Love Virtually

by Daniel Glattauer

Genres: City Life; Epistolary Fiction; Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

"I couldn''t put it down ... like a jilted lover, when I reached the end I wanted more" Danielle Goldstein, Time Out

Love Virtually is a funny, fast-paced and utterly absorbing novel, with plenty of twists and turns, about a love affair conducted entirely by email.

"Write to me, Emmi. Writing is like kissing, but without lips. Writing is kissing with the mind."

It begins by chance: Leo receives emails in error from an unknown woman called Emmi. Being polite he replies, and Emmi writes back. A few brief exchanges are all it takes to spark a mutual interest in each other, and soon Emmi and Leo are sharing their innermost secrets and longings. The erotic tension simmers, and it seems only a matter of time before they will meet in person. But they keep putting off the moment - the prospect both excites and unsettles them. And after all, Emmi is happily married. Will their feelings for each other survive the test of a real-life encounter?

And if so, what then?

Translated from the German by Jamie Bulloch and Katharina Bielenberg

Release date: April 5, 2011

Publisher: Silveroak

Print pages: 288

Sample

15 January

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

I would like to cancel my subscription. Can I do so by e-mail?

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Eighteen days later

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

I want to cancel my subscription. Is that possible by e-mail?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Thirty-three days later

Subject: Cancelling my subscription

Dear Sir/Madam at Like magazine,

Are you deliberately ignoring my attempts to cancel my subscription? If you’re trying to offload more copies of your rag which, let’s face it, is gradually going down the drain, I regret to inform you that I’m not going to pay another cent!

Best wishes,

E. Rothner

Eight minutes later

Re:

You’ve sent your message to the wrong address. This is a private one: [email protected]. You want [email protected]. You’re the third person who’s sent me an e-mail trying to cancel their subscription. It must be a really shocking magazine.

Five minutes later

Re:

Oh, really sorry! And thanks for putting me right.

Best,

E.R.

Nine months later

Subject: (no subject)

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Emmi Rothner

Two minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi Rothner,

We don’t know each other in the slightest but I’d like to thank you for your warm and highly original round-robin e-mail! One thing you should know: I just adore round-robin e-mails.

Rgds,

Leo Leike

Eighteen minutes later

Re:

Excuse the written imposition, Mr Rgds Leike. You seem to have slipped into my contacts list by accident – a few months ago I was trying to cancel a subscription and inadvertently got hold of your e-mail address. I’ll delete you straightaway.

P.S. If you can think of a more original way of wishing people a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year than “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”, please do share it with me. Until then: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

E. Rothner

Six minutes later

Re:

I wish you a pleasant Christmas break and trust the forthcoming year will rank as one of your top eighty. And if, in the meantime, you subscribe to some bad times, please do not hesitate to contact me – in error – to cancel them.

Leo Leike

Three minutes later

Re:

I’m impressed!

Best,

E.R.

Thirty-eight days later

Subject: Not a cent more!

Dear Management of Like,

I have endeavoured to part company with your magazine three times in writing and twice by telephone (I spoke to a lady called Ms Hahn). If you insist on sending it to me, I’ll have to assume it’s for your personal entertainment. I’d be happy to keep your enclosed bill as a souvenir so that I can continue to remember Like when you finally stop shipping me your latest issues. But please don’t imagine for a moment that I have any intention of paying it.

Yours faithfully,

E. Rothner

Two hours later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

Are you doing this on purpose? Or have you taken delivery of some bad days?

Rgds,

Leo Leike.

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Leike,

Now I’m seriously embarrassed. Unfortunately I have this chronic “ei” problem, or rather an “e” before “i” problem. If I’m typing quickly, and I’m trying to type “i”, somehow I always manage to slip in an “e” before it. It’s as if the tips of my two middle fingers are fighting over the keys. The left one is always trying to be that bit quicker than the right. The fact is, I was born left-handed and made to write with my right at school. My left hand hasn’t forgiven me to this day. It keeps tapping out an “e” with the middle finger before the right hand can type an “i”. I’m so sorry to have bothered you – it (probably) won’t happen again. Have a nice evening.

