Page 9 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

The Importance of Reaching Ernest

I put the journal aside and take a swig of cognac straight from the bottle. A siren wails in the distance. Someone, somewhere, is having an even worse day than me.

What would fourteen-year-old Eva do if she was sitting here now?

I know what she wouldn’t be doing. She wouldn’t be knocking back cognac or some age-appropriate equivalent while staring into the middle distance, feeling sorry for herself. She would be getting to the bottom of this shit.

I push the bottle away and switch on the computer. I need a serious word with this Ernest Friend person. But first I need to find them.

I click through to Facebook and check my messages and notifications.

There is nothing new from Ernest. I click through to their profile.

No joy there. No workplaces. No schools.

No friends. No photos. They identify as male, but that doesn’t mean anything.

This morning, I identified as a happily married woman.

I also notice that the account is only a few days old.

It seems it was solely created to torment me.

I move on to my feed in case he (or she) has stirred up any trouble among my online friends. Again nothing.

There are a dozen or so birthday greetings from people whose names are a cat’s collar short of ringing any bells.

Beyond that, it’s the usual assortment of nonsense.

A viral meme urges me to repost and prove my love for my brother (as an only child, that’s unlikely), mother (even less likely), daughter, dentist, childhood pet.

A barely remembered school acquaintance has posted a warning about a sinister Facebook setting that limits who can see her posts. I defriend her just to screw with her head.

There are ads for menopause therapies, retirement-living options and weight-loss drinks. I wonder if Facebook has special technology that scans my photographs and judges me old, dull and fat. And why is its algorithm so confident that I need disposable underwear?

I keep scrolling through my feed, skipping past scores of updates of other people’s dogs, cats, holidays and children. Ernest Friend is nowhere to be found.

I abandon Facebook and start googling instead.

I discover Ernest Friend was a gunner with the Australian Army in the First World War.

My Ernest Friend is a children’s book title.

There is an Ernest Friend on Instagram who is entirely unfamiliar and appears to live in another country.

I can find no trace of any Ernest Friend who might be taking an unhealthy and unwelcome interest in my life.

I have almost given up when my phone vibrates lightly, alerting me to an incoming text. It is Katie, wanting to lock down our tentative catch-up plans. Bless her ever optimistic heart.

How about 6 pm? The Royal, for old times’ sake. It’s eighties night!

I start to tap out an excuse. I always find some reason or another why I can’t get away after all, usually husband related, but Jonathan isn’t even going to be home.

I have a choice here. I can mope about the house, bingeing on carbohydrates while snuffling my way through The Notebook .

Or I can hang out with a friend and maybe feel a little less alone in the world.

Sure. I don’t think I’ll feel like dancing though .

Really? You’re coming out? This is brilliant. I’m dancing now with excitement. xx

I don’t doubt that Katie is indeed bopping around her apartment.

Even in middle age, she is the life of every party.

A night out with her will do me good. And hopefully not too much harm.

A few drinks and a good bitch about the wunderkind has to beat spending the evening at home with just my imagination for company.

Maybe I’ll even talk through the car crash that is my marriage.

Usually, my conversations with Katie don’t veer too far from work gossip.

But none of my conversations do anymore.

I haven’t had a real ‘deep and meaningful’ with anyone since high school.

I long for the days when I’d spend hours on the phone dissecting the minutiae of my life with Rachael.

Nowadays, I don’t talk about big life stuff with anyone.

I haven’t needed to. Or that’s what I thought.

How I miss Rachael.

I haven’t spoken to her in months, unless occasional Facebook exchanges count. We slowly drifted apart after university, mostly because Rachael never shook off her aversion to my boyfriend. Sometimes, it felt as though the more deeply I fell in love with Jonathan, the more Rachael disliked him.

I check down the list of who is online. There is a rare green circle next to Rachael’s name. It’s as though thinking about my old friend has summoned her into my present. I kind of believe in that stuff. Not that I’d ever admit it to my way too rational husband.

I debate whether I should contact her. The ghost of young Eva makes the decision for me. Or maybe it is the cognac. I start to type.

Eva Moore Long time, no chat. Hope all is well in your world. Can I ask you a random question?

Dots appear straight away.

Rachael Ezzy Hey there. Great to hear from you. Sure. Go for it.

