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I reached for the next. It was a piece of card torn from the corner of a menu or some such. ‘Please, please, please call me. Your Sara,’ and a number again. I felt in my pocket again, the next was also card but seemed more regularly shaped. It was a passport-type photograph of the delicate otherworldly-looking blonde girl. On the back was written, ‘Fuck me.’ There was no name, just a number. ‘What have you got there, darling?’ asked Wendy. I explained and she let out a low whistle. ‘How many?’ I rummaged in my pockets. ‘Plenty,’ I said. ‘Far too many.’ After going through my pockets thoroughly, I laid out the notes as best I could on the parcel shelf. They varied from tiny scraps of paper to a large folded card. Each of them included a cellphone number. Except for the blonde girl’s, each gave a name too, although with one or two exceptions, such as Elspeth, they meant nothing to me. Most contained a message, usually only a few words in tones varying from loving (‘Yours, yours, for. Jean-Claude would arrive at 2:00 and would visit with Chantal for an hour. He would then head down to the cafeteria and chat up staff workers. He’d fucked a few in his car but most of the time, he chose to use the janitor’s closet beneath the stairs. He always sent them away with hush money and returned to Chantal’s side the next day, none the wiser. What tore Martin’s heart apart was that now, instead of whispering his name before she came, she would whisper Jean-Claude’s instead. He told himself that she didn’t mean anything to him and that she had never made any promises. He knew that it was true but he felt such a connection with her, something that tingled when his fingers touched hers. He knew that she felt it, too, but she had ditched something possible for something concrete and honestly, in her situation, he couldn’t fault her for that. ‘So, who are you taking to the dance?’ Lisa’s question caught him off-guard and she laughed at his sputtering. ‘Haven’t asked her yet, have.
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