Signed Differently
No need to print it out, Ill just save it on my phone.
He said it far too cheerily, as though he did this all the time and had mastered the art. In truth, Peter Richardson only ever put phone numbers in his mobile grudgingly. A piece of papernow that was reliable. Paper doesnt cough up old names, suggest the wrong contacts, or pretend to know who you meant when you barely remember yourself.
The receptionist carefully read out the GPs number, two digits at a time. Peter, standing at the counter, elbow propping up a dog-eared folder of blood test results, jabbed at his phones screen with the broad side of his thumb. Down the surgery corridor, someone coughed into a sleeve, a bickering couple debated online appointment slots, and by the shoe cover dispenser a little boy spun a blue capsule like a top. Peter tapped the number, hit Create New Contact, and his phone instantly suggested a name. He didnt really lookjust accepted it by muscle memory, with a queue forming behind.
Saved all right?
Yes, of course.
Phone slipped into his jacket pocket, he took his folder and headed out, mostly thinking not of GPs but the need to dodge the evening supermarket stampede and pick up a few bulbs for the hallway. One had been flickering for three weeks straight, and Anne kept saying, Either change it or stop promising. Every time, hed reply, Ill do it Saturday, but come Saturday, there was always something.
At home, he perched the milk on the kitchen stool and slipped off his shoes without untying the laces, heading first to the cupboard above the fridge for lightbulbs. This was a habit he was oddly proud of: rememberdo it immediately, before it escapes. Of course, this only applied to small things. Actual important tasks he could put off for years, which he called being careful.
Naturally, the lightbulb had the wrong fitting. He twisted the box, squinted at the tiny print, shoved it back. From the lounge, Anne called out,
Did you get it?
Got it, but its the wrong one.
Obviously.
She wasnt angry, just resigned. These days, all the serious things between them were said in this effortless, offhand way, like the weatheroutside anyones control.
After dinner, Peter remembered about the GPhe needed to text and check about fasting for the scan. He opened his messaging app, found the new contact, and paused. The contact was named Becky.
He couldnt at first put his finger on what niggled him. Then he twigged: the doctor was a mana gastroenterologistRichardson or maybe Richards, the name on the badge. No Becky.
Peter checked the profile: the number was right, just as the receptionist had given. The number wasnt wrong, just the name.
He tutted, adjusted his glasses, and went to edit the contacts name, but right then Anne called from the lounge,
Have you seen the electricity bill?
He went hunting for the bill, then took the rubbish out, then sat down to half-watch the newsand so the name was left as is. It wasnt that he forgot. It just got pushed for laterlike the lightbulb, the dentist, that chat with his daughter that shed been asking about for three months, and hed been skirting around all that time.
The next day, he texted: Good afternoon. This is Peter Richardson, I was told to get in touch about the prep. Do I come fasting?
Reply came quickly: Yes, eight hours without food. Water is fine.
All fine. The number worked, the name didnt matter. Peter even smirked to himself. Thats technology for you.
Trouble brewed that evening, when, standing in the Sainsburys queue, he absentmindedly sent the same contact a different message. He meant to text Anne: Grab dill and some sour cream if you see them. I forgot. But he tapped the wrong chat, since Becky was pinned to the top, while Anne, listed under Anne Home (after mixing her up once with Anney-from-upstairs), was further down.
A minute later, a reply: Sorry, this is your doctor. I dont buy dill.
Peter read it and felt not so much embarrassed as faintly furiousat his own thumbs, tiny fonts, and these clever devices that turn you into a muppet between the semi-skimmed and cat food. He quickly replied, Apologies, wrong person, then finally updated the contact to Dr. Richards Scan. That would have been that, except the messaging app kept showing old names in notifications for days.
Two days later, Anne picked up his phone from the hallway dresserhers had gone flat and the delivery was due to ring for the wardrobe. Peter was under the sink, messing with the U-bend, and only heard her call:
Beckys messaged you.
He hurried from the kitchen, cracked his head on the counter, and sworelouder than hed allow himself at home.
Whos Becky?
That one. Reminder: tomorrow at 9:20, Room 314. Very thoughtful.
She held the phone like it was someone elses, between two fingers. Not suspiciousjust interested. For Peter, her interest was always worse than scolding. A scolding you can shrug off; interest means shes clocked something ridiculous or pathetic.
Its the doctor, he said. I forgot to rename the contact.
Why Becky?
How would I know? It just popped up by itself.
By itself.
She handed him back the phone and retreated without slamming any doors. But all evening, she spoke to him like there was an invisible third person in the houseone neither of them had invited.
