The Man I Never Met Read online

  The Man I Never Met is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Elle Cook

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Dell is a registered trademark and the D colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Cook, Elle, author.

  Title: The man I never met: a novel / Elle Cook.

  Description: New York: Dell Books, [2022]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022019427 (print) | LCCN 2022019428 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593500859 (trade paperback; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593500866 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR6103.O6624 M36 2022 (print) | LCC PR6103.O6624 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20220422

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022019427

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2022019428

  Ebook ISBN 9780593500866

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Fritz Metsch, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Sarah Horgan

  ep_prh_6.0_141796658_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Hannah, December

  Do you remember where you were and what you were doing the moment your life changed forever? I do. I was standing outside the gym, hair in a bit of a tangle, in need of a shower after a grueling spin class, rifling in my bag for my gloves while my mobile buzzed away. But of course I didn’t know it at the time. That’s always how it is, though, isn’t it? You never realize the true significance of a moment until later.

  I grab my phone, still unable to find the gloves that have disappeared into the depths of my bag. The December weather is biting cold, and although it’s only early evening the sky is already a shade of ink, strewn with gray clouds that look as if they’ve been painted on and dragged gently from one side of the canvas to the other.

  The dialing code says +1 and so I pause momentarily as my phone continues to vibrate in my hand. Where on earth is +1? Call centers start with a random assortment of codes and this doesn’t look like any of those.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “Hello,” a man, with an American accent, replies. And then in a deeper, friendlier tone, “Jonathan White?”

  I laugh. “Do I sound like a Jonathan White?”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I mean, is he there?”

  “No. Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.”

  A pause, a rustle of papers. “OK. Sorry. Bye.”

  “Bye,” I say, but he’s already gone. And then barely ten seconds pass before my phone rings again.

  I draw out the word “Hello” as I answer—the same +1 number shining on my screen.

  “Oh, not again,” he says in exasperation. “How have I dialed it wrong a second time? I can’t be that stupid.” Which makes me laugh again, although not unkindly.

  “I think you have.”

  Silence and then, “Hold on.”

  I wait, smiling with amusement. The cold weather is seemingly not as cold now as it was before.

  “Is this plus-four-four…” and he reels out a list of digits that are most certainly mine.

  “It is. What number were you looking for?”

  “This one.”

  I try not to laugh.

  “Shit,” he replies. “I wrote it down wrong. I’m supposed to call this number at four P.M. UK time, for a job interview.”

  “Not this number, I’m afraid. Maybe try switching one of the digits?”

  “Yeah,” he says uncertainly. “But which one? There’s about a billion possible combinations.”

  “I have no idea. Where are you ringing from?”

  “Texas.”

  “And you have a job interview with someone on a UK number? Are you getting a job over here?” I’m so nosy.

  “Hopefully…”

  “Unlikely, given you’re on the phone to me and you should be answering questions about…whatever it is you’re interviewing for.”

  “Buildings. I should be answering questions about buildings right about now. Shit.”

  “Buildings?”

  “Architecture, specifically.” He has a really nice voice. Deep, but not too deep.

  “Try and google the office number,” I suggest, in case he really is that stupid and hasn’t thought of it.

  “I’m already on it.” He’s speaking quickly, both of us aware that he should be minutes into an interview by now.

  “Well, good luck. I hope you get it.”

  “The right number or the job?”

  “Both. Starting with the right number,” I say, with a smile.

  “Thanks. Sorry for bothering you. Twice.”

  “It’s fine. I’m keen to know now if you get the job.”

  “Thanks again,” he says. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” I reply as the line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, hoping he isn’t silly enough to ring the same number a third time…just to be sure. It wouldn’t be a terrible thing if he rings again, but now I want this man with the lovely voice to actually call the correct number, answer questions about buildings, and get the job. Whomever he might be.

  * * *

  —

  It’s not really the done thing to come home from an hour’s spin class and crack open both a microwave meal and a large glass of wine, but given it’s Friday night, that’s what I do. And anyway I wouldn’t have been at the gym if I hadn’t been canceled by a flaky man, with whom I’d
already decided I would categorically not reschedule. He’s done this twice now and we still haven’t actually had a first date yet. My best friend, Miranda, calls it Cancel-itis. So this glass of wine was the one that I would have had if I had been out. There, I have justified that, if not the hideous microwave curry.

