If only he would speak to me, not in the cryptic way, but in the way two humans should communicate.
And then, I typed a short message in the small information box on my Wall. It was a space which didn’t filter through the Newsfeed; it was a summary of how I was feeling at that moment.
My life is as mad as a hatters. Ilex Drapes showroom had new signage put up yesterday and it is now a bridal shop. Richard asked me if I wanted to “kiss a frog”
Who is writing???
I noticed Anthony was online too and within minutes his Status Update appeared at the top of my Newsfeed…
09:10 Anthony doesn’t know…
He managed to make me jump for the third time. I posted my own Status Update.
11:47 Nicole is thinking shit?????
Within in two seconds of posting my Status I realised what he’d done. He’d been onto my page and he’d read my note. He was responding to my words: he wasn’t sure who was writing either, that’s what he must have meant. If crazy things were happening my end, maybe they were his end too? Or was it that he had simply done what I wanted him to do and posted a Status Update that was more obviously connected to me.
I felt such an idiot for not thinking before I updated my Status and I logged off in a huff, took a hot shower, busied myself emptying the washer, put another load in, helped Elyse dress her doll for a bit, but an hour later I’d finally succumbed to my urges and was back on Facebook. I felt relief wash over me as I read his next Status Update.
12:36 Anthony KNOWS he wants THAT though!
He knows he wants me. The words almost made me want to cry with joy. It amazed me how his words, when isolated from all other senses, had power over me. I was unable to hear him, unless from inside my head, I couldn’t touch him, smell or taste him; all I could do was stare into a photo of his eyes – the irony was that I almost felt like I was at the mercy of a fictional man.
Thinking about “who was writing”, I decided to use the About Me section on my Facebook page to try and steer him towards the old novel. I had no idea whether he knew I’d trained as an actress, I think he knew I wasn’t married to Richard. There was always the possibility that he’d stumbled on the author who took his name years ago. He may have already known about this book, which was why he’d considered it fun to toy with me. But then it dawned on me: what if the ghost of Anthony Hope was trying to warn me away from the living Anthony Hope? What if the fictional man he created in his novel doesn’t end up with Nell Gwyn?
There was definitely something strange about the sequence of events as in they were all connected with two common threads: Facebook and Anthony Hope.
I retraced the string of events in my mind and came to the conclusion that the whole thing was utterly crazy; yet, when laid out, it seemed to make sense if you accepted the paranormal. Even the strange incident with the keys and windows fitted if you accepted the idea of spirits. And that explanation was more palatable than isolating the text message as the work of an evil Facebook stalker.
But it was as though I still missing something – some vital link.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I didn’t realise what I was doing was considered a dangerous practice; I didn’t even have a name for it at the time. I knew it was a weird thing to do, but then again I’d no intention of telling anyone I’d tried it; the same way as you don’t bother telling people you had a go at trying to bend a metal spoon after watching Uri Geller on TV. I think it was more a case of what the author, Arthur Conan Doyle once had Sherlock Holmes say: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
So I continued to sit and stare at Anthony Hope’s face while I mulled things over. Just looking at him made my eyelids feel heavy; as though my pupils had dilated so much that the lids were compelled to close to protect them from taking in too much light. I stared more into his rich eyes. The laptop cursor turned into a hand when my finger scrolled across the mouse pad and I used the tiny hand to trace the outline of his mouth, his head, his neck; the places I so longed to touch. Just thinking about him sent soft, tickly electric pulses through my body, it make me shiver like someone had brushed by skin.
I put my hand to my mouth, with my elbow resting on the table, and took a deep breath. I so wanted to feel his hands gently pulling my hair from my face as he tenderly and slowly kissed me, making me feel even smaller in his arms, and then the unwelcome sound of my mobile interrupted me.
‘Hi…it’s me – how are you?’
‘Fine. How’s the bump on your car gone down?’ I suddenly remembered that I’d not asked Maddy about it since Saturday.
The car she was driving at the moment belonged to one of her relatives; her own car went back to the finance company after the dawn raid.
‘I’m letting everyone else deal with it as I can’t handle it…too awkward with it being Lorna and them being in so much financial shit at the moment,’ she said.
‘Probably a good idea to stay out of it,’ I agreed.
‘Anyway, they’ve got to get a couple of quotes for repair, so I think they’ll decide what to do once they’re in. Thought I might pop in for a bit tomorrow afternoon before I pick Henry up from school. Will you be in?’
‘Yeah sure, it’s fine. Where are you now I asked?’
‘I’m at Steve’s mum’s. Anyway what are you up too? Richard says your acting weird.’
‘Does he? Have you heard of Nell Gwyn?’ I asked, while doodling flowers on top of the notes I’d made on her life history.
‘No, why…should I know her? Hey, what’s the noise in the background?’
‘It’s Mick-The-Cleaner. He’s vacuuming. Anyway that doesn’t matter, back to Nell I have been looking her up. She died in 1687, when she was only thirty-seven, so no, you don’t know her as such, just may have heard of her, that’s all. I’m piecing bits and pieces together since my shoulder taps.’
