The next day I didn’t wake with as much enthusiasm as I’d had the night before. I guess these things work in waves. I wasn’t going to feel better overnight, this would be a process, and it was just beginning. In fact, that morning it felt almost impossible to get out of bed and drag myself to work. I missed Chris like I’d never missed Trev and it physically hurt not being with him. But I got up and showered- and cried in it - and then made myself some breakfast and got ready for work. I tried to lift my spirits by reminding myself about the 10 bags that I needed to make, and decided to talk to the Patel’s about them that day.

They were thrilled to see me and wanted to know everything about my holiday. So I told them about swimming with the tropical fish (Not about how Chris had taken a photo of my bum and pretended it was a mistake), I told them about seeing dolphins (not about the dolphin squeak –off Chris and I had had) and I told them about how beautiful the beaches looked at night (not about the walk we’d taken on our first night together and how I’d flirted with him) They then lavished me with a big Tupperware of left over curry and I also received two invites to two different cousins weddings. (Like I said, an endless stream of cousins.)

They were also thrilled about the bags and said that I could use- within reason- fabrics and other stuff I needed.  But that first day back at work was hard, the hours seemed to drag on and on and on and getting through them felt like pulling teeth from a dead sloth. But five o clock finally came around and I left with a small bundle of fabrics, buttons, ribbons and other bits and bobs that I’d been allowed to commandeer. And although funds were still desperately tight and I still needed to count Cents, I decided I needed to find something more substantial and healthy to eat, other than packets of nutrient deficient noodles. The equivalent of chewing on cardboard covered in MSG and dust.

So even though I didn’t feel like it, I dragged myself to the shop and walked out with a bag of veggies and whole-wheat bread. I would make a big pot of vegetable soap- it’s all I could afford- and eat that for several dinners to come. At least I would be getting some Vitamins and minerals, who knows, maybe they would contribute to my mental wellbeing, and perhaps help with the few kg’s I could feel in my slightly tight jeans.

That night after eating my home made veggie soap, it was actually pretty tasty; I sat down at my sewing machine and started thinking. The other bags I’d made  in the heat of hatred for Sonja (evil boss bitch from hell) I had purposefully made them as over- the- top as possible in a rebellious proclamation of passive aggressive defiance, this time I was going to make them in a more considered manner. I knew I could make them better with a little extra thought, care and planning. They would still maintain that frantic colorful feel, but  I could bring a little more skill to them. So I started.

It took me four weeks to finish the ten bags, but when they were done they looked amazing.

I was so excited when I dropped them off at the shop at O.R Tambo, although I kept trying to remind myself that I shouldn’t jump the gun just yet, ten bags was not a fashion empire. And they would probably take a long time to sell, but at least it was something.

In those weeks back I also found myself a therapist. I had to borrow some money from my sister again- of course she didn’t mind- but I thought it was definitely time to talk to someone and start working through some of my issues. It proved to be a great idea, and with each session I felt a little lighter and more self assured than I had in a whole year.

I also started picking up the phone and reconnecting with friends that I hadn’t seen in a while. They were all happy to hear from me, and I realized how much I’d missed just hanging out and talking shit. Through therapy I also come to realize that this past year I’d actually been depressed. Not sad, not a little grumpy or down, but properly depressed. And she was right, I had been. Only I hadn’t really seen it at the time.

And then three weeks later, an order for ten more bags came in. I almost jumped for joy when I realized that people actually like my silly little creations. Three weeks later another order came in, and another and another and another. Until I could no longer keep up with the demand while working full -time.

“So, you know, you need a name for your label babe. These things are selling like hot cakes and everyone keeps asking me who makes them?” Thembi had said one day.

“Um… crap, I have no idea.”

“Well it’s usually your name, you know. Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton… etc.”

“I know, but Annie Anderson sounds so pedestrian.”

“Well you better think of something quick and get yourself a logo and sew a label in, because I have a feeling that you’re bags are going to be big.’

 “I guess I could call my label Annie Anne, “ I didn’t really think about it, it kind of just came tumbling out of my mouth- and when I heard it said out loud, it hurt.

