No way.
If anything, this must be the dream. Not the other way round.
--------------------
My father is sitting at the back of the pub, in the corner by a window. From there he gets a good view of the boats passing by on the Thames, and he can keep an eye on his fishing tackle resting on the side of the river, which is just ten steps away from the back entrance to the pub. It's his favorite spot, either sitting on the river bank alone with his thoughts, or sitting in that same spot, keeping a pint of London Pride company, and enjoying the atmosphere of the best kept secret in Sunbury-on-Thames. Few people come to the Riverside Inn, and most people don't even know it's there. The locals keep it to themselves, and the bar owner, a retired banker from the city, likes to keep it that way. It wasn't hard to guess he would be here, on his second day of retirement. When he was alive…before…, he used to talk all the time about when, once the 'bloodsuckers' had got their last drop of blood from him and he'd clocked off for the last time, how he was going to spend the whole summer down here, just fishing. Not a care in the world. Just him, his pipe, and the river.
"Hi dad," I say, sitting down beside him with two fresh pints of Pride. "Are they biting today?"
He smiles at me, shifting the pipe in his mouth with his left hand.
"Hi son. How are you feeling?"
He lifts his right hand and pats me on the shoulder. My father was,…is…, never one for great shows of affection, but this simple pat on the shoulder is quite a large gesture for him. A warm feeling floods through me, and a million memories of my father are rekindled. I realize then just how much I have missed him, and how incredible it is now, just to be able to sit with him and have his company once again.
"Have you eaten, Dad? I'm starving. Jane went to work, and I just didn't feel like cooking anything by myself."
"No, I haven't. I'd forgotten all about eating. Actually, I was just thinking about going back outside and trying to catch Old Ralph."
Old Ralph. After all this time, dad's still chasing Old Ralph. Which means that the battle between him and the legendary catfish has been raging for over twenty years. Twenty years. Do catfish even live that long? Of course, when the battle started, it was just plain old "the biggest catfish you've ever seen", but over the years, and several close calls in which it could have gone either way - my dad in the river, or Old Ralph out in the net - my dad has come to respect the fish a lot. "That big catfish" became "Ralph", and then ten years later "Old Ralph." It's been "Old Ralph" ever since. They've become friends, and have grown old together. I often wonder if he ever did manage to catch it, would he be lonely afterwards? Sometimes, dad would just come down and stare at the river, sitting for hours on the edge of the water, smoking his pipe and planning his strategy, without ever casting a line. It was almost as if they were psyching each other out, or were they just enjoying each other's company? I wouldn't be surprised if the whole time my dad was down there, Old Ralph was lying on his back just under the edge of the river bank, in the cool shadow, just blowing bubbles, catching flies, with one fin behind his gills, and the other lying on his stomach. I could so easily picture him just lying there, catching the cool current, and looking up at my dad through the surface of the river. Two adversaries. Neither in a hurry. Neither going anywhere fast.
So we take our baskets of fish and chips out into the warm autumn sunshine and sit on the green tarpaulin already laid out on the bank of the river. My father baits the hook, and casts the line back out into the river, into a shaded pool underneath some trees on the other side of the river. He fits it into the tripod, and sits back down. We eat in silence, the fish tasting excellent, and the chips crisp and salty, but soft in the middle. Just right.
"How bad is it son?" he eventually asks, licking a piece of batter off his fingers.
"What?" I reply, knowing full well what he's asking.
"Listen, I'm not Jane, and I'm not your mother. I know you, son. You wouldn't tell them everything, in case they go off the deep end and panic. Just how bad is it? How much can you remember, and how much have you forgotten?"
It’s a fair question, but to be honest, I haven't been hiding anything. It's been in my interest to tell them the truth on this one.
"It's just like I said, no worse, although, actually, it probably couldn't get any worse. It's like the past ten, maybe even twelve years, have been wiped clean from my memory. Just like they never happened. In fact, to tell you the truth Dad, I don't really know how much I have forgotten."
"And what did the doctors say? Will it come back…your memory?"
"They don't know. Although, they think there's a fair chance that it will."
He's silent for a moment. He looks across at his rod, then back at me.
"And Jane, son. What can you remember about her? Can you remember how much you love her? Can you remember the wedding?"
"Dad…"
"Listen son, I'm just asking. Jane's a wonderful lass, but if you can't remember marrying her…can you remember falling in love with her?"
It's a big question. A good question. One I don't know how to answer, except truthfully.
"Between you and me, dad, I don't know. It's like…it's like I've just started dating her again…except, I've already got two kids, I haven't had the honeymoon, or…"
"Or the other stuff?"
"No."
"Well, the way I see it son, you're either a lucky man, and you've got the opportunity now to fall in love all over again, and to have all the excitement, and lust, that goes with that… or…"
"Or what?"
"Or you're in big trouble."
There's a tug on the line, and my dad jumps up, dropping the by now empty basket on the ground, and grabbing the pole from the tripod.
