But this time I know different.
A cheerful personal trainer called Gary processes my membership and I decline the offer of a free induction. This time I know what I have to do — there will be no excuses, nor will there be any bacon rolls for a while. I leave the gym with a plastic membership card and a steely determination.
My final destination on this leg of my quest is a fifteen minute walk away. I could probably go back to the car and drive there, but I’ve got a couple of hours to kill until I have a more pressing matter to deal with once I return home. Besides, the walk there and back will burn a few hundred calories from my daily target.
I stroll away from the town centre towards the retail park on the edge of the town.
30
Next to the drab concrete facade, the fluorescent yellow posters really stand out and are clearly visible as I approach the RolpheTech store. I guess that’s the point. While the promise of closing-down sale bargains might appear attractive to passing consumers, I think the posters are a cruel taunt to the people on the other side of the glass. I doubt most customers will give the staff any thought though. As long as they’re walking away with a half-price toaster, who cares if the poor soul who served them will be without a job next week?
I enter the store and take a moment to drink in the atmosphere. It’s busy with customers and the queues at the tills are longer than I’ve ever seen them. Vultures picking over the bones of a decaying carcass. It’s the only difference between the drab store I walked away from yesterday, well, eleven months ago. But what is truly sad is that I’ve seen what this place could be like with some investment. I’ve seen the refurbished version, busy with customers on an average day. I’ve seen what the future could have held for this store if it wasn’t for Marcus Morrison and the greed of the directors.
Sadly, there’s not much I can do to change the future of the store itself. But I can make a difference to the staff. To do that, I need to find my old colleague, Geoff Waddock. I make my way towards the most likely place I’ll find him, and true to form he’s sat on his arse behind the customer services desk.
“Afternoon, Geoff.”
“Oh, it’s Lord Lucan,” he grumbles. “What happened to you yesterday?”
“Long story. Very long actually, but I was escorted off the premises by Marcus before I had a chance to talk to you all.”
“Right, so I’m guessing you’re joining the rest of us on the dole queue?”
“Afraid so, but I wanted to give you something before you left.”
He stares up at me with his default expression; a frown tinged with cynicism and weariness.
“I like you Craig, but if it involves hugging and a tearful goodbye, I’m not interested.”
“No,” I snigger. “Something to help with your retirement fund. Something that should deliver a better return than your shares.”
I pull my wallet out and retrieve one of the betting slips, ensuring I offer Geoff the one with the twenty-five quid wager.
“Here.”
He takes the slip and examines it before returning a confused look.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a bet I made on your behalf. If it comes in, that slip will be worth over fifty grand.”
He returns his attention to the slip and reads it again.
“You’re kidding me, right,” he snorts. “There’s more chance of me being the US President than Trump. And as for the other two bets, you’re deluded, my friend.”
“I thought you might say that, so here’s a sweetener. If that slip proves worthless, I’ll give you what it would have paid out myself.”
“What? Have you lost the plot?”
“Nope, never been saner, and that’s official. And if you tell the other staff to make the same bet, I’ll give them all double their stake money back if they lose. They can have that in writing if they want.”
“I’d get a second opinion if I were you. These bets are crazy, and trust me, bankruptcy is no fun.”
“Well, we’ll find out in November. Anyway, keep that slip safe and promise me you’ll share my offer with the other staff. The Allardyce bet comes in next week so tell them not to hang around.”
“Alright, it’s your funeral.”
Not this time, Geoff.
I shake his hand and we agree to meet up for a beer soon. Likely one of those tenuous plans that neither party will ever instigate. Still, I’ve done my bit and hopefully Geoff keeps his promise.
Now, there’s just one other person I want to see while I’m here.
“Oh, before I go, is Lucy around?”
“No, mate. She phoned in sick. I think she took the news about the store closing quite badly, especially as you ducked telling her.”
“Right, thanks for the heads up.”
It looks like I’ve got some serious bridge building to perform later.
I say goodbye to Geoff and make my way towards the doors. Just as I pass the queue of vultures at the tills, a figure steps out from behind a display, blocking my exit.
“Pelling,” Marcus barks. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away.”
“Marcus,” I smile. “Good to see you alive and kicking again.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just leaving so don’t go stressing yourself.”
“Good,” he spits. “But as you’re here, you’ll be pleased to know I got my bonus this morning. Hefty it was too, after I saved the company thousands of pounds by not paying out your redundancy.”
That all-too-familiar smirk returns to his plastic face. I guess he’s expecting me to run off with my tail between my legs. It comes as a surprise when I step forward and look him straight in the eye.
“Funny, I was only thinking about you this morning, Marcus.”
“What?”
“I was thinking about school, and us growing up on the estate together. You must remember the estate? The skate park, your house in Orchard Gardens?”
