by Terry Fallis
“Okay. Your turn,” I said after Maggie had cleared our lunch dishes.
“Right,” he replied. “Well, you’ve probably pieced some of it together already, but I was adopted in Ottawa about two weeks after I was born, after we were born, by the nicest, kindest couple I’ve ever known.”
Names?
“Names?”
“Right. George and Eva Paterson. Dad was an electrical engineer, born over here, in Chester, just a bit southwest of Manchester. He grew a bit restless early in his career at British Telecom, so he took a job with Northern Telecom in Ottawa. He thought of it as an adventure. You know, visit the colonies and all. This was in 1985, if I remember correctly.”
Carry on.
I nodded.
“He met my mother, my adoptive mother, Eva, on the job, in the company cafeteria. She worked in the marketing department trying to translate the technology George was helping to develop into pithy and understandable language for the sales team to use. Apparently, it only took a couple of meetings before she asked him out. He said yes, and that was that. Eighteen months later they were married in Ottawa and honeymooned in England, visiting Dad’s family.”
He paused.
Well, don’t stop there. You’re just getting started.
“Okay, then what?” I pressed.
“Well, they tried to have children, but it seemed they couldn’t. I never found out why. They didn’t talk much about that period,” he said. “So I think it was early in 1989 when they pursued adoption.”
“And in December of 1990, we arrived,” I added.
“Exactly. Apparently I was a ward of the province for a couple of weeks before I was adopted in early 1991.”
“But how did you get back here?” I asked.
“My father, George, got a great offer from British Telecom to return to England. BT was going through lots of tumultuous changes, having been privatized, and were desperately trying to stay on top of cellular technology, so they staffed up on engineers. In early ’92, we came to London. I was barely one year old. So I have no memories of Ottawa. None.
“After that, I had what I would describe as a typical English upbringing. My mother loved London. She didn’t work outside of the home while I was growing up, and she didn’t really need to. My father was doing very well at BT.
“So I was a good student, played football, cricket, and rugby, like every other schoolboy, and I pined for a brother.”
His eyes widened when he said this.
“Yes. I did want a brother, didn’t I?” he said, almost talking to himself. “I always thought it was strange – actually, it felt strange – not to have a brother. I just thought I wanted a live-in mate, but maybe it was more than that.”
I nodded.
Don’t stop now.
“And then…” I prodded.
“Right. And then I went to Oxford for my undergrad in what they call philosophy, politics, and economics…”
Whoa. Hang on.
“Wait. How did you get to Oxford? Isn’t it tough to get into?” I asked.
“Well, I aced the admissions test and the written submission for my chosen field of study. I guess they also liked my personal statement that was part of the application. Then I seemed to score well in the interview. I also had good references and strong marks. They called me in January 2009 to tell me I was in for that fall term. And I snagged a scholarship, too. I loved it there. I was in Balliol. That was my college.”
And then the accident happened, right? 2009?
“I’m really sorry about your adoptive parents. I read that they, um, lost their lives in a car accident,” I said. “It would have been pretty soon after you landed at Oxford. That must have been very hard.”
“Actually, I never ever think of it as an ‘accident.’ The guy was smashed when he drove into my parents on the M25. He made it home alive, eventually. My parents never did. I was gutted. It was hell on earth.”
It took all my resolve to reach out and put my hand on his as it rested on the table. I didn’t really do things like that, and hadn’t for a very long time. But it felt like the right thing to do.
I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible.
“I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible,” I said. I kind of patted his hand with mine and then withdrew it. “I read about the court case online. The story popped up when I Googled your name.”
“It was very difficult and it all happened just when I was finishing off my first term at uni. It knocked me for six and I almost lost my spot at Oxford. But then I pulled it together. My parents were so proud that I was at Oxford, it felt as if I owed it to them to make it through. So I just shut it all out and tried to focus on my studies.”
Yeah, but the bastard got off.
“I read that the driver got off, at least the first time around,” I said.
“Yes. I was in my third year of undergrad then. That was not fun. The police kind of botched the investigation and ‘misplaced’ the actual breathalyzer test results, so the charges had to be dropped long before it ever got to court. I admit I briefly entertained the thought of some good old-fashioned vigilante justice, but my parents would have been horrified. So I just buried it deep and carried on.”
“How do you ‘misplace’ breathalyzer results?” I asked.
“We never got to the bottom of it, but my lawyer heard rumours that the drunk driver had friends on the force. But he got his in the end. It’s over now. I’m over it, now.”
I don’t know how you ever get over something like that. That must have been rough.
“That must have been rough. I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I said. “So it eventually went to court?”
“Yes, it did. It was very odd. About eighteen months after the charges were dropped, the breathalyzer test results miraculously reappeared. The case was reopened and off to court we went. In a way I’m glad it happened that way. I was in much better shape a year and a half later.”
“I read that you went to court every day.”
“I did. It was hard. But there was no option. I felt I owed it to my parents to be there. I also gave a victim impact statement from the stand during the sentencing hearing. That was not pleasant, either.”
