whispered, “fate, ma girl. Fate.”

     And at that moment, as promised, a large plate of dry scones, sticky jam and all-too-yellow cream arrived, served by a mature-aged nurse rather resembling an ostrich.

 

     I opened a new document on my rose pink Macintosh and stared down at my Cobalt Blue nails, a colour Maria – my upwards-of-sixty, exact-age-unknown fantastical flatmate who, in the flurry of a midlife crisis, had reinvented herself to embrace her colourful character – had picked for me after deciding I was far too “drearily monochromatic” in my colour palette. Maria always sparked a little something inside of me. I’d always hoped to be as lively as her when I am sixty; although maybe without the grass skirts coupled with her seductive topless belly dancing during which her sixty-year-old skin moved more swiftly than her agile hips with impressive buoyancy. So far Maria’s voluptuous figure had sent two gardeners to hospital and one to prison for any combination of shock, cardiac arrest and alleged breaking-and-entering.

     I closed my eyes and thought of Albert, most likely sound asleep and peacefully dreaming of his dear Emily. I myself had only ever been in love once and it was nothing like Albert had described. When it had come to uttering those fateful three words, that like Google’s definition of fate have the possibility to result in doom, I took three hours to peel them from my tongue and daintily spray them on my lover’s lightly freckled face. Though perhaps a tad disgusting, it did make him glitter and gleam in the faint glow of fairy lights outside his bedroom window. Perhaps that utterance of “I love you” did indeed fatefully doom the relationship. That thought seemed as real as ever as I picked up my fluffy grey bed socks and cocooned my small, icy feet before sliding underneath my beige and chocolate discount cookie-patterned quilt cover. I couldn’t help but notice the cool pocket of air on my left. I squeezed my eyes together - part of me wishing they’d just fuse shut so that I could fall into the comfort of darkness - groaned and pushed my dignity aside with one brutal shove as I lay two sad excuses for what one may call pillows beside me and cuddled them. They didn’t have a heartbeat. No slight hint of stubble or radiating warmth, but for now, they would have to suffice.

     I ducked my head under my covers and welcomed the breath of warmth that rushed over my frozen, Thulian Pink nose and Baker-Miller Pink cheeks. Maybe if I stayed there long enough, I would one day awake to the voice of my Prince Charming on his gallant stallion, and with him, my happily ever after.

 

     Amongst Maria’s odes to “It’s Raining Men” accompanied by the pitter patter of dozens of swollen eggs bursting against the rickety floorboards of my low-rent apartment, I awoke to the silent nagging of Document 1, still open and glaring at me from my desk, four feet from my flushed face - just close enough to add to the discomfort of three hours sleep. Maria must be baking again. Recently she had committed to the extremities of a DIY, BYO crash-course in pastry cooking in order to win the heart of 48-year-old Knut - the German baker downstairs. (I preferred the term-of-endearment Knut-Case, to be completely honest but Maria wouldn’t have any of that). She had glimpsed his greying-German-charm, complete with beer belly and remarkable under bite as she sauntered out of the apartment complex to her Wednesday pole-dancing class; however it wasn't until she tasted Knut's Coffee-Knut-Buns - the perfect mixture of intense aphrodisiac and sweet creaminess - that Maria jumped, dived, and skipped into my bedroom, breasts swinging liberally in her satin singlet, to announce her plans to "tie the Knut and get Maria'd" in a bizarre adaptation of the Scottish accent. 

    

     Pigeon Blue, but not quite - unless the pigeon was particularly purple in its undertones. Document 1 was framed by its calming, slightly boring, political hues. This one electronic document, stuffed into the mysterious hard drive of my laptop held so much potential. It could be a plane, the beginnings of a job, a leap of romance, or perhaps even a piñata. Was this really my incredible, awe-inspiring master plan to win the heart of Albert’s Emily that will sweep her off her feet, into one of; car, airplane, train; and have her delivered on a silver platter with a delicate Buttercup Gold bow secured around her dainty neck?

     I entered the kitchen, still wearing my worn jeans and apricot blouse from yesterday, now soaked with the stale aroma of sleep and sweat. Maria was alarmingly clothed, her usually liberal figure consumed by a long black kimono splattered with egg yolk.

     “Oh Sweetpea! My gorgeous Sweetpea! I heard the news. My spirit guides told me in my sleep.” Maria’s face was distorted in what I could only assume was an expression of sympathy. I smiled a grim smile before leaving her to her baking – and her spirit guides. I needed to distract myself with something. I walked steadily to the front door, glimpsing myself in the mirror. My eyes skimmed over my plain brown, knotted hair that was echoed by the dark rings of mascara that appeared under my eyes each morning. Not too bad, I thought. Sometimes I liked – but only just – how I looked when I was tired. If this was how I was supposed to look at my worst – three hours sleep, dying grandfather and with an impossible mission – surely someone could learn to love me! Though perhaps that was a little optimistic, even for me.

     My feet landed on each step with an uninspiring thud before I was met with a rush of fresh air. Bliss! I could imagine my mother saying before releasing a jolly chuckle. That laugh was the one thing that grew to haunt me in the most pleasant way. Bliss, was also the last word I had ever heard her utter. Lost in my thoughts, I arrived at my PO Box, stabbing around its Silver Sand keyhole blindly with my key. Expecting to wave my hand around in an empty box as usual, I was pleasantly surprised to feel the smooth tooth of paper. Little did I know that this one piece of 80gsm paper concealed by matching envelope, with its Ultramarine freehand had already sent undercurrents through my foundations and begun fractured everything I had come to know.

     I opened it.  

"Get out of the way ya bum! Drink ya dosh away did ya?"

     It's amazing how in two simple sentences, you could come to hate someone so passionately. The rain peppered my pale, freckled skin as a scowl crawled across my lips. Assholes. 

     Pushing my fists into the front of my red (or was it green?) t-shirt to shield them from the cold, I walked slowly, but purposefully towards Jerry's house. I always figured that if you walked with purpose, everyone would simply think maybe I had been to the park and fallen over, or perhaps maybe I was an older brother who had climbed a tree with my little sister. Maybe that was how my clothes had become stained, weathered and in great need of a decent wash. I hated it. I hated who I had become and the life I now lived. 

     I beat my fist against Jerry's black townhouse door - the odour of fresh paint still lingering and mixing unpleasantly with my own scent. 

     No answer. 

     I drummed both fists in quick succession, forehead resting on the cool wood like a child throwing an unreasonable tantrum. 

     "Mate? What the...? What time is it?" I raised my eyebrow and shrugged. Did Jerry really think I, of all people who could not afford a watch would know what time it was? Jerry's eyes were still stained with sleep as he yawned. 

     Jerry was always hopeless in the mornings, but if that was the worst of him, I wasn't complaining. He had offered me shelter, food and a shower when I most needed it. Not that I enjoyed his help particularly, but I certainly appreciated it. He was always there when I most needed him. And this? Well this was an emergency. 

     "Can I please borrow some paper and a pen?" My face froze in a cheesy grin as Jerry eyed me suspiciously. 

     “Buttercup.” I allowed the syllables to dance under my breath – the pattern of soft consonants and slight juxtaposed sting of the c were almost welcome. Almost. 

       I turned over the envelope in my palm and found the return address. The letter had not been addressed to anyone in particular, with my PO Box scrawled across the front in the same appalling freehand as the letter’s body.