  Hours later I flick through the various options on TV and wonder how it is that I’ve managed to watch everything decent on Netflix when I really don’t spend that much time at home. Perhaps, for once, I should watch the news and at least try to be as informed as my co-workers about the daily goings-on in the world. I really need to work with people who watch more trashy dramas than Question Time.

  Next to me my phone dings, telling me I have a message. I read it. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, until I look closer and see it’s the American’s. The message contains three words. I got it.

  I mute the TV and let it continue showing me a background of filler news pieces that I haven’t been paying attention to.

  Does he want a reply? Does he expect one? I’m glad, I type, followed by, Congratulations. I’m guessing you found the right number in the end.

  I didn’t pose it as a question. I didn’t expect a reply, but one comes moments later.

  Yeah. I apologized for being a few minutes late and told him what I’d done. He was cool about it.

  I’m glad, I type. And then I delete it because it is exactly what I’ve written a moment ago. I replace it with, Always best to be honest.

  Definitely.

  I watch the screen. He isn’t typing. It’s my turn to reply, but I can’t think of anything else to say and so, after a moment, he resumes.

  So, England in January. Cold?

  A smile finds the corners of my mouth. Very. Sorry about that. Is that when you arrive?

  Exactly one month from now. Yeah.

  Where are you in Texas?

  Austin, he replies.

  No, I have no idea where that is. I leave the chat, google Austin, Texas, and then open the chat window back up, ready to display my newfound knowledge. Warm this time of year.

  Warm all times of year.

  I googled, I confess. Capital city of Texas, so Wikipedia tells me. I’ve just discovered Houston is also in Texas. So there you go.

  He replies with a laughter emoji and then, Where are you?

  London.

  Great. Now I’ll know another person when I get there.

  I look at his message, unsure what to think. Is he suggesting we meet up? Become friends? I look at the message so long that the screen goes black and I have to key in my code to unlock it again. It shows his number and, underneath, that he’s still online. What’s your name? I ask.

  Davey. Yours?

  Hannah.

  Nice to meet you, Hannah.

  I smile again. It is nice to meet him. Albeit, this is the strangest way I’ve ever “met” anyone. How old are you? I ask.

  Twenty-nine. And then another message. I’ve been told it’s not OK to ask a woman her age, so…

  I’m twenty-seven, I reply to his leading prompt. I’m enjoying this and wonder now for the first time what he looks like, this twenty-nine-year-old man from Texas. His WhatsApp profile picture is blank, the circle at the top of the chat displaying the standard gray-and-white icon. Who does that? Mind you, mine is a picture of our family dog wearing sunglasses, so I’m not exactly one to talk.

  What time is it there? he asks.

  Almost 11 P.M.

  It was nice talking to you, Hannah.

  Oh. That’s a blunt ending to the conversation, and disappointment that he’s signing off makes me pause before replying, Likewise.

  I’d like to talk again. If you’d like to, that is, he suggests.

  I let that message display on the screen for a moment as I think about it. How to reply without sounding eager or utterly disinterested?

  I opt for a casual, Sure.

  OK, he says.

  And then he’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  I wake with sweet relief that it’s not a work day. I only get to enjoy that feeling twice a week and I revel in it. I don’t hate my job. I work in marketing, and it pays the bills and means I can afford a couple of decent holidays a year. It’ll do for now, although I know I should probably have my eye on the next career horizon, but I haven’t quite worked out what that might be yet. I get up, slowly, and only after I’ve had the most amazing lie-in. I toy with the idea of making something creative for brunch. But avocado on toast is about as creative as I ever get. For a reason that I can’t pinpoint, today I fancy pancakes and maple syrup, but I’m not going to make them. Not when there’s a great brunch spot down the road that will make them better than I can. But that involves getting dressed and heading out. And if I do that, it means I miss one of my favorite weekend mid-morning rituals, talking to my neighbor Joan over the fence. And I couldn’t miss that. I couldn’t do that to her.

