So for the next hour, as we go through the albums one by one, we trace the path of a two-year around-the-world trek that took us to every continent of the world and back, including six months spent working for Saatchi and Saatchi in Hong Kong, and six months spent working for Australia's top advertising agency in Sydney, not far from the Opera House.
We are curled up on the floor in front of the crackling fire with her lying between my legs, head resting against my chest, my arms wrapped around her, holding the album pages as she turns them over, pointing and reminiscing.
Occasionally I lift the book close to my eyes, and stare. Looking at the images recorded in the album is both amusing and scary at the same time. I see myself doing all these things, standing in front of famous monuments in far distant countries I have only ever dreamed of visiting, and yes, it is me, definitely me. Yet I have no memory of it, and no memories of the woman who is constantly by my side. Constantly my companion.
"Tell me about us," I ask her gently.
She turns and looks up at me. Tears well up in her eyes again. I can see she wants to ask me if I really can't remember, to question me, not willing to simply accept that I can so easily have forgotten a lifetime's memories.
I wipe the tears away and stroke her hair.
"Please tell me," I say again, the hidden plea surfacing just enough for Jane to realize I am asking her for help. Help to get my life back again.
"We were married in 2000," she starts. "We'd been living together for four years by then. I moved in with you just after you got your first job with Saatchi’s in London…" And so I learn about myself. About my first job in advertising, when I won my first account, how when after we had toured the world we came back to London in 2002 to have our first baby, all prepared to live in a garret somewhere and starve, a small, tightly knit family, but spoiling it all by finding a fantastic job within two weeks with ‘Peters, Hall and Irvine’, and then ending up buying a terraced cottage in Teddington, with no garret, but a very large garden.
That was fine for a while, but then Elspeth came along in 2005 and we ran out of space. So in 2006 I left PHI, moved to a bigger salary with Cohen Advertising and bought the relative mansion we live in now.
It would seem that I have done a lot in my life. Yet I remember so little of it. Though that which I have done, almost all of it I have done with Jane, whom I met again at an inter-varsity rugby dance during university and kissed for the second time underneath the mistletoe.
One kiss, that led to a lifetime of memories.
None of them mine.
Chapter Fourteen
Candlelight
.
It is late that night when Jane leads me into the bedroom, and I close the door behind me.
We had climbed the stairs together, hand-in-hand, like lovers going to bed for the first time. Downstairs, the warmth of the fire, the wine, the smell of her perfume, the smell of her skin, the touch of her lips when we kissed, the intimacy, and my need…together it began to make it all seem so right.
I knew it would come, that it would be inevitable, and I could see the need in Jane's eyes. Not a physical need. No. Rather, the need that I must give her the assurance that I would love her now, as I had done before; that I had not woken up from my dream a different man from who I was before my concussion. Jane needed me to show her that our union was still strong, and as we climbed the stairs together, turning at the landing and then on and upwards, our bedroom coming closer, both of us could feel that what would happen on the other side of the door this night, what would happen on the marital bed, would mean as much to one as it meant to the other.
So I close the door to the bedroom, and Jane kisses me softly on the lips.
"I'll be with you in a minute darling…" she says squeezing my hand and disappearing into the en-suite. I stand alone by the door, not moving. I am nervous. Very nervous. What should I do? I feel like an intruder in someone else's house. This room is strange to me. There is nothing that I can associate with, nothing that is familiar. I feel as if I shouldn't be here at all. Like a teenager about to be seduced for the first time by a more experienced woman he barely knows.
I switch off the light hoping that everything may seem more manageable in the dark.
As my eyes adjust, I notice a glow from underneath the bathroom door which slowly begins to diffuse throughout the room, until I can see once again.
By now, things are not so clear cut. The edges of my reality have begun to blur, and I know that I need this as much as Jane: I am desperate to reach out, to touch another person's soul, to seek salvation from the abyss that has threatened me for the past two days. I need saving. I need Sarah.
It slips out faster than I can control. It sneaks under my guard and envelopes me. Sarah. I need Sarah.
I bite my lip and step forwards, spinning around, my hands flying upwards to grab my senses and pull the hair from my head.
My spinning takes me to the end of the bed, and I sit down on the mattress, looking across the room at my reflection in the dresser mirror, a threatening image which peers back dimly through the darkness and the murkiness which is engulfing me.
Sarah is a dream. This is real. THIS is real. THIS.
The door opens to the bathroom and Jane steps out. She is carrying a small candle in her hand, the light from the yellow flame casting a warm glow around her. She stands in the doorway, a long, black silk nightdress flowing down and around her body, contouring and complimenting her beautiful natural curves, the swell of her breasts accentuated by the flickering of the flame.