The line goes slack, before he can even start to play the fish. He reels it in, and the bait is gone.
"That's Old Ralph" he smiles. "That's him."
"How do you know?" I ask before he says anything, already knowing the answer. I've heard it a thousand times before.
"Because only he knows how to get the bait off the line, without getting snagged. He's a wily bugger, is Old Ralph."
He bends down, opening up his box of bait, and threading a new large maggot on his hook. It's covered in a concoction of gook, a special mixture that my dad has mixed up over the years and swears to. "My secret weapon…He loves it." I hear him say in my mind, recalling this moment from a thousand times in the past.
"…I’ll just give him some more of this… My secret weapon.... He loves it..." he says aloud a fraction of a second later, almost as if he had heard me.
"Listen son, just promise me, that if things get difficult, if things get strange, you'll tell me. Whatever it is. No matter how weird it is…I promise I won't tell your mother, and I can only imagine what must be going on in your mind."
He looks across at me, and as he casts the line back over his shoulder and lets it fly back onto the river, he smiles. For a second there is a look in his eye, and it's almost as if he knows exactly what's going on. It's almost as if he knows the secret, and for one moment I wonder if he knows the answer. Should I tell him?
Perhaps not. At least, not just yet.
"Thanks dad." I reply. "I promise."
"Here, you take this, and I'll go and get us both another pint." He hands me the rod, and pats me on the shoulder as he goes past, stopping for a brief second. "Remember son, we love you. And we're here for you."
It may sound soppy, but it's one of those Walton family moments. A moment in time that I never ever thought I would experience again, and a moment that I will never forget as long as I live.
My dad.
Chapter Sixteen
Back to Work
.
Alice gets up from behind the reception desk and comes running round to greet me, enveloping me in a warm, tight hug.
"James…" She says, squeezing me so hard I struggle to reply. "What are you doing back so soon?"
"I could
n't stand being alone in the house. I got bored." I lied. The truth is, I don't feel at home in my own home, and I got fed up of being alone with my own repetitive thoughts.
"Who sent me the flowers? Was that your idea or Richard's?"
"Richard's. Honestly. He was really worried about you…"
"About me not coming back, about me forgetting all about the Scotia Telecom deal, about him not getting the ten million euros deal after all…"
"Don't be so cynical James. Anyway, it's not just about 'him' getting the ten million euros deal. It's your deal.."
"And he knows it. That’s exactly what Richard's worried about. Where is the old man anyway?"
"He's in his office. He's got Mather and Sons with him just now, but they'll be leaving soon. I think he will want to see you then. You never know,…maybe today's the day."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, 'the' day. '"
"What day?"
"The big 'P' day!"
The phone rings on reception, and she answers it. She makes a sign in the air, and a face, turns to the computer screen and reaches for her mouse. I take the hint, and leave her to it, climbing the stairs to the first floor. I walk into the open plan area and head towards my office at the back of the floor.
A chorus of "Hey James…", "How are you James?" and ""Remember me, James?", and "Don't forget, you borrowed fifty euros from me last week!" from everyone around the office, followed by a round of laughter. As I approach my office, the floor goes quiet, and I can feel all eyes drilling into the back of my head.
Opening the door, I find a large, framed, one-meter-by-one-meter square photograph hanging on the wall behind my desk. Underneath the picture are the words, 'James Quinn, Calvin Klein Model of the Year 2012 '. And above, looking surprised and shocked, is me, captured for all the world to see, plain as day, in my wonderful Marks and Spencer tartan boxer shorts, and very little else.
Everyone bursts into laughter. Including me. I look totally ridiculous.
"Hi James, do you want me to come now or later?" a voice asks from behind. It turns out to belong to a red headed woman, probably about twenty-three, called Claire. My PA. Apparently.
"How about in ten minutes? Give me time to get myself a cup of tea, and get my coat off."
"…and what about the rest of your clothes? Keeping them on today are we?" someone else says loudly from somewhere behind her.
"Funny guy." I say loudly in reply.
"Don't worry, I'll get your tea. You just take it easy." Claire offers and walks away quickly.
Admiring the photograph of myself again, it strikes me then that the people at Cohen Advertising are a friendly, tightly knit bunch who know how to have fun. I decide not to take down the photograph but to leave it hanging there. It'll remind me of the first day of my new life, and that it's best not to take yourself too seriously.
Closing the door, and blocking off the chatter coming from the lively office outside, I sit in my chair behind my large desk, grasping the armrest firmly and surveying my new world. The office of an advertising executive in the heart of London.
I like my office. It has a good feel to it. The décor and the woodwork is sophisticated, yet not over the top. Simple, but smart. Rising, I cross over to the filing cabinets and look through each of the drawers, familiarising myself with the contents, mentally making a map of my new territory, learning the new landscape.