  I live in a ground-floor flat, which I’ve already sworn to myself I will never, ever leave. If I do, it’s because I’ve died and they’ve had to take me out in a box. Nowhere will I get a ground-floor two-bed flat with a garden at this price ever again. I know this because I have a Rightmove alert set up, which I salivate over whenever it arrives in my inbox. I used to share my flat with Miranda, but when she moved out to live with her boyfriend, Paul, I dug deep and decided to cover the cost of the entire rent myself, instead of looking for a one-bed somewhere else. I can afford it, just. Mainly because Joan next door owns both her building and mine and might not be quite up to date with current rental prices. She shrugs it off, saying that I and the never-there cabin-crew girl from upstairs take such good care of our flats that she wouldn’t drive us out with rent increases.

  I pull my dressing gown around me and put on my Ugg boots. None of that attire is going to stop the crispness of the winter day penetrating my skin, but it’s bright outside, which is something.

  Joan and I have a little weekend ritual. I text her when I’m awake, and she cranks up her Nespresso machine. Five minutes later we meet in our back gardens by the fence. She hands me one of her posh coffees and I bring out a plate of supermarket biscuits. It’s not really a fair trade, but Joan balked when I suggested that I might buy myself a proper coffee machine. I think she thought I was going to abandon our chats, so I conceded that I wouldn’t and she promised to keep me in a vibrant array of colorful coffee capsules every weekend.

  I can already smell the coffee as I open the back door, slip out, and close it behind me to keep the warmth in. “What’s this one today?” I call as I stand by the fence, resting my elbows on it and looking into her perfectly cultivated garden. Her back door is open and she can hear me while she’s inside her kitchen, with the whoosh of the final cup being made by the machine. Even in the depths of winter her garden looks lush and green, as if part of a National Trust garden had upped and brought itself straight to Wanstead.

  Joan appears on cue, with a cup in each hand and a coffee leaflet in her teeth. She leans toward me and I take the leaflet from her, as well as the cup she offers.

  “I thought we’d try Firenze Arpeggio today,” she declares.

  I read the leaflet. “Intense and creamy. Aren’t they all?”

  I sip. It tastes exactly the same as the one from last week. It’s delicious and does exactly what I want it to do, hitting my tastebuds with a caffeinated heat that I need in this cold weather.

  Joan nods and says, “Definitely a four out of five.” She’s lived here since she inherited the house from her mum about thirty years ago. I’ve never asked how old she is, but I’ve pieced together a gradual timeline from her stories and have decided she’s probably in her seventies, at a push. Her husband died twenty years ago or so, but she’s not lonely, as far as I can tell. She’s out and about at all hours of the day, driving fiercely in her battered old Citroën Sa
xo as if she’s an eighteen-year-old boy high on life and the success of a freshly passed driving test. I used to think these coffee mornings were for her. But now I think they actually hold her up from her life. I’m sobered by this as I tuck into a chocolate biscuit and offer the plate to her.

  “So, what’s the latest news from the young, free, and single?” she asks, dipping a biscuit into her cup and leaving it there to soak for far too long. I watch, waiting for it to fall into her cup with a dissatisfying floop noise. Joan is no amateur and saves it at the final second. “Last night’s date?” she prompts. “Not still in there, is he?”

  “No!” I exclaim, horrified. “I don’t sleep with men on the first date.”

  “Anymore,” Joan points out.

  “Anymore,” I confirm sheepishly. “I didn’t go.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” Joan chastises. “You only live once. How will you know if he’s the one, if you don’t even go on a date with him?”

  “I didn’t go,” I say, nibbling another biscuit—this will be my brunch, I decide—“because he stood me up. Or, rather, he canceled. Again. And so that’s it.”

  “Are we swearing off men again?”

  I shake my head. “No. That way lies madness. But I’m swearing off him.”

  “Good girl. On to the next.”

  I look at Joan. Does she imagine I have a conveyor belt of men that I’m working my way through? I offer a nod rather than a comment. “What are you doing today?” I ask, happy to change the subject.

  “Lunch at my friend Sheila’s, drinks with a lovely man named Geoff this evening.”