E. Rothner

Four minutes later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you to write your e-mail outlining your “ei” problem?

Best wishes,

Leo Leike

Three minutes later

Re:

Two questions for you: How long do you think? And why are you asking?

Eight minutes later

Re:

I’m guessing it took you no more than twenty seconds. And I’d like to congratulate you on having produced a brilliant message in such a short period of time. It put a smile on my face. And that’s something that no-one else will do this evening. As to your second question: I’m currently involved in a project on the language of e-mails. So now I’ll ask you again – am I right in thinking it took you no longer than twenty seconds?

Three minutes later

Re:

Ah, so you work professionally with e-mails. Sounds fascinating, although now I feel a bit like a guinea pig. Oh well, who cares? Do you by any chance have a website? If you don’t, would you like one? If you do, would you like a better one? That’s my job, designing websites. (So far this has only taken me ten seconds – I’ve been timing it, but then again it was a work conversation, and they’re always much snappier.)

I’m afraid you were completely wrong about my utterly banal “e” before “i” e-mail. It must have robbed me of at least three minutes of my life. I wonder what the point of it was? Now I’ve got a question for you: Why did you assume that my “e” before “i” e-mail took only twenty seconds? And before I leave you in peace once and for all (unless those guys at Like send me another bill), there’s one more thing I’d like to know. You wrote above: “May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you etc…?” I’ve got two questions in return. First, how long did it take you to think of the joke? Secondly, is that what you call funny?

An hour and a half later

Re:

Dear unknown Ms Rothner,

I’ll answer you tomorrow. I’m going to turn off my computer now.

Good evening, goodnight, whatever.

Leo Leike

Four days later

Subject: Open questions

Dear Ms Rothner,

Please forgive me for not having replied earlier, but my life is somewhat chaotic at the moment. You wanted to know why I wrongly assumed it had taken you no longer than twenty seconds to tell me about your “ei” mistake. Well, your e-mails seem to “effervesce”, if I may be allowed to make this observation. I could have sworn that you were a fast talker and typist, a bubbly individual who cannot go about her daily business quickly enough. When I read your e-mails I can’t detect any pauses. Both their tone and tempo seem to be bursting with energy – breathless, zippy, even a touch excited. Your written style is not that of somebody with low blood pressure. I imagine that your spontaneous thoughts flow into your e-mails unchecked. And then your language shows confidence; you have a skilful and deliberate way with words. But if you’re telling me that it took you more than three minutes to write your “ei”-mail, then I must have painted a false picture of you.

Unfortunately, you asked about my sense of humour. It’s a sorry state of affairs. To be witty, you have to find at least one thing about yourself that’s remotely funny. I can’t think of anything about me that’s comical at the moment, to tell the truth – I feel utterly humourless. When I look back at the past few days and weeks, all laughter escapes me. But that’s my personal tale and it has no place here. Thank you, in any case, for your refreshing manner. It’s been awfully nice corresponding with you. I believe all your questions have now been answered, more or less. If you happen to err into my inbox again, I’d be delighted. Just one request: Please could you cancel your Like subscription now? Or would you like me to do it for you?

Best wishes,

Leo Leike

Forty minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Leike,

I have a confession to make: actually, my “e” before “i”-mail didn’t take me longer than twenty seconds. But I was irritated that you’d presumed I was someone who just dashes off e-mails. It’s the truth, of course, but you had no right to know it before now. Still, even if you have no sense of humour (at the moment), you obviously know a lot about e-mailing. I’m impressed that you managed to see straight through me! Are you a professor of literature?

Best regards,

“Bubbly” Emmi Rothner

Eighteen days later

Subject: Hello

Hello Mr Leike,

I just wanted to tell you that the folks at Like have stopped sending me their magazine. Did you have anything to do with it? You could e-mail me sometime, by the way. I still don’t know whether you’re a professor. Either Google’s never heard of you, or it knows how to keep you hidden. And how’s your sense of humour these days? Mind you, it’s carnival time. No competition there then.

