The singing doesn't subside, but they all turn to go. One of the girls at the front, her eyes quite red and swaying slightly, sits on the edge of my desk, and leans across to me.
"You know, James, this means that you'll probably be made a partner now, won’t you? Congratulations."
She drunkenly leans across to shake my hand, but at that moment, her bottom nudges my grandmother's paperweight and it rolls towards the edge of the table.
I see it going and I jump up and dive across my desk, managing to catch it just in time, just as it reaches the edge.
Suddenly there is silence, and the singing stops. The girl on my desk looks at me in disbelief, and then spontaneously bursts into laughter. The rest join in.
It's then that I realize that I'm standing up and in full view of everyone, practically exposing myself to a room full of drunken advertising executives who have nothing better to do than stare at me and laugh their heads off.
It’s at moments like these that your mother's advice to always wear your best underwear, just in case you get hit by a bus, doesn't seem so daft after all. If only I'd paid more attention, I would have worn Ralph Lauren or Polo Sport, instead of Marks 'n Sparks.
Suddenly the receptionist appears, pushing her way through the team. A new pair of trousers and shirt in one hand. A camera in the other.
Big white flash.
Embarrassing photo duly taken. The moment is captured forever, and destined to become a picture on Big Dick's wall, a memento of the day we won the Scotia Telecom deal, and a source of constant and unending office mirth. The day I was caught with my trousers down. Funny ha ha.
Chapter Eight
Trafalgar Square 4 pm
.
I walk out of the office clutching a bundle of British euros, one hundred to be exact, all new in blues and greens, bearing the Queen’s head on one side, and the map of Europe on the reverse. Courtesy of the receptionist, my new best friend, who as it turns out, is better known as Alice.
Euros. So when did Britain lose the pound?
So many changes. So many questions.
I have to get home now. I have to see Sarah, I have to hold her in my arms, close my eyes and let her kiss me on my eyelids. Like she used to do when we first met. She will make me feel good again. She will make it all go away, and when we fall asleep together, when we wake up in the morning, it will all be back to normal. I know it will.
After all, none of this can be true. Can it?
I decide to walk to Waterloo. I can't quite face the underground yet. Something happened there this morning, something that caused all of this.
Just the mere thought of travelling on the tube again brings back the memories of this morning, and the fear surges, and rushes through me. I manage to bottle it all up. To control it. But only just.
No, I'll walk.
I head down Monmouth Street, then towards Leicester Square, and down to Trafalgar Square. Again, I'm struck by just how little traffic there is. Tall, thin, old fashioned Routemaster red buses stream past me, unimpeded, frequent, and full. Another difference. And as I watch them pass me by, it strikes me how few modern red buses there are on the streets today.
At Trafalgar Square I stand underneath Nelson’s Column and watch little children squealing with pleasure as they feed the pigeons from their hands. A Japanese mother stops me and asks me to take a picture of her and her husband and their two little girls surrounded by the birds. I smile. The first time I've smiled today. I remember the first time I came into London with my parents, and I remember just how exciting I found it all. I loved the pigeons. I was always against Ken Livingstone's idea to get rid of them from the Square, and now they're back, I'm glad.
It takes me five minutes to walk down to Embankment and when I get to the Thames I climb the steps up to the Jubilee Bridge crossing to the south side of the river. I cross to the middle and stop to look out across the skyline of London.
I love this view. It’s better than the Seine in Paris, or the Vltava in Prague, or the Danube in Budapest. This river beats them all.
But then I spoil it all. I look past St Paul's Cathedral into the distance and immediately spot two big mistakes in my reality. My heart skips a few beats, and I grip the rails in front of me, white showing across my knuckles.
Since I left Trafalgar Square I hadn't noticed any other changes to the streets. Everything seemed normal. For a while I was even hoping that things were back to usual, hoping that maybe I was beginning to wake up from the dream. When I got to the river, the Jubilee Bridge was there, just as it should be, as was the London Eye. Majestic as ever.
But when I open my eyes again and look towards where Canary Wharf should stand, just visible in the distance, I see nothing. No tall buildings. No modern skyscrapers. None. Not a single one.
And then I spot mistake number two. The new Swiss Re tower is not there either, its absence conspicuous by the patch of blue sky that fills the space where the cigar shaped tower should be.
I close my eyes again and pray. A silent prayer. Please God, make it all go away. Make this dream end.
But when I open my eyes again, the dream is still running. I look to my right and there is no sign of London’s latest and greatest skyscraper: the Shard does not exist either.
Feeling a little nauseous, I turn and walk to Waterloo. I can feel myself starting to unravel. At most I can probably hold it all together for an another hour. But after that, I think it’s going to be too much. I need to see Sarah. Soon. Only she can give me the strength I need to make sense of all of this.