“If there’s a point to this, Pelling, get on with it.”
“Your dad. I only met him once when I dropped off a game you ordered me to lend you, but he left quite an impression.”
His smirk dissolves the moment I mention his father.
“He was a narrow-minded, spiteful, obnoxious prick too, wasn’t he?”
A crease develops across his pristine forehead and his mouth twitches. For once, he seems unable to find any words.
“You’re a chip off the old block, Marcus,” I taunt. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”
There’s no comeback. Marcus adopts a stunned silence as I shoot him a parting smile. I have no room in my new life for negativity, or for worrying about irrelevant arseholes like Marcus Morrison. I leave RolpheTech for the very last time, my head held high.
The walk back to the car is a challenge for a body so used to being sedentary. I manage it with a combination of resolve and satisfaction. So much accomplished in such a short space of time, but I know I’ve got bigger mountains to conquer before my head hits the pillow tonight.
I drive home knowing one of those mountains will be on my horizon pretty soon.
As I clamber out of the Mazda, I take a moment to reacquaint myself with the road on which I live. Of course, nothing has changed since I drove away almost five hours ago. Nothing except me, and it’s a very different man who unlocks the front door to my marital home.
It feels strange as I wander through the house, a bit like that feeling you get when returning home after a fortnight’s holiday. I haven’t been on a holiday and I’ve been away for a lot longer than a fortnight, but the feeling is definitely the same. It is, however, a reassuring comfort to make a coffee and slump down in my favourite armchair. I take a sip of coffee and pull my phone from my pocket. A few jabs at the screen and four rings before a familiar voice answers.
“Alright, mate.”
“Alright, Dave.”
“What’s up?”
Men rarely call one ano
ther for an idle chat. There’s always a purpose and it’s an unwritten rule that once we’ve established we’re both ‘alright’, we get straight to the point.
“Fancy a beer tomorrow night?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure. Usual place?”
“Yep. Seven-thirty?”
“Yep. Seeya then.”
“Cool. How’s Suzy?” I ask.
Enquiring about the well-being of a mate’s wife is not part of the accepted conversation protocols.
“Same old, same old. Why?”
“No reason, just asking.”
“Fucking weirdo. Seeya tomorrow.”
Dave hangs up. I smile, with relief more than anything else. Dave’s less-than-perfect marriage is still intact, as is his spinal cord. I suspect I won’t be going for beers quite as frequently as I once did, so tomorrow will be a final blow-out, and a chance for me to bring Dave up-to-speed on today’s events. I doubt he’ll really care that much but I’ll tell him anyway. I may even ask if he fancies a skiing trip. Or maybe not.
I finish my coffee and revert back to my to-do list. Only two boxes remain unchecked. I dial another number and my call is answered almost immediately.
“I was wondering if you were going to ring.”
“Hi Lucy. Sorry, I should have rung earlier but I’ve been trying to sort a few things out.”
“I gathered as much. Marcus took great pleasure in telling us you’d been put on gardening leave.”
“Yes, well, at least I’ll never have to see his smug face again.”
“Guess not,” she says flatly.
The line falls silent. I suspect Lucy is still sore with me after the conversation we had on Tuesday. The very conversation in which I told her to go to Brighton. It’s clear my bridge building can’t be achieved in a phone call.
“I was wondering if I could pop by and see you later?”
“Why?”
“I wanted to have a chat with you about something?”
“I think you said everything you had to say on Tuesday didn’t you?”
Yes, she’s clearly still pissed with me. I can’t say I blame her.
“No I didn’t. Look, Lucy, give me half-an-hour tonight and I’ll explain why I said what I did.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “Come by at eight.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you then. Looking forward to it.”
“Whatever.”
A stinging end to the call but at least she agreed to see me. I’m going to have my work cut out, that’s for sure.
As I tuck my phone back in my pocket, another of my unchecked boxes unlocks the front door. I hear footsteps clack into the kitchen. The fridge door opens, and a few seconds later slams shut. She says something I don’t quite catch, but probably includes a few expletives. Was I supposed to get something in for dinner? I prepare my excuses. I probably won’t tell her about the time travel, or my being institutionalised for eleven months, worthy excuses as they are.
Megan clacks into the lounge and stands with her hands on her hips, face like thunder.
“For fucks sake Craig,” she snaps. “All you had to do was get something in for dinner. Was that too much to squeeze into your busy day?”
“Evening wifey. I’ve missed you.”
And actually, I have.
31
“What?” Megan snaps.
“I said I’ve missed you.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Nope, not a drop.”
I get up from my armchair, pad across the lounge and put my arms around my wife. I feel her body stiffen for a second before she half-heartedly returns my embrace. She probably doesn’t want to hug me but her surprise at my rare display of spontaneous affection stifles any objection.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I pull her tighter to me.