“Geez.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve had your burdens,” he replied. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to care for your mother, for our mother, in those last few months.”
Okay, enough of the depressing talk.
“Anyway, so you finished your undergrad and then promptly did a master’s, too, right?”
“Yes. I just kept going. I didn’t yet feel ready for the real world. I managed to stay in residence at Balliol for my entire Oxford tenure. I was very lucky, although living in Hollywell Manor, built five hundred years ago, had its own special charms.”
“Okay. So you graduated. Then what?”
“Thanks to some political contacts I made during my graduate project, I landed a short contract job straightaway on the political staff of Sir Vince Cable, the Secretary of State for Business, Innovation, and Skills. He was very interested in my work on how the Internet might scale the cultivation of social licence for major industrial projects. I’m really more of a Labour guy, but this policy area was right up my street.”
I chose that moment to deliver my best Matt Paterson impression, accent and all, reciting those three sentences I’d picked up from one of his YouTube appearances.
“In this era, earning the social licence to build massive infrastructure projects is not just an option, not just recommended, not just preferred, it’s absolutely essential. Public engagement, scaled digitally, to secure social licence, has become the new corporate imperative. Ignore it at your financial and reputational peril.”
His mouth and eyes opened wide at the same time.
“How did you…I think I’ve said those words. Those are my words. That was my voice,” he sputtered.
“Actually, it’s our voice,” I replied. “Anyway,
it’s no real mystery. You gave a keynote at a conference and it’s on YouTube. I just memorized a few lines and mimicked your accent.”
“Bloody brilliant. The actor. It was like listening to myself. It was an out-of-body experience,” he said, shaking his head. “And by the way, we’re in England now. I don’t have an accent. You do.”
“Right.” I laughed.
I hadn’t noticed how crowded the pub had become. I looked at my watch. It was 6:10 p.m. We’d been sitting there engrossed in our reunion for pretty well the entire day. I was shocked at how quickly time had passed. The booth we occupied was quite private. Unless you were standing right at our table, you really couldn’t see much of us.
“Hey, I see a few of my colleagues over at the bar,” Matt said after scanning the room. “Let me introduce you.”
Matt started to stand up. I put my hand on his arm.
No. Not now. Please. I can barely handle meeting you. I’m really not up for meeting strangers.
“Um, Matt, can we leave that for another time?” I asked. “This has been a lot to absorb. I’m a little overwhelmed. Not sure I’m up for meeting new people now.”
He sat back down, nodding.
“Sure. No worries,” he replied. “We’ve got lots of time.”
“Thanks.”
We ordered dinner and more drinks. As with our lunch, I barely remember what we ate or drank – though I can confirm the beverages were alcoholic. But I recall every word we exchanged, every story, every revelation.
At one point I looked up and saw Matt staring at my hands.
“I hold my hands in exactly the same way,” Matt said, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Your hands. The way you just interlocked your fingers. I do that, too.”
I looked at my hands, fingers laced. Wow. I moved my hands to my lap.
“Anyway, it seems you didn’t stay in politics too long,” I said.
“No. It really wasn’t for me, I guess. But I learned a lot, particularly about how governments go about consulting with stakeholders and average citizens. Sometimes they’re genuinely interested in hearing outside views and sometimes they’re not. But one thing is certain. Setting up an evening information session in a local church basement to explain plans to locate a few dozen wind turbines around the town just isn’t very helpful if you’re really trying to connect with the people affected. The same people show up every time and the masses stay at home. I had an idea of how we could do a much better job of it. So I left and started Innovatengage.”
“That was brave. How did you know what to do?” I asked.
“I didn’t. I made lots of mistakes, but luckily, most of them were relatively minor. I managed to get the big decisions right, at least most of the time.”
“But how did you start?”
“Well, I’m not much of a techie, so I knew I needed a coder who could take this idea I had and actually build the engagement platform. So I used some of my inheritance to hire a software engineer. She’s still with me as the company’s chief technology officer. Hiring Isabella was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. She not only took my ideas and created the online platform and interface, but she actually made it better than I’d envisaged.”
Well, what did you expect? That’s what software engineers do. We build amazing things. We’re an extraordinary breed. Surely you’ve noticed that.
“Well, that’s what software engineers do. We build stuff,” I replied.
We sat in our two-seater booth in that pub, in our own little world, until closing time – 11:00 p.m. There was no sense of the passage of time that afternoon and evening. We were both startled when our nightshift waiter – Maggie had left hours earlier – let us know they were closing in ten minutes. I knew a lot more about Matt by then. He knew a fair bit about me, too, but not everything. At my suggestion, the waiter used my iPhone to take a photo of Matt and me, his arm draped over my shoulder. I emailed it to Matt. It seemed we should have some formal record of our historic reunification. It was a great shot, with both of us beaming. It almost looked as if we’d just found each other again after a twenty-five-year separation.
We left the William Blake and walked back towards the Tube station.
“So where are you staying?” he asked.