Peter tried several times to explain about the old contact, how auto-fill got it wrong, how it was all a storm in a teacup, but the longer he looked for words, the more feeble they soundedThere used to be someone (sounds bad); Auto-fill put it there (childish). He settled for showing her the dill fiasco. Anne nodded, straight-faced.
Very convincing.
He wasnt sure whether she was winding him up.
Work was even more awkward. Peter managed the warehouse at a little plumbing supplies firmnothing fancy, but it needed a decent memory for stock codes, suppliers, and a cast of chancers who all promised to be there in half an hour. His memory still heldfor now. Though more often, hed go for one thing and stop halfway, racking his brains for what it was.
On Friday, his boss asked for the new accountants details from the head office. Peter dove into his contacts, found the right entry, but also, of course, Becky popped up beside it. He pressed the wrong one and promptly sent the GPs contact.
Whos this? asked his boss, peering at the screen. New accountant doubles as a radiologist, does she?
The office broke out laughing. Nothing cruel, just good banter. But the warehouse clerk, Sarah, immediately joined in:
Bit mysterious, isnt it, Peter? This Becky?
Its the doctor, Peter insisted.
Sure. Doctor.
And again, that tonelike Annes. As if everyone else already knew something about him he was still struggling to put into words.
He snapped back, rougher than necessary:
You lot got anything to do besides gawp at phones?
The laughter fizzled out, but the awkwardness stuck. The boss shrugged, found the right number himself, and Peter finished the day sure he had someone elses sticky label on the back of his head.
That evening his daughter called. She lived in Watford, worked at an insurance firm, rattled off words like she was in a hurry.
Dad, whats this about Becky on your phone? Mums said something.
Nothing, honestly.
She told me youve got some Becky in your contacts.
Oh, come on, not you tooits the doctor.
Dad, Im not the Spanish Inquisition. But if things are weird between you, lets not pretend everythings fine. Mum keeps schtum about it all.
Shes always schtum.
He heard how that sounded the moment it left his mouth. His daughter fell silent.
See, thats just itits not always about the phone.
You think youre so wise these days.
Always have been. Anyway. Dont flare up.
She changed the topiconto the grandsons cough, nursery, all sortsbut Peter only half-listened. The phrase stuck not in his head but somewhere in the daily routine, like a splinter in his coat lining. Its not always about the phone.
The name Becky wasnt an accident. Hed known it, pretending otherwise. It wasnt the phone, wasnt auto-fill. Hed once given that name to someone deliberatelyfifteen years ago, different job, when he travelled up and down the country to visit branches. There was a purchasing managerRebecca Jane. Not a film star, not some sweeping romance. Just a woman, easy to be with. She spoke quietly, listened well, remembered he didnt take sugar or do voice notes. Nothing happenedaccording to any sensible criteria. Theyd waited in a café for the coach, laughed about mixed-up packing lists; once he carried boxes to her car; once she said, I feel relaxed around you. That was all.
But after those trips, hed come home louder than necessary, bought the wrong bread, forgot what hed promised. Anne, back then, would ask him outright:
Whats on your mind?
Just work, hed answer. And it was almost true. Almostthe most useful kind of lie. That firm folded, Rebecca went who-knows-where, her number sat idling in an old phone, then migrated to another, and evaporated. Peter never looked for it. He preferred to think of himself as a decent mannothing to remember, nothing to regret.
But the name stuck in his fingers, like a shortcut you could walk blindfolded, even after the corner shop had changed three times.
The full disaster erupted at his grandsons birthday. Theyd all crowded in the kitchen, elbowing for space, prepping salad, someone searching for cake candles. Peter offered to order bottled waterthere was always a crisis about water supply when the corner shop was right across the street. He grabbed his phone, opened the messenger, and right at the top there it was from the doctor: If youll be late, let us know ahead. He wanted to forward his daughter the delivery details and instead pressed call.
Speaker clicked itself oneither the phone did, or he did, he couldnt say. A mans voice rang loudly through the kitchen: Yes, Peter, how can I help? And on the screen, for all to see: Becky.
His daughter caught his eye first. Son-in-law pretended not to notice. Anne stopped chopping cucumber.
Is that your doctor, Becky? his daughter askedso quietly, he wished shed shouted.
Peter hung up, prodded a dozen wrong buttons, fumbled the phoneoddly slimy, like a bar of soap. He launched into a thoroughly unhelpful explanation about the clinic, the badge, the dill, how its a mans number, the old name because once… And then he stopped himself. To go on would mean either a botched lie or just telling the straight truth.
There used to be a contact with that name, he said.
No one moved. Only his grandson thumped a toy car against the radiator in the other room.
Who was it? Anne asked.
Peter stared at the chopping board. On it sat a cucumber with a lopsided end and a knife smeared with dill. Of all things, he noticed that, right then.