She steps forward, one of her long naked legs protruding through a split in the nightgown. My eyes journey down, turning at the end of her toes, and following her curves back up, until I meet her eyes. I linger there, the moment and the feeling that it invokes within my loins casting me back twenty three years to the first time I danced with her at the school Christmas dance, to the first time our eyes met and something deep within us connected. Something that has somehow lasted all this time, and taken until now to come to fruition. Something that has reached out through the passage of the years, and brought us to this moment now.
I rise, and move towards her. Slowly. Lifting one of my hands, searching, clasping hers, now outstretched and inviting me, needing me, urging me.
There are moments in everyone's lives which define us, that shape us and tell us who we are, moments of which we dream, and for which we lust. For some it is a moment of fame, for others, a moment of glory, or sudden wealth. More commonly, at least amongst men, such thoughts, are almost entirely sexual in nature. I am no different from most men. In that I am perfectly normal.
I have fantasized about this moment for the past twenty years. It has never left me. There have been times where it has driven me to distraction, and where the sense has gone from my head. There have been times where I have treated Sarah terribly, because she has not been the sexual woman of my dreams, because she was not Jane. I have, I know and admit, made love to Sarah many times, and wished, hoped for, and imagined that it was Jane.
For the past two years this fantasy has driven me to the edge of reason, taking over all my senses, squeezing out my sanity, engulfing me, swallowing me, until it had to be fulfilled.
Now it is here. The moment. The time. All that I have wished for.
Jane steps past me and places the candle on the dresser in front of the mirror, beside our wedding photograph. Her back is to me as she reaches up with both hands and slips the straps of her nightdress over the edges of her shoulders.
The black silk falls silently to the floor, the orange glow from the candle bouncing off the mirror and revealing in reflection one of the most perfect bodies I have ever seen. Large, full breasts, perfect nipples, a fantastic waistline, a firm stomach.
I step up behind her, and wrap my arms around her waist, nestling my head between her face and her shoulders. She looks at me in the mirror, and I stare back at her reflection, feasting my eyes on the perfection, capturing
every single part of this vision, recording it and storing it. Memorizing every, single, minute detail. This, I believe now, is the moment that will define me. When I am old and sitting in a wheelchair and wondering about life, and questioning what it was all about, this will be that single instant in time which I will remember more than any other. This is my moment. This is my dream. And it is everything I have expected.
Perfection.
My response is no secret. It presses against Jane, bursting to escape the confines of my trousers, striving to unite us both, to melt our bodies into a single, fused one. To release, and let flow. To seal the moment for ever.
She turns, her eyes looking up at me, thanking me for my approval. Her cheek slides along my face, the warm skin electric, tingling, alive. Her lips kiss my left ear, her hands reaching down, finding me, welcoming me.
"Please James, I need you…just you…"
The words are whispered, but they echo in my head, and they shake me to the core. For suddenly it is not Jane speaking but Sarah, the same phrase, the same sexy low husky whisper, the same glancing kiss on my ear lobe. The same gesture of intimacy that Sarah has shared with me a thousand times over the past twelve years, the same phrase that only she and I have held secret between us. Suddenly Sarah is speaking in my mind. I hear her voice, I hear her say the words, and I feel her touch. Suddenly Sarah is alive, and it is Sarah that is beside me. Not Jane.
I step back, shocked and scared.
What am I doing? What is happening? Where am I?
Jane looks up at me, reaching out to me, pulling me back.
"Darling, darling…what is the matter? Are you okay? I'm sorry…have I done something wrong?"
I blink and look around me. Like a bell reverberating in an empty church, Sarah's voice echoes in my head. I hear her speak, I feel her words, and yet…
"James…?"
I look at Jane. I see her there, I know she is real. My senses cannot lie? Can they?
I shake my head and turn away. I reach the bed, lie down and curl into a ball, my hands tightly clenched fists pressing urgently against my forehead. I close my eyes and begin to shake, sobbing, Jane curls up beside me, lifting a blanket to cover us both. Stroking my head, whispering softly, rocking me gently.
I keep my eyes closed, and when I open them I am alone. The room is full of sunlight and Jane is gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Gone Fishing
.
Throwing on a dressing-gown, a male's, which I suppose must be mine, I take the steps two at a time down to the kitchen. No one is there. I walk quickly around the ground floor and find it empty. Back in the kitchen I notice a piece of yellow paper stuck to the kettle.
"James, sorry to leave you alone. Hope you are feeling better today. Your car is in the garage. I've taken the Volvo. Gone to work. Call me."
How can I call her? I don't know where she works.
In the bathroom I find everything I need to shave, and I run myself a big hot bath. The house is very quiet without the screaming of the children, and I lie soaking in the still water. Thinking.
Reaching no conclusions, I dry myself down in a large red towel, and wrap it around my waist. One of the mirrored wardrobes in the bedroom I find is full of men's clothing. All my size. Taking down a fresh pair of blue jeans, an expensive looking black cotton shirt, and a lambswool jumper, I look at the designer labels and realize that this is just another indication of how much more the advertising world pays in comparison to…in comparison to what? To a Product Manager? I have to stop making these unhelpful comparisons.