“At the London Bridge Hotel.”
“You’re joking,” he said, smiling. “Why did you pick that hotel and that area?”
“Well, it seemed central and was only a short subway ride, sorry, Tube ride to your office. Why? It seems like a perfectly good hotel.”
“Yes, it’s a fine hotel,” he replied. “I live just a short distance away. I bought in the area for the same reasons you looked for a hotel here. Uncanny. Thinking on the same wavelength. As if we’re related or something. And by the way, you’re no longer staying at the hotel. You’re staying with me.”
“I’m fine staying at the hotel. I don’t want to impose.”
He stopped walking. So like a good twin brother, I stopped walking.
“Impose? Alex, it’s impossible for one twin brother to impose on the other, particularly when we’re catching up on so much. That’s a family rule. We’re not having a debate about this. You’re staying with me.”
We started walking again and were almost at the Old Street Tube station.
“Besides, I just recently lost my roommate so I’ve got lots of room, right now,” Matt said.
“Roommate?”
“I guess we haven’t covered my relationships yet. But I just broke up with my girlfriend. She moved out a month ago. We’d been together about a year.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “What happened?”
“Well, it was time, I guess,” he replied. “Or at least she thought so. Without descending into cliché, there just didn’t seem to be enough room in my life for a fledgling company and a serious relationship. They both needed my attention and I just couldn’t balance the two. I suppose I decided what was more important. I feel bad about it, but also a little relieved. What about you?”
Oh, well, you know, I’m in great shape on the romantic front. Couldn’t be better. I haven’t been in a serious relationship since high school. You remember the Cyndy I mentioned earlier. You heard me right, brother. That’s nearly ten – count ’em – ten years ago. Oh, but there is this woman at work who kind of scares the crap out of me while at the same time making my stomach feel a little queasy when she’s around me. So, yeah, things couldn’t be better.
“Hello? Alex?”
“Sorry. Let’s just say it’s been a little while since I was in a serious relationship,” I admitted. “But there’s a slim chance something might be happening with someone at work.”
“Wow. This twin thing is powerful. We look alike and sound alike. We both work in the online world. We both lace our fingers in the same way. We both lost our parents. And the topper, we both have the same luck with women.”
Right. We’re exactly the same. You broke up with your girlfriend a month ago. I broke up with mine a decade ago. Yep, that’s pretty much the same story. Twins-ho!
“Right.”
At Matt’s insistence, I checked out of the London Bridge Hotel. We piled into a cab out front. Matt said we could easily have walked to his condo, but we’d both had a few drinks and my suitcase was heavy. The cabbie turned onto a strange little street known simply as Wild’s Rents and pulled up to what I thought looked like an old warehouse. I was quite pleased with this observation because, as it turned out, it was in fact an old warehouse refurbished as high-end condo units. And I mean high-end. Matt’s was amazing.
He heard my sharp inhalation when he opened the door and fingered the touch pad on the wall to bring up the lights.
Holy shit! Killer condo.
“Wow! Killer condo,” I said.
“I like it,” Matt replied. “Let me show you around. It won’t take long.”
Well, it’ll take longer than a tour of my apartment.
I slipped
off my shoes and pushed my wheelie suitcase out of the way.
“So this is the gigantic open space that sometimes makes me feel as if I live in a gymnasium,” he started with a sweep of his hand.
I was going to say the deck of an aircraft carrier, but gymnasium works.
It was a sprawling open-concept configuration, and the words that flitted into my mind as he led me in were “expansive” and “expensive.” There were exposed wooden ceiling beams above and gleaming hardwood floors below. The massive central space was wide open and contained a living room, dining area, library/workspace, and kitchen. The large windows along one wall made the room seem even larger than it was, even at night.
The furniture was perfect for the space. Clearly, care had been taken designing the interior. There was a white and fluffy couch and matching chair. A funky glass and wood coffee table sat on a white rug. Cool end tables on either side of the couch each supported ultra-modern halogen lamps. The kitchen was all stainless steel from the counters and appliances to the light fixtures and barstools. It looked like the kitchen you might expect to see on the Millennium Falcon – or any similarly appointed intergalactic cruiser – only larger.
Contrasting with this, but strangely not appearing to conflict with it at all, was the more traditionally styled dining area with a large polished dark wood table with matching claw-foot chairs. A companion buffet sat opposite the table against the wall, above which was a large abstract painting. In fact, the grey walls held several large pieces of art that looked to my untrained eye to be very valuable.
I loved the library/workspace in the corner, defined on the floor by a very traditional and ornate Persian rug. The desk was old but on it rested a MacBook Pro sitting in a docking station and a large Apple monitor. Antique bookcases provided some privacy and partially hid a very comfortable-looking brown leather chaise longue for reading or for pretending to be telling Sigmund Freud about your dreams.
I couldn’t imagine living there. Our entire Ottawa apartment would have fit in about a third of the footprint of this one central room.
Matt took my elbow and guided me through the three large bedrooms, each with its own sparkly bathroom. Again, wow.