Best regards,

Emmi Rothner

Two hours later

Re:

Dear Ms Rothner,

I’m so glad you’ve written again – I’ve missed you. I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like. (Beware, my sense of humour is coming back!) And did you really Google me? How flattering! But to be honest I’m a little disappointed that you think I might be a “professor”. You see me as some old fart, don’t you? Stiff, pedantic, a know-all. I’m not going to bust a gut trying to prove to you that I’m quite the opposite; that would only be embarrassing. But I may be writing like someone older at the moment. And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are. As it happens, I’m a communications consultant and a university assistant in language psychology. We’re currently working on a study that’s looking at the influence of e-mail on our linguistic behaviour and – the much more interesting part of the project – e-mail as a medium for conveying our emotions. This is why I tend to talk shop, but in future I promise to restrain myself.

I hope you survive the carnival festivities! My impression of you is of someone who must have quite a collection of false noses and party hooters. :-)

All the best,

Leo

Twenty-two minutes later

Re:

Dear Mr Language Psychologist,

Now it’s my turn to test you (as if I haven’t been doing so all along): which part of the e-mail you just sent me do you think I found most interesting, so interesting in fact that I urgently need to ask you about it?

And here’s some useful advice concerning your humour: the sentence “I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like” was promising – or so I thought! But when you added “(Beware, my sense of humour is coming back)”, you blew it, sadly: you should have just left that out! I liked the bit about the false noses and party hooters. We’ve clearly got the same non-sense of humour. But trust me, I do recognize irony when I see it – spare yourself the smiley!

All the best, nice chatting to you,

Emmi Rothner

Ten minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi Rothner,

Thanks for your humour tips. You’ll make a funny man out of me yet. And I’m even more grateful for the test! It gives me the opportunity to show you that I’m not (yet) the “self-opinionated old professor” type. If I were, then I would have guessed that the most interesting part for you must have been: “We’re currently working on a study… e-mail as a medium for conveying our emotions.” But I’m convinced that you’re most interested in this: “And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are.” Now you’re forced to ask yourself: “What makes him think he’s right?” And then: “How old does he actually think I am?” Am I right?

Eight minutes later

Re:

You’re one hell of a guy, Leo Leike!!! And now you can come up with some good reasons why I must be older than my writing makes me sound. Or, more to the point: how old is my writing? How old am I? And why? If you manage to solve this puzzle, you can tell me what my shoe size is too.

All the best,

Emmi

P.S. I’m enjoying this.

Forty-five minutes later

Re:

You write like a thirty-year-old. But you’re around forty, let’s say forty-two. What makes me think I’m right? A thirty-year-old doesn’t read Like on a regular basis. The average age of Like subscribers is around fifty. But you’re younger, because you work with websites, so you could be thirty or even a fair bit younger than that. On the other hand, no thirty-year-old sends a mass e-mail to clients to wish them “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”. And finally, your name is Emmi, i.e. Emma. I know three Emmas and they’re all over forty. Thirty-year-olds aren’t called Emma. It’s only people under twenty who are Emmas again. But you’re not under twenty, or you’d use words like “cool”, “wicked”, “lush”, “totally”, “awesome” and suchlike. And you wouldn’t begin sentences with capital letters, or write in full sentences either. But most importantly, you’d have better things to do than chat with a humourless man who might or might not be a professor and be interested in how young or old he thinks you might be. Another thing about “Emmi”: if your name were Emma, and you wrote as if you were younger – perhaps because you felt much younger than you were – you wouldn’t call yourself Emma, but Emmi. In short, my dear Emmi Rothner, you write as if you’re thirty, but in fact you’re forty-two. Am I right? Your shoe size is 36. You’re petite, bubbly, and you’ve got short, dark hair. And you effervesce when you speak. Am I right?

Good eveni. . .