I walk to the end of the bridge, down the steps, past the Queen Elizabeth Concert hall, and the statue of Nelson Mandela, down underneath the railway bridge taking trains across the river, and eventually into the arrivals hall at Waterloo.
A shiver runs down my spine as I remember throwing up outside the station earlier this morning. It seems such a long time ago now.
I look at the overhead signs announcing the arrivals and departures, but this time as I look more closely, I notice that the signs themselves seem different in size and design to those being used the last time I was in the station, which would have been only last night. They are hanging in rows, individual plasma screens suspended from special roof supports, announcing the latest trains scheduled to arrive or depart from each platform. They appear to be hanging in the same place as yesterday, but the plasma screens look different, as if they were from different manufacturers. And they look slightly more advanced. Anyway, they seem different. Just another one of the growing list of differences that I have noticed today.
The next train to Surbiton is in two minutes from Platform One. I run quickly, and I make it just as the doors are closing.
It’s a brand new train. I haven’t been on one like this before. It must be one of the much-heralded new rolling stock that South West Trains had ordered for the Olympics but was delivered over budget and too late. It's swish, comfortable, and as I find out, incredibly punctual. The train leaves at 4.28pm exactly. On the dot. Just like in Germany.
Another change. Another error in my reality. Trains are never this punctual.
As the train pulls out of the station, I close my eyes, scared to keep them open just in case I spot more and more mistakes in the scenery around me. Things that are wrong. Things that shouldn't be there, or things that are missing.
I keep my eyes shut for the rest of the journey, dozing a little between stations, until after what can only have been about twelve minutes, we arrive at Surbiton train station. I am almost home.
The electronic doors swoosh open in front of me, and I alight onto the platform. The station looks exactly the same as when I left it in the morning, and I begin to pray that it IS exactly the same.
I walk out of the back of the station, pulling the key to my Ford Mondeo out of my pocket. My trusty reliable Mondeo. I walk to the back of the car park to the corner where I have parked my car every day for the past three years.
I am tired. Very tired
. I can't wait to sit down, close the door and switch on my CD player. And relax.
I look up as I get closer, but can't see the last few cars in the corner, because of a large black Four-by-Four parked in front of them. My pace hastens slightly. I'm almost at the Four-by-Four now,…almost…
I stop dead. My parking space is empty. My Ford Mondeo is gone. Nowhere to be seen.
I stand in the space where by rights my car should be, remembering in my mind how I locked and checked the doors this morning, before I caught the train into London. I can distinctly remember parking it here. It’s only then that I look at the key in the palm of my hand and realize that it is not the key to a Ford Mondeo. It’s not the key to my car. At the least, not the one that I drove to the station this morning.
My hand begins to shake again, just like it did at Canary Wharf. Except this time it doesn't stop when my other hand grabs it and tries to reassure it. No, this time, both hands are shaking, And my legs soon join in.
I look around me. My car is nowhere to be seen, and even when I am finished walking around the whole car park, I am still not able to find it.
Sweating and feeling a little faint, I walk back to the steps leading up and over the railway line, and sit down. I need to calm down. 'Hold it together man. Hold on.' I whisper to myself. 'You're almost home. Everything will be all right soon.'
As I sit on the steps, my head in my hands, a terrifying thought hits me.
What happens, if when I get home, Sarah isn't there either?
Shaking my head, refusing to ponder this absurd idea further, and desperate to prove it wrong, I jump to my feet and hurry up the steps and over the railway tracks to the front of the station to find a taxi.
As I do, I recognize my first face. The flower seller who stands in the concrete hallway above the platforms. He has been there every day for as long as I can remember. I see him every day when I come home from work and walk to the car park. I've never actually said hello to him before, but when I recognize his face, I can't help but feel good. Perhaps things are going to be okay after all. From here on, things are going to be normal again…
I stop and talk to him for a few moments, and eventually buy the biggest bunch of flowers he has. I can't wait to surprise Sarah. It's been ages since I bought her some, in fact the last flowers I bought were for Jane. Jane…What am I going to tell her tomorrow night?
For the first time today, I feel the sexual urge which I normally have whenever I think of Jane, and it takes an effort to block her out of my mind. My main priority for now is to get home, and find Sarah. My wife. I curse myself for thinking of Jane. What am I thinking of? Sex should be the last thing on my mind. Right now, what I need more than anything else in the entire world, is to look at my wife, and for her to tell me that I am not mad, and that everything is going to be okay. And only she can do that.
Walking out I find the normal queue of taxis lining up for business. Since it’s early, there are only another two people waiting, and it's only a few minutes before my taxi lines up in front of me.
"Hinchley Wood, Hillside Avenue please."
The driver whisks me out of the station and down Victoria Road. I don't look out the window as we drive down Surbiton's high street, keeping my eyes on the flowers. I have to think quickly. What am I going to say to Sarah? How do I explain that I'm home early?
