Venus Flytrap Part 3
Episode 21 | Still There
'You know what I want to say and am trying not to say, right?' Verity said.
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut against the escape of more tears, but she didn’t need to. She felt utterly washed out, as though surely the last drop of moisture had left her body. Back in London it was dinnertime for Verity, whose voice issued from the new phone, which was lying on a pillow next to a hotel-branded square of chocolate.
'I don't want to think about this anymore. Can't we talk about what you're doing?' Cassandra pleaded.
'I'm writing a stupid and crashingly boring piece about the Education Secretary. I hate my life. I never get to write about anything remotely interesting. Okay, we've talked about it. So did you message him?'
She had messaged him at 9:30.
Well, I had quite the evening with yacht-broker Steve and a Venus flytrap. What happened? Are you okay?
He hadn’t replied, but she didn't want to tell Verity that.
'He'd better be dead,' Cassandra said.
'Something tells me he's not,' said Verity wearily. 'He's just ghosted you. Or he’s a Yahoo Boy. I told you.’
'He’s not a romance scammer, and he wouldn't ghost me. You don't know him.'
'You don't either. I'm sorry, we've been through this, babes, and you don't. But who gives a shit? Wake up. This is not what you are there for. This is about you. Have you been repeating your mantra? Have you been to the gallery yet?’
Cassandra flipped onto her back and flung her arm over her eyes. The tears were starting again, wetting the crook of her elbow.
'They told me to take it easy and settle in for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘They’re doing a welcome lunch for me tomorrow afternoon.'
'Okay, fine. Tomorrow afternoon is the first day of the rest of your life. Your life as it's meant to be. This is nothing. This is a blip. Forget it.'
'I just want to talk to him.'
She sounded like a lovesick cow, hated herself for it, tried to clear the shakiness from her voice. 'But I can't keep messaging him. I don't want to make a fool out of myself.'
'Fuck, no. Don't do that. Perish the thought.'
‘What the hell, Verity.' The anger surged in her like a sick tide. ‘What the actual hell? After all those months of...of...'
'Of what? Christ, Cassandra. What the hell was going on? What haven't you told me about this guy? Clearly, you’ve undersold the situation.’
‘I can’t explain.' She couldn't use words like 'soul mate' with Verity, who would hang up on the spot. ‘You know, I have this fantasy of going round to his place, just to see…’
'So go on. Go round. And then what, babes?' Verity asked. ‘What will that accomplish?’
What then? She had no plan for what she’d do and say, no predictions, not without knowing the first thing about what she’d find. Besides, she faced a more significant obstacle.
'I don't know where the house is,’ she said.
'Find out, if you're that keen,’ Verity said. ‘Actually, hold on. I’ve changed my opinion on this now. I'm keen. I think you should do it. You have my full support. Going over to wherever he claims to be would be the best thing for you. Do you a world of good. Either no such person will be there, or he will be there with no good fucking reason for not turning up to meet you. In every single option, you'll be able to put it behind you and get on with what you should be getting on with. So look him up.'
'I can't,’ said Cassandra.
'Of course you fucking can,’ Verity said, incredulous. ‘Ask Clio.’
'Okay, Verity, okay, listen, don't be angry,’ Cassandra warned.
'Jesus. Jesus, what now? What are you about to tell me?'
'I don't think I actually know his surname.’
Cassandra paused, miserable. The phone lay on the pillow, a dark rectangle of cold silence, like a piece of slate. 'I never asked him,’ she muttered.
'What. The. Fuck,’ said Verity, at her most ominous.
'I thought it was James at first,' Cassandra explained, hastily. 'Alex James. His email was Alex James Leica Boss at...'
Don't tell her. She'll contact him.
'...at whatever dot com,’ she said.
‘Leica as in the camera Leica?’ Verity asked.
‘Like the camera,’ she affirmed. ‘His initials on his circle on the Memor.I.Am were AJ. I thought that was his first name at first, how Americans do it, like A-Jay, and then when his email...but there’s no Alex James at SAIC, or any photography programme in Chicago, for that matter. And what was I supposed to say to him, like, is your surname James? I can't find you on the Internet? That’s just cyberstalker territory.’
'What's SAIC?' Verity asked.
'The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where he works.'
‘Where he says he works,' said Verity.
'Whatever. The cottage might not be listed under his name...’
'The alleged cottage.'
Cassandra ignored her.
'But I did try to see if Alex James were listed in Bradenton, or Sarasota, and there’s tons of them.’
'Let me get this straight. You've been talking to this person for months, this person who has been so influential in your life. Mr Inspiration. And now you're in a hotel room in fucking Florida crying over him because he didn't meet you. Your video isn't on so I can't say for certain, but I reckon you're all dolled up too. Am I right?’
'Please, Verity, shut up.'
