Forget About Her, Mate
Early on a Sunday morning, Andrew was woken by a ringing sound. Half-asleep, he grabbed his phone and stared blankly at the dark screen. Then the doorbell rang again. He jumped up, threw on some clothes, and rushed to answer. Everyone knows that if someone’s banging on your door at dawn, it’s not for nothing.
“Alright, sleepyhead? Staring like you’ve seen a ghost. Not happy to see an old mate?” On the doorstep stood his university friend, Nick Powell. “Mind if I come in?”
“Nick? Bloody hell! What brings you here?” Andrew hugged him tightly and dragged him inside. “Could’ve given me a heads-up, you wanker. How’d you even find me?”
“Stopped by your folks’. Your mum gave me the address. Said you’d divorced and buggered off here. Just passing through—booked the tickets special to see you. Show me where to dump my gear.”
“Kitchen’s that way. I’ll just freshen up. Stick the kettle on!” Andrew called out, shutting himself in the bathroom.
When he walked into the kitchen, a bottle of red wine sat on the table, and Nick was slicing cheddar.
“Hope you don’t mind me raiding your cupboards. Your fridge is bloody empty. Starving yourself, are you? That’s what mates are for—making sure you don’t keel over from hunger,” Nick said, expertly assembling sandwiches.
“Wine? This early?” Andrew twisted the bottle to read the label.
“Who’s gonna stop us? Just a drop for lubrication, helps the words flow.”
They drank, nibbled on sandwiches and scrambled eggs, and reminiscences poured out.
Nick had married well back in 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 Seven. Life’s sorted,” Nick boasted. “But I’ve heard about you. Never did find your Jenny, did you?”
“Remember her, eh? No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t tell me you’re living like a monk.” Nick shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.
“With my son. He’s at his mum’s for her birthday. Called yesterday—back in a few days.”
Back then, the lads had tried to talk Andrew out of marrying Sophie. But he’d dug his heels in—because she reminded him of Jenny, the girl they’d nicknamed after that storybook lass. Her son had called Andrew “Dad” straightaway, and he’d grown attached to the boy. But the marriage didn’t last.
Sophie remarried almost instantly. Things turned sour between her new bloke and young Jack. The lad kept running off to Andrew. Sophie accused her ex of deliberately stealing Jack away. Tired of the rows, Andrew packed up and moved to Brighton.
“Jack spent every summer with me. Sophie had a new baby, didn’t have time for him. Once he finished school, he moved in for good,” Andrew shared.
“Proper soap opera, this. Makes EastEnders look tame.” Nick poured the last of the wine.
“Nah, it’s all settled now.” They clinked glasses.
“Always hoped you’d find her, mate. That kind of love doesn’t come twice.” Nick sighed.
Andrew stayed quiet. Lately, he’d rarely thought of her—but Nick’s visit had stirred the memories back up.
At the station, they promised not to lose touch again. Andrew returned home, dug out an old album, and found the photo of Jenny. He stared greedily, helplessly dragged back to those distant days…
***
Nick had sweet-talked his dad into lending them his banged-up old car, and three mates set off south to Freddie’s relatives. Term didn’t start for weeks—why not have a break?
Down in Cornwall, peaches, grapes, and figs were ripe for picking. The lads were offered seasonal work. Extra cash never hurt, especially for students. At dawn, they harvested fruit; when the sun grew brutal, they dashed into the cool sea.
That’s where they spotted Jenny. She sat on the shore, staring intently at the horizon.
“Waiting for her Prince Charming, is she?” Nick joked.
The name stuck. The others had steady girlfriends, but Andrew had never fallen hard before.
Nick and Freddie whooped and charged into the waves. Andrew approached the girl.
“Expecting a ship with golden sails?” he teased.
She looked up. The anguish in her eyes cut him short. She turned back to the sea. Andrew sat beside her, hugging his knees. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Hear that?” Andrew asked, listening to the waves.
“The sea’s whispering,” she replied.
Andrew glanced at her, startled. She’d spoken his exact thought. They sat in silence, listening. The lads splashed and beckoned. Reluctantly, he stood, dusting off his shorts.
“Got to go. Same time tomorrow?”
She gave him a fleeting look and said nothing. But the next day, she was there. They talked. Her name—Jenny—sounded prettier than any other. When he asked about herself, she stood and walked away. He caught up, wordlessly escorting her home.
Her mystery drew him deeper. That evening, he tossed a pebble at her window. She stepped outside in shorts and a loose blouse, sleeves rolled up. He was smitten. They strolled the promenade. Jenny stayed quiet; Andrew babbled, hiding his nerves.
The sun melted into the horizon, painting the sky crimson and gold, reflecting softly in Jenny’s eyes. Mesmerised, Andrew was glad he’d brought his camera. But she wouldn’t face it. He waded into the shallows and snapped the shutter. She didn’t turn away in time.
That photo was his only proof she hadn’t been a dream.
Each evening, they walked by the sea. Once, he dared to lean in. She didn’t pull back but tensed so sharply he retreated. She was an enigma—all the more intoxicating for it. Andrew tanned dark, grew thin, sprinting to the shore instead of resting. Some nights, he crept home past midnight, up again at dawn. His mates, seeing his lovesick haze, knew better than to tease.
Time was running out. Andrew resolved to confess. That noon, too tired for the beach, the others napped. He went alone. Jenny wasn’t there. He sprinted to her house—the gate was locked. Another pebble. A woman stormed out, threatening to call the police.
“Fetch Jenny, please,” Andrew called.
“Gone home,” the woman snapped.
“Where?” He blinked stupidly.
“Where d’you think? Home!”
“Her address—you must have it. Please, I need to know.”
“Forget her, lad. Better that way.” The woman vanished inside.
He returned that evening, begging. She slammed the door in his face.
The next day, they drove home in the rattling car, allowing time for breakdowns. Andrew stayed silent. His mates insisted fate would reunite them—if it was meant to be.
By term’s end, Andrew met Sophie. She reminded him of Jenny—slender, though darker-haired. She already had a son. His parents warned against the marriage, but he was convinced it was destiny…
***
Andrew cracked the kitchen window, lighting a cigarette as the sky paled eastward. “Hope Jack’s back soon.” No point sleeping—work loomed.
At lunch, Jack called. “Got a surprise for you tonight. Don’t be late.”
“Mum’s with you?”
“Nah, you’ll see.”
Home that evening, Jack was chopping salad. A cake box sat on the table.
“Blimey, what’s the occasion? Good trip?” Andrew clapped his shoulder.
“Yeah. Sit down—need to tell you something—” The doorbell rang. Jack dashed off.
“Dad, meet Lucy—my girlfriend. Lu, this is my dad, Andrew. Christ, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In the doorway stood a slight, flustered girl. For a heartbeat, Andrew thought it was Jenny. He almost asked why Jack called her Lucy—then realised it wasn’t her. Jenny’s hair had curled differently, her eyes sadder.
Over tea, Lucy spotted the forgotten photo on the side.
“That’s my mum! We don’t have this one. Where’d you get it?” She gaped at Andrew.
Jack peered over. “From his old album. Mate came by yesterday… Lu, your mum’s name Jenny? Where is she?” Andrew fought to keep his voice steady. “No, it can’t be. All these years… How old are you, Lucy?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“Dad’s saying you could’ve been his daughter. Doesn’t matter—we’re not related.” Jack joked awkwardly.
“Don’t be daft,” Andrew cut in. “Nothing like that happened. I just need to know—”
“She died when I was three,” Lucy whispered, settingAndrew crushed his cigarette and whispered, “So that’s why she never let me love her—she was already saying goodbye.”.