What do I tell her about why I'm wearing a different set of clothes?
I can't pretend that everything is okay. How can I? My job is gone, Canary Wharf is gone, a sizeable portion of London is gone, and replaced by God knows what…and when I left this morning I was a Product Manager in a telecomms company who spent all of his time wondering what it would be like to be doing something else…Well, now I'm coming home a Senior Advertising Executive in a top London firm, and this morning I just won a deal worth ten million euros.
I look out of the window just as we turn into my street. Truth is, as soon as I get through the doors, as soon as she comes up to kiss me hello, as she does every night when I get home from work, … I think I'm just going to break down in tears. There'll be no holding back. No lies. It'll all just come out. The whole ridiculous, unbelievable truth.
The taxi pulls up in front of my house and I lean forward and pay the meter. Six euros. How much is that in real money?
Getting out of the cab, I press the large bouquet of flowers against my chest, then open the gate and walk up the path. I pull out my keys and put the key in the lock, just noticing for the first time that the flowers in the front garden are much more colorful than normal. If fact, they look much better than they ever have.
The key doesn't turn.
I try it again. It sticks in the lock.
I force it a little, pull it out, and then push it back in.
Suddenly the front door opens in front of me, and I am pulled off balance, falling forward and slightly inwards into the house. A woman inside steps back and screams. Raising my hand quickly I manage to catch myself in the doorway before I fall on top of her. I look up and stare at the woman in front of me.
The woman screams again and tries to push me out and close the door. I push my foot forward through the doorway, a stupid thing to do, and I curse as the pain surges through my ankle and up my leg.
"Get out! Leave me alone….I'll call the police…" she threatens from the other side of the door.
I pull my foot out and the door slams shut. Shaking, and just as scared as the woman, I stand with my nose a few inches in front of the green door, staring at the wood only inches from my face.
I try to control my breathing. It's coming in short bursts, and my heart is pounding. Slowly, I step backwards and walk back towards the gate, and then out onto the road.
The woman is at the window, pulling the curtains open slightly, and I see a phone in her hand. What is she doing in my home? I look up and down the street. Am I at the wrong house? No, this is it. Definitely. No. 33. No mistakes. This is the house where I have lived for the past ten years. This is the house where both of my children were conceived, and where I carried Sarah across the threshold. This is my home.
I gesture to the woman, waving and pleading with my eyes for her to come to the door. The curtain closes, and I walk back up the path. I ring the bell. I ring the doorbell of my own home. Why?
The door opens, and the woman appears in front of me again. She looks scared.
"Why are you trying to get in? I'm warning you, I have called the police. They're already on the way…"
"I am sorry. I am looking for someone… I have the wrong key…May I ask who lives here?"
"I do. We do…my husband and I. He'll be back from work soon. I called him too…please leave me alone…" she begs.
"It's okay, I promise", I say, "I have no intention of hurting you…I'm just looking for someone…a Mrs Quinn? Wife of James Quinn?"
"Sorry, I don't know her. Never heard of her…"
I step back from the doorway, and look up and down the street again. I am very confused. Very scared. What is happening here? When I turn around again, there are tears in my eyes, and I cannot stop them from streaming down my cheeks.
The look on the woman's face changes and the sternness leaves, her features immediately softening, blue eyes now questioning me from behind the face of a fifty year old lady.
"Are you okay? What is the matter?…Are you lost?"
"Yes." I reply. "I am very lost…You see, I was mugged this morning, and I received a bad blow to my head… I have forgotten everything…including where I live." The tears are still pouring from my eyes.
The woman is silent. As I try to stem my sudden outpouring of emotion, wiping my cheeks and swallowing hard, I look deeply into her eyes. I can see her struggling with a decision. And then I see her make up her mind.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks kindly.
I hesitate. Looking past her at the interior of my house, I see now that there is floral wallpaper, and a bright red carpet. My house, the house I left this mo
rning, has pine floors, and white walls. Two years ago it took me a month to strip the floors, to sandpaper and varnish them, and a week to give the walls two coats of paint.
"No thank you." I hear myself replying. I don't think I could cope with walking inside and being surrounded and encaged by the dream. I would prefer to stand outside in the sunlight. "But thank you for offering. It's very kind of you. I'm sorry for scaring you a minute ago. I was probably just as scared as you were."
We both laugh. I don’t know why I do. I have nothing to laugh about.
"May I ask your name, and how long you have been living here?" I say nervously. Scared of the reply.
"Certainly. I'm Mrs Henderson. Jenny Henderson, and my husband is Paul. We've lived here for eight years now."
"Do you know who lived here before you?" I ask her.
"It was a young family. A Canadian couple, I think. They left and went back to Canada. Does that help you at all?" she asks, a touch of real concern in her voice.
Who Stole My Life? Page 6