Old work friend. Years ago. Nothing happened. Havent seen her in ages.
But you remember her name, Anne said.
I do.
And you named your doctor after her.
I did.
His daughter exhaled pointedly and turned to the sink. Son-in-law hurried the boy into the lounge. Three left, amid salad bowls and plastic bags.
Anne didnt raise her voice. Worse, really. She asked,
And what are you clinging to? Heror the way you felt with her?
Peter wanted to say, Im not clinging to anything. Hed half-filled his lungs for the same old phrase, but it sounded as hollow as a mislabelled contact.
Myself, probably, he said. The self I imagined I was back then.
Anne looked at him, tired, not triumphant. He went on, because why stop now?
I liked talking with her, not because she was special, but because I didnt feel so constantly behind or vaguely at fault. Not a husband who bought the wrong bulb or a father who cant keep a promise. Just a bloke who felt at ease. And I guess I remembered that. Didnt really do anything. Just kept it there, as an unused footnote to my biography.
He trailed off. For the first time in weeks, the explanation fitrequired no further explaining.
Anne set the knife on the table.
And what stopped you being a person with me?
It wasnt a question with a pretty answer. Anything rehearsed would sound like a wind-up.
Me, I suppose. And a bit of you. Only, mostly me. Its easier thinking theres a place somewhere where Im a better version of myselfthan just talking here, properly.
His daughter turned from the sink, her expression both angry and devastatingly vulnerableexactly as she used to look after falling off her bike, hoping no one would fuss.
At least its human, she said. Better than, It did it by itself.
Anne took the salad and left for the lounge. Not in a huffjust, someone had to get the cake out. Peter stayed in the kitchen with his phone and reckoned hed have to see out the rest of the party anyway. Probably for the best; after a heavy talk, pouring squash and hunting for the Tupperware lid deflates all the melodrama.
That evening, Anne was stacking dishes. He hovered awkwardly, trying to begin.
I didnt look for her, he said at last.
I believe you.
And wont in future.
I believe that too.
She slotted a plate upright, double-checked it wasnt lopsided.
But you know, Peter, she said softly, its not about her, is it?
He nodded. Any time she called him just Peterno middle names, no stressit made him feel younger, and daft.
I know.
You act like youre constantly misunderstood. At work, at home, wherever. Always waiting for someone to spot how decent you are, if only theyd stop badgering. But life is full of badgering. Even I badger you. And you badger me back. Only you keep quiet and end up with strange names on your phone.
He couldnt answer. No need to.
Anne dried her hands on the tea towel.
Tomorrow, ring your Becky-doctoroh, whatever his name isand apologise for the mix-up. Label your contacts properly. And pleasejust buy the right lightbulb. Im rather tired of living in the shadowsand its not the electrics fault.
He did all that. First thing, straightened up the contactfull name, clinic and all. Then he rang the GP, apologised for the dills and misdial. The doctors reply was short but not offended: These things happen. At work, before the laughing started, Peter admitted to his boss hed mixed up contacts, no secret romantic intrigue. Sarah rolled her eyes, but no one pressed it further.
That evening, he saved the hardest bit for last. After tea, he dug out his old address bookthe one Anne had wanted to chuck for yearsand flicked through the Bs. Wasnt there, of course. Hed only ever put Rebecca in the mobile. So he fired up his laptop, trawled the inbox for ancient emails about tap deliveries, found one thread with her surname and business addressnumber was ancient, didnt matter. He just needed something else.
He wrote a short message: Hello Rebecca Jane. Not sure if thisll reach you. Just wanted to say thanks for all the work back in the day. I remembered you more than probably sensible. No need to reply.
He read it, cringed, deleted half, left only: Hello. Thanks for working together back in the 2000s. Was just thinking about the old Reading supply runs. Best, Peter R. Sent it quick, before he could revise himself into sainthood.
Then down to the hardware shop, bought two bulbs of the right fitting, and clambered up the kitchen stool that evening. Anne stood below, holding the box open, just in case. The new bulb fit; the light came on, steady as you please.
There we are, she said. Thats an improvement.
Hmm.
He packed the old bulb into a bag and, hovering in the hallway, added:
Anne. If I start mucking about with words again, call me out straight away.
I always do.
No, you do it when Ive already mucked things up.
She weighed this, and nodded.
Fair enough. But youd better speak up before things escalate three notches next time.
Ill try.
His phone began to ring from the hall table. Peter glanced at the screen. Dr. Richards Scan. No surprises. He showed Anne the screen, not sure why. She snorted, handed him the bag with the old bulb, and rattled the wallet.
Bin it on your way out. And dont forget the bread.
