Sons of Fortune by Jeffrey Archer

she?”
    “No,
you’re right-she didn’t.”
    “You’re
a rat.”
    “True, but a rat with a telephone number.”
    “You
have her telephone number?” said Nat in disbelief.
    “You
catch on quickly. ”,
    “What
is it?”
    “Have
you completed that essay on the Great Depression?”
    “Not
quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a
pencil.”
    Nat
wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. “Do you think she’ll
be surprised if I give her a call?”
    “I
think shell be surprised if you don’t.”
    “Hi,
I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.”
    “No,
I don’t. Who are you?”
    “I’m
the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.”
    Nat
glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really
look like James Dean?
    It
took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals, before Nat had the
courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great
Depression he prepared a list of questions, which varied according to who
picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, “Good morning, sir, my
name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,” if it was her
mother he would say, “Good morning, Mrs. Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright.
May I please speak to your daughter. ”
    If
Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He
placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath,
and carefully dialed the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal.
    Perhaps
she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him?
Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again.
    Still busy. Had
another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before
he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping
in his chest, and wanted to put the phone right back down. He stared at his
list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.
    “Hello,”
said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.
    Nat
dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any
case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked
the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.
    Nat
read through his essay before he dialed a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice
answered.
    “Diane?”
    “No
it’s her sister Tricia,” said a voice that sounded older, “Diane’s out at the
moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?”
    “Nat,”
he replied, “would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?”
    “Sure,”
said the older voice.
    “Thank
you,” said Nat and put the receiver down.
    He
hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.
    Nat
must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still
added another fifteen minutes before he redialed the number. He’d read in Teen
magazine that if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The
phone was eventually picked up.
    “Hello,”
said a younger voice. Nat glanced down at his watch “Hello, can I speak to
Diane?”
    “Hi,
Nat, it’s Diane. Tricia told me you’d called, how are you?” How are you wasn’t
in the script. “I’m fine,” he eventually managed, “how are you?”
    “I’m
fine too,” she replied, which was followed by another long silence while Nat
searched for an appropriate question.
    Tin
coming over to Simsbury next week to spend a few days with Tom,” he read out in
a monotone.
    “That’s
great,” replied Diane, “then let’s hope we bump into each other.” There
certainly wasn’t anything in the script about bumping into each other. He tried
to read all ten questions at once.
    “Are
you still there, Nat?” asked Diane.
    “Yes.
Any hope of seeing you while I’m in Simsbury?”