Yours Truly

Valencia was supposed to make me feel independent.

That was what I had told everyone before I left Bristol: that I wanted to get out of my comfort zone, that a semester abroad would be good for my degree, that I was excited to live somewhere warm and learn how to order coffee in Spanish.

All of it was true. None of it had prepared me for standing in the middle of a supermarket at half past eight on a Tuesday evening, holding a packet of washing powder I couldn’t read and trying not to cry over the price of cheese.

My phone had no signal. I had taken the wrong bus. The flat I shared with two other students was quiet except for the ceiling fan clicking above my bed, and I missed the familiar noise of home so much that even Bristol’s rain had started to seem comforting.

I got back to the flat eventually, carrying the wrong washing powder and a loaf of bread that tasted faintly sweet. I sat on my bed, kicked off my shoes and opened Twitter.

It was easier than admitting to anyone that I was having a bad day.

“Today I got lost, bought washing powder for a colour I don’t own and came home with dessert bread. Valencia is going brilliantly.”

I posted it, then dropped my phone beside me. A minute later, it buzzed.

Josh had replied to my tweet.

“You’re adapting. Soon you’ll be lost with clean clothes and a pastry.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Josh was a name I recognised from university. We had mutual friends, and I had seen him around Twitter for a while. He was at Bristol too, studying something in the business school, I thought. We had never met in person.

I clicked on his profile.

His picture showed him sitting on a sofa with a large ginger cat on his lap. The cat had one paw raised towards the drawstring of his sweatshirt, while Josh was laughing, his head tilted slightly backwards, apparently trying to rescue it.

He had short brown hair, warm brown eyes and a pleasant face. There was something attractive about his smile, particularly the way his eyes narrowed when he laughed. He wasn’t extraordinarily handsome, but there was an easy charm about him that made the photograph worth looking at twice.

His bio was short, mostly a joke about surviving university and being employed by his cat.

I scrolled through a few more pictures. There were photographs with friends, a couple from nights out and several more featuring the same ginger cat, usually occupying a ridiculous amount of space on the sofa.

Then I wondered what someone might see if they looked at my profile. I tapped my own name.

My profile picture had been taken in Bristol on a sunny afternoon. My dark hair fell around my face, and I was smiling at the camera. I had a pretty, open face, with expressive eyes and full lips. My upper front teeth were a little broad and prominent, but straight and close together. They gave my smile a slightly cheeky look. I liked that picture. I looked more confident in it than I’d felt that day.

I returned to my tweet and replied.

“I’m not sure pastry can fix this.”

A moment later, another notification appeared.

“That’s because you haven’t met the right pastry.”

“Are you always this wise?”

“Only when discussing important matters.”

“And washing powder?”

“That’s beyond my expertise. I don’t want to give you dangerous advice.”

I laughed again.

A few minutes later, a notification appeared at the top of my screen.

Josh had sent me a direct message.

“I thought I’d move this conversation somewhere less public before the entire university finds out about your washing powder situation.”

I smiled.

“Very considerate of you.”

“I’m protecting your reputation.”

“What reputation?”

“Exactly. We need to build one first.”

He was funny. Annoyingly funny. The kind of funny that made me read his messages twice, then send a screenshot to my friend with “This is stupid” underneath, as if I hadn’t already laughed.

He had started following me a few weeks earlier. Since then, we had exchanged jokes under several of my tweets. I knew almost nothing about him beyond his university, his cat and his apparent determination to make everything sound amusing.

“What’s your cat’s name?” I asked.

“Frank.”

“Frank?”

“Don’t judge him. He’s very sensitive about it.”

“Who names a cat Frank?”

“Someone who respects his employees.”

“Employees?”

“He supervises everything I do. I’m clearly working for him.”

I laughed and went back to his photograph.

“He looks like he owns the place.”

“He does. I just pay the rent.”

“Does he always attack your clothes?”

“Only when I’m wearing something I actually like.”

“Sounds personal.”

“It is. We have a complicated relationship.”

I shook my head, still smiling.

It was nice talking to someone who didn’t ask whether I was enjoying Spain or remind me how lucky I was to be there. Everyone meant well, but sometimes I wanted to complain about the little things without feeling ungrateful.

Josh made it easy.

“Seriously, though,” he wrote a little later. “How are you finding Valencia?”

“It’s beautiful. I’m just struggling with a few things.”

“Like cheese?”

“Among other things.”

“What do you miss most?”

I thought about it.

“My friends. Being able to understand what people are saying. Knowing where I’m going without checking Google Maps every five minutes.”

“Fair enough. Give yourself some time. You’ve only just got there.”

“I know.”

“And for what it’s worth, getting lost is practically a requirement when you move somewhere new.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Absolutely. I’m very qualified in getting lost.”

I smiled and put my phone down for a moment.

Outside, someone was talking loudly in Spanish. A scooter passed beneath my window, followed by the sound of laughter from the street. Valencia was still unfamiliar, but the evening didn’t feel quite as lonely as it had an hour earlier.

My phone buzzed again.

“How long are you staying there?”

“Until the end of the term.”

“That’s ages.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I’m not sure. Who’s going to provide my international supermarket updates?”

“You’ll have to find someone else.”

“Impossible. Your reporting standards are too high.”

We continued talking. He asked about my course, and I asked about his. We discovered that we knew some of the same people and had probably attended the same university events without ever speaking.

At some point, he sent another photograph of Frank, this time asleep on his back with his front paws curled against his chest.

“Your cat is ridiculous,” I wrote.

“Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

“Please don’t. He already looks arrogant.”

“Too late. I’ve read your message aloud. He’s demanding an apology.”

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

“He accepts. Reluctantly.”

I was still smiling when another message appeared.

“Can I ask you something? And please don’t take it the wrong way.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“That sounds suspicious.”

“It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

“Go on.”

“Would you mind if I gave you my number? You could message me on WhatsApp if you wanted. Twitter’s a bit awkward for having a proper conversation.”

I looked at the message for a moment.

It was a reasonable suggestion. We had been talking for hours, and I had already missed a couple of his messages because Twitter hadn’t notified me.

“Sure, why not?”

“Brilliant. No pressure, though.”

He sent his number.

I opened WhatsApp, saved his contact and typed a message.

“Hello, Frank’s personal assistant.”

His reply arrived almost immediately.

“Hello, Valencia’s most promising international reporter.”

I laughed.

“Do you ever stop?”

“Occasionally. When I’m asleep.”

“Poor Frank.”

“Frank appreciates my dedication.”

I changed his contact name to Josh and put the phone beside me.

A moment later, it buzzed again.

“By the way, I’m glad you messaged.”

I smiled at the screen.

“Me too.”

By the time I noticed the hour, it was nearly midnight.

“I should sleep,” I told him. “I’ve got an early lecture.”

“Then I’ll stop distracting you.”

“Very considerate.”

“I have my moments.”

“Goodnight, Josh.”

“Goodnight, Lily. Try not to get lost tomorrow.”

“No promises.”

I put my phone on the bedside table and switched off the light.

For the first time that evening, I wasn’t thinking about Bristol, the wrong bus or the washing powder sitting beside my suitcase.

I was thinking about a boy with a ridiculous cat and an unexpectedly good sense of humour.

And I hoped we’d talk again tomorrow.