'And that answers my question,’ Verity said. ‘You’ve been talking to this man for all this time and he's been...just...Alex? Your pal Al? You have no idea who he is. What he's telling you doesn't match up with where he says he works. He could be anybody. But he knows who you are.'
'Well, it’s not as unequal as you think. He knows Cassandra Parsons. But he doesn't know Cassandra Wood.'
Verity paused, and when she continued, her voice was tired. ‘Because that would be so difficult to work out, babes. So back to the fact of your not knowing his name.'
'You know how it is,' Cassandra said weakly. 'Past the point that you should know, it's too embarrassing to ask.'
'I'd like to think that you're joking, but then again you're English enough to be telling the truth,’ Verity said. ‘But okay, wait. Wait. Hold on a second. Didn't you tell me that you'd seen the house? A photo of the house?'
'Yes. But it's just a house. I don't even think there was a house number in the picture.' Behind her shut eyelids, her eyes danced back and forth as though they were scanning the image in her mind’s eye, dredging data from her memory. 'No,' she said. ‘Definitely wasn’t a house number.'
'You don't need a house number, not that it’s very helpful without a street. Why don’t you do an image search?'
Cassandra sat up. 'What do you mean?' she asked.
'I can’t believe I’m listening to this. Babes, were you born yesterday? Don't you know you can search by image?' Verity sighed. 'Okay, I'll take you through this childishly easy process. Have you still got the file?'
'The file...’ Cassandra said.
'The file, the file, the image file he sent you. Have you got the photo?'
'Don't snap at me, hold on, give me a minute.'
Something was building, rolling in her chest. She opened the encrypted folder of photos transferred from the button drive and flicked through images, her brain confused, her fingers shaky.
'Clio,' she said. 'Pull up photo files from...pull up photo files from June.'
There it was, the sweet white weather-boarded cottage, with its heavy wooden shutters to ward off the threat of hurricanes. The passionflower's tendrils climbing and clinging to the trellis leaning against the wall, their purple firework blossoms exploding along the length and breadth of the plant.
But her memory had tricked her.
'Huh. There is a house number,’ she said in amazement. ‘Would that help for an image search? It's a 7.'
'Doesn't hurt,’ Verity said.
'So what do I do now?' Cassandra asked.
'Oh, lord. The Internet, 101. See that little square with the arrow coming out the top?'
'I can hear your eyeballs rolling in their sockets. I'm not stupid,’ Cassandra said. ‘I know what that icon does, you can share, print, or whatever. I don’t think I have an image search option. Maybe it's on your phone, but...'
'If today is any indication, then you're not that smart either. Said with love,' Verity said drily. 'And you obviously don't know everything the icon does. Tap the three dots and it’ll give you the more option.’
Cassandra tapped. 'Image search.'
'Bingo,’ Verity said.
‘Oh my god,’ Cassandra said.
The photo was the same, with an address underneath. Number 7, Lafayette Drive, Bradenton.
'Oh my god. It worked.'
Verity sighed.
'I can't believe it worked,' Cassandra said.
'By Jove, we're living in the future!' Verity exclaimed.
'Okay, okay. Make fun of me, be an asshole. But...thank you.' She zoomed in, scrutinising every detail of the image, looking for clues she might have missed back at a time that she didn't realise she needed any. Shutters, open. Garage door, shut. Number 7, brass. Driveway, paved. Postbox, quaint. She should leave a good old-fashioned letter in that postbox.
Dear Alex, thanks for nothing. Cassandra.
She caught sight of herself in a mirror, a hunchback crouched over a glowing object in a dark room, wild eyed. She threw the phone down and jumped off the bed.
No wonder she wasn't sleepy. She had jet lag, as much as anything else. But she had to try. Feeling this way for much longer would make her ill, and Rebecca and the gallery team were expecting the new resident artist, the mysterious CC Edwards, at the museum for lunch.
'What are you going to do?' Verity said, startling her. Cassandra had forgotten she was still on the line.
'I’m not sure yet.’ She grabbed the phone back and pulled up a map. The directions highlighted one road, marked 301. 'Wow,’ Cassandra said. ‘Between the hotel and his house, it’s a straight line. Like an arrow.'
'Well, don't get shot through the heart,’ Verity said. ‘And call me tomorrow. But remember. If you go over there - if he is there - you won't find the same guy that you think you know so well. I've never been surer of anything in my life.'
In the next episode, Cassandra decides not to accept being ghosted by Alex. Don’t miss out! Click the button to subscribe and tell a fiction-loving friend about Still There. The more the merrier as the story unfolds.
About the Author
Known for her nonfiction work such as All the Ghosts in the Machine and Reset, Elaine Kasket is now exploring the boundaries between memory, technology, and human connection through fiction with Still There. This serialised novel is being released exclusively on Substack, with new instalments dropping every Tuesday and Friday. Join the journey from the beginning and subscribe to make sure you don't miss a single episode.