‘For fuck’s sake. Richard’s right. So…do you think she’s your ghost? Why is she your ghost?’
‘I just think she may be connected to this whole thing somehow,’ I said, omitting to mention Anthony Hope’s novel.
‘Do you now think you were Nell Gwyn in some former life?’
‘No, I don’t mean that.’
‘Have you ever been regressed to a past life then?’
‘As a matter of fact I have been – well, sort of, it didn’t work. The whole event hadn’t been my idea…think I was too uptight…they couldn’t get me into the hypnotic trance thing and the imaginary door I had to get through was locked. Mine wouldn’t open.’
‘That figures. So, tell me about Nell then.’
‘Nell Gwyn was an orange seller turned actress and courtesan, she was the mistress of King Charles II in the 1600s. Hers is a bit of a Cinderella rags to riches fairy story really. They called her Pretty, Witty, Nell.’
‘Very interesting…if you are into to that kind of thing…but so what?’
‘I’ll explain more tomorrow.’
‘Fine…have it your way…I’ll see you tomorrow – unless, by some fluke, I see you on the school run later.’ This was her dig at me because she always insisted on getting there earlier than I did.
‘See ya…bye,’ and I put down the phone, and continued to chew at my already battered pencil.
I tried to re-focus on my textbooks for the next hour or so, but my head wasn’t taking things in very well, and it needed to be working at full strength because my next really big exam was looming.
I headed for the kitchen with my textbook, piece of paper and pencil in my hand so I could double-check my textbook answers while the kettle boiled. I then recalled something I’d read on Saturday: try using a meditation to communicate with your Angel.
I wondered if you could do this with ghosts or spirits? I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was dealing with here, if anything at all. I then grabbed my pencil, closed my eyes and completely blanked my mind, well almost, as the thought of this being crazy flashed into
my brain first, but then I forced myself to breathe deeply for a few minutes until my head was entirely clear – no thoughts, just calm, and I let the pen do its work.
There were no voices with verbal communication coming through, nothing but a feeling. A feeling of where the pen should go, but I had no idea of its direction. Eventually, the sensation stopped, the pen no longer felt compelled to move and I opened my eyes. On top of all my workings out for the text questions was now an incomplete number eight.
Why wasn’t the eight finished off? I wondered. Had I opened my eyes too soon? What had also intrigued me was that I wasn’t looking at some aimless squiggle, which was what I’d expected to see when my eyes opened. Again, spurred by curiosity, determined to leave no stone unturned, I wanted to know more, and besides this was far more interesting than my textbooks.
I left the unmade tea and jumped back on the laptop, strumming my fingers on the keyboard while I thought through a method of searching an incomplete eight. I couldn’t think of one so I simply typed in number eight + meaning, and as usual, the Internet had it covered.
But, once again, I felt like a dumbass, because I’d completely forgotten that number eight is the mathematical symbol for infinity. I continued clicking on and off different sites that looked interesting. I read that number eight was the number of cosmic balance, victory, karma and money, and that in the Bible it is the eighth day (the resurrection), it is seen as a transfiguration and beginning of a new era or order; which follows the seventh day, the day of rest, and the sixth, the day of creation.
Then I found loads of articles with references to the Beijing Olympics which opened up on the eighth day, of the eighth month, 2008 at eight seconds, eight minutes past eight p.m., all because the Chinese believed in the lucky power of number eight, and in typical Chinese fashion they’d embraced this to the full. In fact, it would take another hundred years before they could do it in such style again – as in the year 2108, and that was providing they won the Olympic host bid at that point – so 2008 really was their lucky year.
This was all very interesting, but how did eight relate to me and what eights are relevant in my life?
William James, my little small wonder, was to turn eight in February. But that one little precious thought then sent my thoughts snowballing – thinking about William turning eight reminded me that it was eight years to the month since I’d last seen Anthony. I’d left Opus in November 2000. It struck me as strange that in the year we pass through 08/08/08, Anthony Hope is back on the scene. It felt like us working together had been the day of creation, the seven years of separation had been the days of rest, and eight was the resurrection. It was silly, but for some reason I found it logical.
So…were we destined to be together forever? Or did I write an incomplete eight as in forever not mine?
The one thing I did know for certain was that I’d never have noticed the significance of the number eight between us if I hadn’t just drawn what I had. My thoughts then turned back to the Olympics; the eighth of August was the day before my birthday. That meant that I was still thirty-seven on the day it opened. On the eighth of August, 2008, I was the age of Nell Gwyn when she died.
Was there something in this spiritual communication, or just many coincidences? I pondered and then gave Richard a quick call on his mobile, before vowing to get on with my text questions. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi…is there a problem?’ he asked, confused by the fact I was calling him for a change.