Returning to my desk, I go through the drawers one by one. Diaries, pens, paper, two rulers, a calculator, calendars, an empty stapler, useful office stuff, and a photograph of Jane and the children turned face down and under a pile of papers in the second drawer up. I pull it out and look at the smiling faces of the girls, but feel nothing. There is no familiarity, no paternal instinct, no smile that creeps on to my lips as I look at my supposed offspring. Instead the children are strangers. Pretty strangers, but strangers none the less. Jane smiles back at me, attractive as ever, and I look closely at her face, following the contours of her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, the curl of her lips, and the dimple on the left of her face. I see the resemblance between her and the girls, but I don’t recognize anything of me in either of them. They are their mother's daughters.
The third drawer is locked, and doesn't respond to any coaxing or pulling. Strange. Then I remember the small black key on the end of my keychain with my car keys, and I pull it out from my jacket pocket, trying it in the lock. It turns.
The drawer opens, revealing another diary, a digital camera, and at the back of the drawer, a box of computer disks. I pull out the disks, and open them, wondering if I should take the time to look through what they contain now or later. Taking out a few and looking at the titles, I notice that at the back of the box, behind the disks, there is a small bag of white powder.
For a second or two I stare at the bag.
I look up. Can the others outside see me?
Quickly crossing to the windows of my office, I turn the toggle on the blinds and instantly the world outside disappears. I lock the office door, trying the handle once, then return to my seat.
The bag is still there. Small. Probably about 3 grams worth.
I close my eyes. My forehead is clammy, the memories quickly flooding back, my pulse already racing.
It has been almost seven years since I became clean. Since I realized how close I had come to destroying myself, and since I was fired from my first job.
I hadn't taken much, and I was not an addict that couldn't live without it, but I had come uncomfortably close to the edge.
I had only started because it had helped me through a bad patch. It helped me gloss over bad memories, to deal with the pictures in my mind that I needed to forget. To cope with the grief. And since I couldn't turn to Sarah, to tell her how I felt about it all, Charlie had become my friend. My confidante.
Though not all friends are good.
In hindsight, being caught snorting a line in the bathroom with another member of the marketing team at one of the office parties had been a blessing in the disguise. Fired on the spot, the wake-up call had come just in time.
It had been a good company, and an interesting job that I had lost, and I had been a fool.
But never again.
I pick up the sachet, and walk quickly to the bathroom, where I lock myself in one of the cubicles. For a second, I stare at the packet. The stress, the confusion and the fear of the past weeks hits me like a wall, and my blood pulses.
I could be happy. In a minute I know it could all go away. I could feel great. I open the packet with my fingernail.
When I return to my office a few minutes later, there is a smile on my face. And I do feel great.
High.
But not because of the cocaine. High because I did the right thing and flushed it down the toilet. Because the last thing I need right now is to go backwards, to start chemically altering the world around me. It's already weird enough.
High, because for the first time in days, I am in control.
--------------------
"So, Claire..." I say to my new PA as she brings in the tea a few minutes later,- I've never had a PA before, this is a bit of a novelty to me, "Tell me about the rest of my week. What have I got on?"
She looks up at me, a bit surprised.
"…oh, Sorry, Claire, I don't know if you've found out yet, but…"
"About your concussion? Yes, I know. Richard told me, and anyway, it's my job to know."
"Good. So you'll understand if I ask you to please be patient with me. I've got temporary amnesia…I honestly can't remember a lot of things. The doctors say it'll come back, but for now, I'm hoping that you'll help me get through the next few weeks. I'm going to rely on you."
She smiles then, and sits up straighter in her chair, clasping her notebook to her chest, and opening a large green diary on her knee.
"Well, this afternoon, if you feel up to it, you've got your meeting with the Board of the Millennium Dome to discuss Cohen’s creating the new
advertising and marketing campaign for the "Pleasure Dome", or whatever else we suggest they call it. Then tomorrow at 11am, you've got your inaugural kick-off meeting with the Scotia Telecom marketing team. That's scheduled to last over lunch until 4 pm. Which will allow time to get back to the office for the team meeting with Richard at 5 pm. Then in the evening, you're meant to be taking your wife to the opera. I've got the tickets as you requested last week, but they were expensive."
I nod a few times, wondering what on earth I'm meant to be doing at each of these meetings. And the Millennium Dome? What does this mean? Does it still exist?
"And what am I going to see at the opera?"
I hate the opera.
"Tosca."
What?
"Thank you Claire. And will you be coming with me to these meetings?" I ask, hoping she will. I think I'll need a little guidance.
Her lips break into a large smile, and she beams.
"Yes, James. If you would like."
"I would like that. In the meantime, can you get me all the files we have on both Scotia Telecom and the Millennium Dome. I want to read over them again tonight."
"Certainly. Although, the meeting with the Board of the Millennium Dome is only the first meeting with the full board. There's actually not much on file yet. Richard is really looking to you to develop this one pretty much from scratch, from Cohen’s perspective. The deal is ours, on the face of the campaign you did for the Tate Modern last year and your previous history with the Dome project, but at Cohen’s you really haven't done anything on it yet."
Who Stole My Life? Page 11