I hesitate over the keyboard. Do I dare? But what do I have to lose?

Eva Moore Why don’t you like Jonathan?

Rachael Ezzy There’s a conversation I’ve spent the last 30 or so years avoiding! Guess it doesn’t matter much now. Truth is I was jealous.

Eva Moore Jealous? But you hate Jonathan.

Rachael Ezzy The opposite actually. We’d hooked up a couple of weeks before you guys met. I was absolutely infatuated. But he liked you. It took me a while to get over that. I was happy for you, of course. But for a long while, being around him was torture.

I stare at the screen. A part of me had always wondered if Jonathan had some fatal flaw that only Rachael could see. But his single fault had been falling in love with me instead of my best friend.

Another line of dots appears before I can frame a response.

Rachael Ezzy Sorry. I should have told you. But by the time my heart had mended, it was too late to change course. I was too committed to disliking him. Although I do dislike the way he hijacked your life and career. Why are you asking about this now?

Eva Moore Long story. Maybe we can catch up sometime and I’ll tell you all about it?

My fingers hover over the keys. Why not? I think and start typing.

Eva Moore I’m going out with Katie tomorrow night. You should join us. I know she’d love to see you. And I could really do with some straight-talking life advice.

Rachael Ezzy Well, there’s an invitation I can’t refuse. We always promise we’ll catch up but never get around to making any solid plans. And I was only going to spend the night in front of the TV. This is a much better option than The Notebook . Not that Ryan Gosling is ever a poor choice.

Maybe we haven’t grown that far apart after all.

I send through the details. Seeing Rachael will be fun. And if I open up about what is happening in my life, it might even be cathartic. Rachael always delivers advice with a straight bat. It can be bruising, but it is direct and usually on point.

Rachael’s name disappears from the screen and I go back to excavating the internet for clues to Ernest Friend’s identity.

But my searches keep throwing out the same kinds of unhelpful results.

Ernest Friend is a retired structural engineer from Idaho.

A Yorkshire garden enthusiast. A volcanologist of no fixed address.

A very cute five-year-old from the South Island of New Zealand.

No one who would possibly know or care about me and my life in Sydney, Australia.

I’ve hit a dead end. All I can do is wait for Ernest Friend to find me. Against my better judgement, I lower myself into the rabbit hole that masquerades as expertise online. I start by googling ‘Signs that your husband is having an affair’. The results of my internet research aren’t encouraging.

Sudden change of appearance? Tick.

Long hours at work? Tick.

No interest in sex? Tick.

Irritable? Tick.

Emotionally distant? Tick.

Tick. Tick. Tick. My marriage is a time bomb ready to go off, if it hasn’t already. Not coincidentally, my brain also feels like it is going to explode.

I decide that online solitaire is a far more productive use of my time. I am on my twelfth attempt at Microsoft Spider’s grand master level when a bright red ‘1’ appears on my Facebook page. Every muscle tenses as I move my cursor to the top of the page and click.

Ernest Friend So have you thought about what I told you?

Eva Moore What else do you think I’ve been obsessing about all day? Thanks for ruining my birthday, by the way.

Ernest Friend It could be the best present you ever get.

My snarky tone doesn’t seem to bother Ernest at all.

Eva Moore I very much doubt that. I don’t even know if you’re telling me the truth. How can you be sure Jonathan is having an affair? What proof do you have?

Ernest Friend That’s your problem, not mine. I’m not going to do everything for you. I’ve pointed you in the right direction. Now show some initiative.

What a jerk. Who drops a life-shattering bombshell and then backs away, smiling? This has gone on long enough.

Eva Moore If you’re not going to help me, why don’t you leave me alone? I don’t need your kind of crazy in my life.

Ernest Friend Why don’t you block me?

I hesitate. My cursor brushes the button that will banish Ernest Friend to online oblivion.

I know that blocking them is exactly what I should do.

They are a busybody and a troublemaker, driving me mad one message at a time.

But fear and curiosity trump common sense.

I lean back in my chair, watch the screen and wait.

A few minutes pass.

Ernest Friend Didn’t think so … There’s no way you’re going to block me. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in your life in years.

And with that nasty little home truth, Ernest Friend is gone.