Thembi stopped and seriously considered it for a moment, “Playful, cheeky, flirty, fun and not serious. Yes. Annie Anne is perfect.” She swooshed her bangle-laden arm in the air and spoke in a posh accent, “Bags by Annie Anne.”

And just like that, things were starting to happen. That night I decided to celebrate by cooking myself some real food and drinking a glass of real red wine, when the phone rang.

I glanced at the number and didn’t recognize it, no caller ID. I hated numbers I didn’t know, it was probably some persistent telesales person who was going to try and sell me Life Cover or something else I didn’t need,.

“Hello Annie speaking?”

“Hey.”

The delicious twang of the American accent wafted through the phone and my heart literally fluttered. No, pounded would be more apt.

“Hey.”

Pause.

“How you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Cool.”

Pause.

“So, how’s Joburg?”

“The same. Hotter. How’s LA?”

“Horrible.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not here.”

Pause.

Was he allowed to say things like that to me?

“Shouldn’t I have said that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well…” Chris said, “There’s no rule that says we can’t be friends. Is there?”

I thought about this for a moment. I would love nothing more than to be friends with him, but wouldn’t it just prolong the suffering and hinder any chance of getting over him. But right now, hearing his voice felt so good and reassuring that I decide - for now- we could try and be friends.

“Okay, we’ll try.” I said. “But we can’t talk to each other every day and stuff like that-

“Every second day?”

“No!”

“Once a week?”

“Maybe. Maybe once every two weeks. Lets see how this one goes first…

 “Deal Annie. I’m going to make this the best phone call conversation of your entire life. It’s going to be so good, you’ll never want to hang up. You’ll want to have the phone surgically attached to your ear so you can always speak to me.”

I laughed. As always, he made me laugh.

And that’s kind of how it went between us. The odd phone conversation. Sometimes it was once a week, sometimes less, sometimes more. We never spoke about what happened between us, about Tsquared, or our wedding or the ahmazing sex. We also never spoke about what was going on for us; frankly I didn’t want to know if he was having an awesome time in LA and starting to date again, and he never asked me either, probably for the same reason. In fact, all we did was get to know each other. Because it soon became very obvious that we knew absolutely nothing about each other, other than what we’d gleaned from those few days together.

I learned that he had a pug named Chop-Stick. That his mother was an Opera singer, his dad was poet, his brother was a professor of Philosophy at an Ivy league university and his sister run a non-profit organization for woman’s rights and had published a book on the role of feminism in the 2000’s.

“Very fancy cultured upbringing and family….in fact, I’m sure I’m adopted. Messy screenwriter living in equally messy bachelor pad with no deep and meaningful art hanging on his walls. I’m the black sheep of the family.” 

I also leant that he actually did play sport and was just lying to Trev. He played in a Baseball league and was really good at other ball sports. I learnt that he also didn’t want to write romantic comedies for the rest of his life, it just came easily to him, that’s why he did it. What he really wanted to write was serious drama. Although, I couldn’t imagine him being serious for a single second. Secretly, he’d always wanted to direct something in black and white with French subtitles, but he’ll deny that if I ever say it out loud.

He told me that he’d studied to be a journalist, but when he realized he had absolutely no interest in current affairs, or news of any kind, he came to the realization that he was in the wrong job. And so it went on like that.

At some stage I kind of resigned myself to the fact that even if we weren’t going to get back together- it was physically impossible anyway, we lived on opposite sides of the world- that I think I’d found a real friend in Chris.

Maybe this whole thing had happened between us, so we could become friends? Maybe we would be at each other’s real weddings one day as best buddies, pals, besties? Maybe he would make a speech at my wedding and tell the weird crazy story of how we became friends with a fake wedding of our own? Maybe he would be my future child’s Godfather? Maybe we would slap each other on the back and say, “What up dude?”

Or maybe I was just fooling myself.

Because I was pretty sure that the second either of us got into a romantic relationship, these little phone calls would definitely stop.

And that would be the end of it.

No more Chris. It was only a matter of time.