The lack of noise in the background told me that he was sitting in his office. His mahogany desk was in the centre of the room and other than files it was relatively bare; quite bland really. He always said that clients went there for his brain, not to sit admiring accessories and artwork – Richard had an air of confidence, which only comes with a superior brain. Sometimes talking to him on the office line reminded me of the days where I would make excuses to take files to the upstairs offices, just so I could drop in his room on the way – our relationship had been exciting in the early days. Sex had been the tool for breaking through the enigma he was. He’d propositioned me at his work Christmas party and pretty much offered me a financial arrangement for sex which I had taken as a joke until he mentioned it again the next time we were at work together. After the initial shock I declined the money and took the uncomplicated sex with a man who told me he would never leave his wife. He did eventually pay the mortgage on a house for me – it made financial sense and was better than sneaking in and out of hotel rooms.
‘Problem? No. One thing though…do you insure any buildings which used to belong to Nell Gwyn?’ I asked.
‘Why on earth do you want to know that? I’ve no idea…are you sure that you are okay?’
Just as I was about to confirm that I was fine, I heard Maddy’s voice in the hall talking to Mick-The-Cleaner, and I explained that I needed to go.
I was a little confused because I was sure that she’d said she was calling round tomorrow, but she bounced into the kitchen, looking sleek in her fitted black dress, leggings and what looked like new leather boots, and suddenly I felt self-conscious in my mismatched outfit: tatty Dr Who black/grey cardigan, grey T-shirt and khaki combats which reminded me that one trouser leg was still caught inside the Ugg boot as I went to free it. I hadn’t even bothered to put a brush through my hair after the shower and it had dried with unflattering kinks, which was the nearest it ever gets to a curl. To top it all, my skin looked pale from no make-up and lack of sunlight.
In fact, as I flicked the kettle on, a quick glimpse in the mirror told me that I looked strained. I had the look of a mad scientist, who had just been pulled out of his lab after getting close to discovering the secrets of the universe.
‘I thought you were coming tomorrow,’ I said pleasantly, because I was genuinely pleased she’d popped in – I was dying to tell her about my discoveries.
‘Yeah. But I thought I’d call now because you’re acting really strange.’
‘I know. Well I am, and I’m not…it’s just all this weird stuff,’ and I told her about Anthony Hope’s novel.
‘So you now think your Anthony Hope is the reincarnated author Anthony Hope, is that what you’re saying?’
‘No…’
Instead I told her about all the other bits of information I had unearthed, including the unfinished number eight. Then, after considerable and expected verbal abuse, she finally humoured me by taking a look at my drawing.
‘It’s not an incomplete eight you idiot, it’s a fish – you’ve drawn a fish…I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation,’ she said and I took another look at it, seeing it with fresh eyes. She was right; it was a fish.
‘You do the insane thing of drawing with your eyes closed and you don’t even see it’s a fish,’ she added cockily. ‘It takes me to see it.’
If she’d managed to get any more enthusiasm in her voice she would have convinced me that it was perfectly normal to do such a thing.
‘Well, maybe I was supposed to see eight first. That is a number that is relevant to me. I’ll look up the meaning of a fish later,’ I said, feeling more stupid than ever.
Perhaps I saw it as a number first because I’d spend all morning looking at numbers. My head was full of numbers – that was the only rational explanation I could think of and, by this stage it had really started to feel as though it was how I should have seen it.
‘But the book, how weird is that though? It’s almost like that Jane Austin thingy on TV I watched a few months back where the woman from today’s world got caught up the classical fictional book and ends up falling for Mr Darcy, isn’t it?’ But as I said it, I knew there was a vital difference: one was entirely made up and the other was my life.
‘I don’t know…I didn’t watch it. Look, I admit that all the coincidences are really weird. But you are starting to worry me. And where do you really think this is all going? You don’t seriously think you’re going to be running off with him and livin
g happily ever after, do you?’
‘No, of course I don’t think that,’ I said, whilst thanking God she couldn’t see my fantasies. ‘It’s just…he’s playing games with me, I can’t help myself, and now on top of all else, I can’t get my head around all the weird Nell Gwyn stuff.’
‘Well…if you want my opinion, he needs to get a proper job at his age instead of having time to play silly games with you,’ she said, in a superior tone.
‘Proper job?’ I raised my eyebrows but held my tongue. If I’d held back any further I swear I would have choked on it. It was the precise definition of “proper job” which had instantly sent a snapshot of one of Maddy’s so called proper jobs into my head: one day in a call centre which turned out to be promoting sex lines – she didn’t even have a dirty voice! But I really didn’t want to get into the career choice debate, and besides, Anthony Hope wasn’t the one on police bail.
‘Yes, proper job. Being some singer in a band no one has heard of isn’t exactly a proper job; not exactly JLS are they? Anyway, I’ll have another drink with you and then I need to nip to the shop before getting Henry. Have you got any chocolate or cake or something sweet in?’
Maddy left shortly after making do with nuts, because other than a jar of Nutella, raisins or a bowl of cereal, I’d nothing sweet to offer. But her swift departure allowed me just enough time to get back at the laptop to see if I could find anything relevant connected to a fish; which I knew wasn’t going to remotely help me through my next exam, but was far more interesting.
I headed for the study PC because Mick-The-Cleaner had started cleaning the stone floor in the garden room.
The study PC hadn’t been shut down properly, which was convenient. I pulled the cord to open the wood venetian slats, then I typed in: fish + symbol.
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