The Girl You'll Never Meet ...Part 1 ...
Over a lonely street,
You’ll hear her voice calling...
The lass that you’ll never meet
—Michael Dyne
There was a time when single and successful seemed glamorous. But no one warned me of empty nights when I’d want to flee to the Moon and hide in its valleys.
Outwardly, I’m living the good life as Markus Cole, chief acquisitions editor for Faber and Collins. But inside, I’m a desert—arid and desolate.
I work hard at keeping up appearances, but it’s tiresome shoring up a façade.
I manage to fool most people, but not Lily, my seven-year-old niece—she sees right through me—like today, while I was visiting Beatrice, my sister.
“Uncle Monkey!” Lily squeals with delight when she sees me. “I missed you.”
I sweep her up in my arms and crush her in a bear hug. “I missed you too, Princess.”
She glances around to see if we’re alone, and then whispers, “I made you a picture, Uncle Monkey.”
“You did—can I see it?”
She nods gravely and takes me by the hand into her pink and purple bedchamber—a rare privilege extended by princesses.
On a small table by the window is a crayon drawing of two mountains. There’s a stick figure on the top of each peak, separated by a big blue sea.
“That’s really pretty, Lily. But what does it mean?”
“It’s about a man who sees a beautiful princess through a spyglass and falls in love with her – but they can’t be together, so he turns to stone.”
“That’s a sad story, Princess. What made you think of that?”
“You did, Uncle Monkey. You’re the man in the picture.”
“I am—really? Then, who’s the girl?”
“She’s the girl you never meet.”
“That is sad,” I tell her.
She puts her arms around me and kisses me. “Maybe you’ll meet her someday.”
I squeeze her tight and kiss her head, inhaling the scent of wild berry shampoo.
Maybe I will meet a princess someday, but if I were a betting man I’d predict Lily would grow up with just an uncle, and not an aunt.
And chances are, I’ll turn to stone.
The following morning, I’m back at work, forcing myself to shake off the lethargy of the weekend.
Monday mornings are always brutal—I dread my inbox almost as much as going through my mail.
The monotony of the usual routine is broken somewhat by the presence of a new editor and proofreader—a Muslim woman named Mariyan.
We’re introduced over coffee and she seems pleasant enough— her slight English accent speaks of British schooling.
But still, it’s uncomfortable—she wears the hijab—well, sort of. Actually, it’s a black woolen headscarf draped loosely over her hair.
She’s a westernized Muslim, I suppose, but still manages to give a sense of living in her own private, screened-off world – dressing modestly, while appearing very feminine and elegant.
The communication between us is very stiff and formal.
After my depressing weekend, the last thing I need is to feel at sixes and sevens adjusting to something unfamiliar at work.
By the end of the day, I’m stressed and exhausted, and can’t wait to go home and relax with a glass of wine before the fire. At least, that’s the plan—but, at home, the restlessness continues.
I go for a walk in the rain, hiding beneath a huge black umbrella. I want to be sheltered from the elements and shut in with my thoughts.
But the murky streets hiss like static and I can’t concentrate. I picture myself as a cowled monk with aspergillum walking lonely corridors, cloistered from the world.
I end up back in my front room shivering by the fire and trying to get warm.
That night I have a strange dream. I dream of Mariyan.
I see her in a garden behind a leafy trellis, quietly reading. I can’t quite see her face—just the oval of her cheek protruding from her dark headscarf.
She reminds me of the Moon veiled in clouds.
I creep forward to see if I can catch a glimpse of her. I use a privet hedge as a shield and then tiptoe up to her garden wall and peer over.
Her chair is empty. Disappointment crushes me.
Suddenly, there’s a slight rustling behind me. I turn and find myself staring into her huge sad eyes.
“Hello, Markus,” she whispers. “Were you looking for me?”
For some reason her soft whispered question moves me to tears.
What's happening to me? I croak, but inwardly I know the truth.
I'm more afraid of her than facing the truth of my own feelings.
I'm struggling to suppress a thought that won't stay bottled up inside me...
Maybe she’s more than a stranger in my dreams…maybe she’s the girl I can never seem to meet
