**Forget About Her, Mate**
Early on a Sunday morning, Andrew’s phone buzzed. Groggy, he grabbed it, squinting at the dark screen—then the doorbell rang again. He leapt up, threw on some clothes, and rushed to answer. Everyone knows when someone’s banging on your door at dawn, it’s not for nothing.
“’Ello! Sleeping in, are we? Didn’t even miss me?” On the doorstep stood Nick Moss, his old uni mate. “Mind if I come in?”
“Nick? Bloody hell—what are you doing here?” Andrew hugged him tight, dragging him inside. “Could’ve warned me, you bastard. How’d you even find me?”
“Popped by your parents’. Your mum gave me the address. Said you’d divorced and buggered off here. Just passing through—booked the layover to see you. Now, show us where the kettle is.”
“Kitchen’s that way. I’ll tidy up. Stick the kettle on!” Andrew called, shutting himself in the bathroom.
When he returned, a bottle of red wine sat on the table, and Nick was slicing cheddar.
“Hope you don’t mind. Raided your fridge—it’s bloody empty. Starving yourself, are you? That’s what mates are for.” Nick stacked sandwiches neatly, like it was a life lesson.
“Wine? Morning drinking now?” Andrew twisted the bottle to read the label.
“Who’s stopping us? Just loosening the tongue.”
They drank, nibbling sandwiches and eggs, reminiscing.
Nick had married well—his father-in-law retired early, leaving him in charge of a construction firm. “Two sons—eldest finishing school, the younger in Year 8. Life’s sorted,” he bragged. “And you? Never found your ‘Anne of Green Gables’?”
“You remember her? No. Never did.”
“Don’t tell me you’re flying solo.” Nick shoved the last bite into his mouth.
“My son. He’s at Olivia’s birthday. Phoned yesterday—back in a few days.”
Back then, they’d all told Andrew not to marry Olivia. But he’d dug his heels in—because she reminded him of Annie, the girl they’d nicknamed after that story. Her son called him “Dad” right off. Andrew had grown attached. But the marriage didn’t last. Olivia remarried fast, and the lad—Sam—clashed with the new stepdad. He kept running off to Andrew. Olivia accused him of poaching the boy. Sick of the rows, Andrew moved to Brighton.
“Sam stayed every summer. Olivia had another kid—no time for him. After GCSEs, he moved in for good.”
“Christ. EastEnders has nothing on you.” Nick poured the last of the wine.
“Sorted now.” They drank.
“Just thought you’d find her someday. What you had—proper love, that.” Nick sighed.
Andrew said nothing. Lately, he’d rarely thought of her. Now Nick had dredged it all up.
At the station, they promised not to lose touch. Back home, Andrew dug out an old album, finding Annie’s photo. He stared, hungry for the past.
—
Nick had begged his dad’s old estate car, and the three mates drove south to Freddie’s family’s place. Uni hadn’t started—why not a holiday?
Down in Cornwall, they picked peaches, grapes, figs—cash was cash. By midday heat, they’d bolt for the sea.
That’s where they saw her. Annie sat on the sand, staring at the horizon.
“Waiting for her prince, eh?” Nick joked.
The name stuck. The others had steady girlfriends; Andrew never did.
Nick and Freddie cannonballed into the waves. Andrew approached her.
“Waiting for a ship with golden sails?” he teased.
She looked up. Her eyes held such sorrow, he faltered. She turned back to the sea. He sat beside her, knees to chest. She didn’t react.
“Hear that?” he murmured.
“The sea’s whispering,” she said.
He blinked—she’d spoken his thought aloud. They sat in silence, listening. His mates waved, yelling. Reluctantly, he stood.
“Meet here tomorrow? Same time?”
She glanced up—then away. But the next day, she came.
Her name was Annie. Every question made her leave. He followed silently to her door.
That mystery drew him in. That evening, he lobbed a pebble at her window. She stepped out, barefoot in shorts, a cardigan loose over her top—he was smitten. They walked the promenade. She stayed quiet; he babbled to hide his nerves.
The sunset blazed crimson-orange, softer in her eyes. He’d brought his camera—she refused to pose. So he waded into the surf and clicked. She didn’t turn in time.
That photo was proof she’d been real.
Each night, they walked the shore. Once, he tried to kiss her. She didn’t pull away—but tensed so violently, he stepped back.
A riddle. It only made him want her more.
He grew dark with sun, thin from skipping meals to see her. Some nights, he crept in past midnight, up at dawn. His mates stopped teasing—they saw his heart wasn’t in it for jokes.
Time ran out. He’d tell her how he felt. That noon, his mates stayed back. Annie wasn’t on the beach. He sprinted to her house—gate locked. Another pebble.
A woman stormed out. “Clear off, or I’ll call the police!”
“Please—is Annie here?”
“Gone home.”
“Where?”
“None of your business. Forget her, mate. Best for you.”
That evening, he begged for an address. She slammed the door.
They left at dawn—the old car might break down. Andrew barely spoke. His mates said if it was meant to be, he’d find her.
By term’s end, he met Olivia. She looked like Annie—slight, darker-haired. Already a son. His parents warned against it. He called it fate.
—
Andrew lit a cig at the kitchen window, dawn breaking. “Hurry home, Sam,” he thought. No point sleeping now—work soon.
At lunch, Sam called. “Got a surprise for you tonight. Don’t be late.”
“Mum with you?”
“Nah. You’ll see.”
Home that evening, Sam chopped veggies. A cake box sat on the table.
“Celebrating something? How’d the trip go?” Andrew clapped his shoulder.
“Fine. Sit down. Dad, listen—” The doorbell cut him off.
Sam returned with a nervous girl. “Dad, this is Vicky. My girlfriend.”
Andrew froze. For a second—Anne. But no. Her hair was straighter, eyes less sad.
Over tea, Vicky spotted the photo on the side.
“That’s my mum! Where’d you get this?”
Andrew’s hands shook. “Sam dug it out. Vicky—your mum’s name was Anne? How old are you?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
Sam cut in, joking: “He’s saying you could’ve been his kid. Doesn’t matter—I’m not blood-related. We’re not siblings.”
“Don’t be daft,” Andrew snapped. “There was nothing like that. I just need to know—”
“She died when I was three.” Vicky set the photo down.
Andrew collapsed onto the sofa.
Sam started, “Dad—”
Vicky stopped him. “Mum married young—had me. Doctors told her not to. There was… a tumour. She had the baby anyway. After the surgery, chemo wrecked her. Dad said she was too weak to hold me. Then—she seemed better.”
Her voice wavered. “They went to the seaside—his aunt’s. I got sick; Mum couldn’t risk it. Dad sent her alone. When she came back, she hugged me, crying. I screamed. Dad says I couldn’t remember—I was too small. A year later, she was gone. He remarried.”
Andrew whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yes. Never told her.” His voice cracked. “We walked the beach at sunset. That’s when I took this. Then she vanished. Now I know why her aunt said to forget her.”
“Do I… bother you? Looking like her?”
“God, no. It’s like seeing a ghost. But a good one.”
Sam stood. “I’ll walk Vicky home.”
Andrew nodded.
Alone, he smoked by the window, the city lights blurring. Now he understood why Annie hid herself, why she watched the sea, why she couldn’t love him back.
“Fate linked us—through our kids. Bloody strange, memory. We cling to flings, forget what mattered.”
He exhaled, watching the sky.