The doorbell rings, and I answer it, signing for a large bouquet of extravagant flowers. An expensive bouquet of flowers. Not the sort you often buy for your wife, more the sort that comes with a note from your boss wishing you a good, and speedy, recovery. The sort of bouquet that comes when your boss realizes that his best ad man really did have a bad concussion after all and that maybe he should have insisted he went to hospital immediately instead of presenting to clients.
The front room is full of natural light, and I sit at the piano for a while, playing some music, something I learned long, long ago. It's been a long time since I played. I don't have a piano at home, and even if we did, I would never have the time.
Margareta appears from nowhere and comes into the room, sitting on one of the sofas, and listening to me play the beginning of one of Beethoven's pieces, although I can't remember which one it is.
"I didn't know you could play, James?" she says, genuinely surprised.
I look across at her and see that she is studying my face. Her lips are open, almost as if she is about to say something. But she doesn't. I look down and focus on the black and white keys, trying to prevent my fingers from tying themselves in knots, and turning a Fugue into Chopsticks.
A soft hand rests on my shoulder, and Margareta is beside me. I can feel the heat from her chest against the side of my right cheek.
"James, you play... excellently. How is it that you have never told no one this about. You always surprise me, my James."
The hand and the word 'my' are a gesture of intimacy that catch me by surprise. Stupidly I feel my face flush, and realize that I must be blushing. Why?
"I…." She starts to say something.
"Yes?"
"I...James, I am worried about you. Are you okay?" she asks, her hand not moving, the intimacy continuing.
"Yes, Margareta, I am fine. The doctor says…" I try to reply, but am quickly interrupted.
"Margareta? What for you call me Margareta? Do you not like to remember to call me Gretka? Like you normally do?"
I stop playing for a moment and turn towards her. For a brief moment I begin to wonder if there is something that I am missing. Something that I should know. But then she laughs, shyly, and walks out of the room, saying, "The children are happy you played with them last evening. You make them glad."
A few minutes later I hear the front door close and I am alone in the house again. Bored with the piano, and not able to remember anything else, I get up and examine the book collection on the shelves. An eclectic mix, but I'm pleased to find that I still love Wilbur Smith. There are about ten of his books on the shelf, and I take one down. "The Green Nile". It's not one that I have ever read before. I look at the others on the shelf and see: "The Lion Feeds", "Rage", "Elephant Song", "Zambezi", "Desert Sands". At least three titles that I haven't read yet. Taking them down and looking through the introductory pages I find that they were all published in the late nineteen-nineties. Strange, I was sure I had read all of his novels.
The clock chimes on the mantelpiece, breaking the spell. It's twelve o'clock. My stomach begins to rumble. I wander back to the kitchen, and stand in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. The kitchen is spotless, and there are hundreds of cupboards. All the pots and pans hang motionlessly from the ceiling, and the cooker looks like it has never been used at all. The size of the kitchen makes me feel uncomfortable. I just wouldn't know where to start if I was to attempt to cook myself lunch. Not here.
As I hover indecisively in the doorway, I notice a set of small hooks on the wall underneath one of the cupboards, from one of which hangs what looks like a key fob with an electronic pad. I pick it off its hook and walk through to the garage.
Inside I find an Audi…an Audi 'Something'… that’s as best I can describe it. I have never seen this model before, although it looks very expensive and it reminds me a little of the Audi TT that I have always wanted to drive, but could never afford. Since it’s a double garage, and there is only one car parked inside it now, according to Jane's note on the kettle, this must be my car.
Fantastic.
Inside a walk-in cupboard under the stairs I find some shoes that fit my size, and a leather jacket which also fits me very comfortably. I'm getting used to this and I take them, not worrying anymore that I am stealing from anyone apart from myself.
A button on the wall opens the garage door, and another one beside it sets
the metal gates in motion, gliding slowly inward and onto our gravel driveway. The key fits neatly into the door of the Audi, and I slide into the front seat, which is already adjusted perfectly to my height and leg length. A turn of the key sets off a loud alarm, and it takes a moment or two of rapid fumbling with the electronic pad, pressing the button several times, before there is an electronic 'beep beep' and the alarm shuts off. Thank god.
A low growl, a little like a TVR but not quite so gutsy, and the Audi springs into life. Brilliant. Driving out of the garage and into the street, another press of a button on my keypad and the garage and the gate close automatically behind me. As I turn the corner at the end of the street, I feel the edges of my mouth turn upwards into a broad smile. Boys toys, and all that. But it's a BIG boy’s toy. The biggest I've ever had.
I can understand how concussion may have made me forget my job, my wife, my children and my life, but there's no way that I'd ever have forgotten this.
Who Stole My Life? Page 10