She breaks from my embrace and stares up at me.
“Sorry? What have you done?”
“Can we sit down for a moment and I’ll tell you.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “But keep it brief. I’m going out in a couple of hours.”
We perch on opposite ends of the couch as I try to think of the best way to start this conversation. It’s a conversation I should have had with Megan years ago, but sat here now, I quickly realise why I’ve avoided it. The words don’t come easy.
“Are you…happy,” I splutter. “Honestly?”
Her eyes narrow as she considers my question.
“Why do you ask?”
One of her most infuriating traits is to answer a question by posing one of her own.
“Please, Megan, just tell me. Are you happy?”
A moment of silence and a deep sigh provide a clue to her answer.
“No, not really,” she replies, unsurprisingly.
“How long have you been unhappy?”
“I never said I was unhappy, just not happy. And, I don’t know, for a while I guess.”
Not happy or unhappy. Semantics really. It all boils down to the same thing.
“But someone else is making you happy, aren’t they?”
Despite the instant flush of guilt on her face, I guess it’s just instinctive to go with a defensive approach, and she does.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I shuffle across the couch so we’re not talking across a void.
“Megan, I’m not angry, and I’m not looking to lay blame anywhere. If you have found someone else, I understand. Actually, I’d be happy for you. All I ask is for you to be honest with me. We can’t go on like this, can we?”
This is where our conversation could go one of two ways. We either descend into a petty argument or Megan comes clean and we move past it. She decides to split the difference.
“Look, I’m not admitting to anything,” she mumbles. “But you’re right, we can’t go on like this.”
“Maybe you’re not willing to admit anything, but I am. I admit I’ve been a lousy husband. I admit that we probably got married for the wrong reasons, and I admit that I don’t love you as much as you deserve to be loved.”
She leans forward and presses the tips of her fingers into her temples. As much as we both know our marriage is broken, sharing the truth still bites. An uneasy silence allows us both to take stock for a few seconds.
Megan eventually turns to face me. “Ditto,” she says in a low voice.
For the first time in a long time, we are in agreement on something.
“So what do you propose we do about it?” she asks.
“Depends. If you could look into a crystal ball, would you still want us to be here, like we are, in five years time?”
She doesn’t hesitate in shaking her head.
“Me neither. I think we both know there is only one way forward.”
Now it all comes down to one of us being brave enough to mention that seven letter word. One word to signify the end of our twenty-five year marriage.
“We’ve reached the end, haven’t we?” I murmur.
“Guess so.”
There is no joy, no elation. We’ve shared three decades of our lives, almost two thirds of the time we’ve been alive. And no matter how rocky our marriage may have been, the inevitable collapse is not something to celebrate. Despite both of us knowing we’re making the right decision, it’s impossible not to feel some regret, some lament.
I don’t really know what to say now. What is there to say? My pragmatic mind decides to deal with the practicalities rather than the emotions.
“I…err…think I should probably move out then. I can move in with Mum and Dad.”
“No, there’s no need,” she says softly. “I’ll move into the spare room. I wouldn’t condemn my worst enemy to a house-share with your father.”
We both find a smile from somewhere.
“Thank you. I’ll contact an estate agent tomorrow and get the house on the market. Assuming that’s what you want?”
“Actually, no, it isn’t.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, what then?”
“I’d prefer to buy you out, if you’re okay with that?”
“How will you get the money together?”
“I’ll re-mortgage. I earn enough, and Mum and Dad will help if I need it.”
“Right. Sounds like you’ve already given it some thought.”
“To be honest, Craig, I thought about it last night, when you suggested re-mortgaging to raise funds for your new business venture. I was going to say something then, but, guess I just didn’t have the bottle.”
That would explain why she was so vehemently against the idea of us re-mortgaging together. To think, if she had made this offer last night, I might not have gone to my parents earlier to beg for money. And I might not have bothered clearing out my bedroom, and the trip back to 1986 might never have happened. One moment. One decision.
“So you’re happy to pay me half the value of the house? No need for lawyers?” I ask.
“Yes, of course, it’s only fair. And no need for lawyers, definitely not.”
And with the practicalities sorted, that is that. Years of avoiding it but a conversation barely ten minutes from start to end. I can’t help but feel annoyed with myself for wasting so many years, and I suspect Megan feels the same.
I get up from the couch and Megan follows my lead.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says.
“Sure.”
“Why now? We’ve bumbled along like this for years and you suddenly decide to do something about it. I’m not questioning your motives, just curious I suppose. You have to admit it’s a bit out of the blue.”
“The reason? My parents.”
“I’m not with you.”
“I went round to see them earlier.“
“And?”
“You know what their relationship is like. Do you think either of them is happy?”
“I’d say they’re the opposite of happy.”
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 23