The show was great. Perhaps I may have felt a little bad about paying £20 to see the themed areas of the Dome, but I wouldn't have had any problem buying a ticket to see the stage show itself. Which is exactly the point that I was apparently getting at. Pay for the show, and get into the Dome for free. Brilliant.
I mentally pat myself on the back. Who would have thought that the person behind the success of the Dome was me?
Good job, Mr Quinn.
"So, Mr Quinn. Since you've done it once before, we can't wait to see what you are going to come up with next. We're all very excited about it. Of course, there's no pressure, but we were hoping that Cohen's could give us a first draft in two months time. Then a final version a month later. …Just before Christmas."
Like the man said, no pressure.
No pressure at all.
Chapter Eighteen
A Warm Welcome Home
.
The meeting with the Dome committee breaks up shortly after 5 pm, and I find myself sitting on the train back to Surbiton in a rather relaxed mood. The most relaxed since the nightmare began, or since I woke up from the concussion, depending which view I'm meant to be taking nowadays.
Today's been a good day. Actually, I rather enjoyed it. I find that when put in a position where I have to start acting or talking like an advertising executive, I actually seem to be quite good at it. It would seem that I definitely have a latent talent for this sort of thing. Take this afternoon's meeting for example. After we'd got over the preliminaries, and Mr Wessex had dropped his bombshell about the expected timescales, I found that I almost instinctively knew what questions to ask and what to do. When I ran a few ideas by the team, which just came to me on the spur of the moment, there were smiles all around the table. They liked them. I even liked them. And when we left the meeting, Claire and I had established a bond with the Board that I'm sure is going to develop into a sound working partnership.
Should I be so surprised? Maybe I'm being too critical of myself. Why shouldn't I be good at this? After all, before I talked myself out of a career in advertising just after I left university, that's all I had ever wanted to do. I loved advertising. I was always coming up with dummy campaigns in my mind, which I often thought of writing up and sending to the big companies. Not because I wanted to get any money for the ideas. Just because I had them, and I thought they were good, and I wanted to share them with the people who might benefit from them.
If I hadn't grown up and become so bloody serious, perhaps I would have ended up in advertising, ended up doing well, ended up succeeding. Just like I am now…!?
Whilst slowly demolishing some sandwiches which I bought at Waterloo, I reach across and pick up a spare newspaper that someone has just left behind when they got off at Wimbledon. An Evening Standard.
It occurs to me now that in the past couple of days, since my concussion day…my 'C' day, as I think I'll call it from now on, I have not seen or read the news. Perhaps because I am scared of finding out more about the life which I am now leading. Scared to read about a world where everything is so different and yet so similar.
The headline on the front page grabs my attention.
"Prime Minister Miliband launches new campaign to arrest all illegal immigrants at U.K. borders. New National Border Security Police being introduced in January 2013 with enhanced legal powers."
Prime Minister Miliband?
What was it that Mr Wessex had said at the start of the meeting?…Mr Miliband had personally championed the Dome project after Blair? In this world, how long did Blair manage to hang on to power? And has Labour been in power continuously since then?
I realize it's about time I got up to speed with the world that I now live in.
A few minutes later, just as I'm finishing the article about the asylum seekers, the train pulls into Surbiton station. I walk along the platform and climb the stairs, stopping to say 'Hi' to the flower seller, and buy a bunch of flowers for Jane, then make my way down and out to the newspaper shop on the corner.
Inside, I scoop up a copy of every newspaper I can find, and gather up about ten different glossy magazines, ranging from ‘Time’, ‘News Week’, and ‘New Scientist’ through to ‘Mary Claire’ and ‘Vogue’. Not bothering to wait for a taxi, I walk down Surbiton high street, my arms full up and overflowing, brimming with information about my new world. I look around me closely as I go, noticing the changes, absorbing everything, swallowing everything, remembering everything the way it is now, and not the way it was only four days ago. A life-time away.
The plan is simple: open up a good bottle of Shiraz, lock myself in my bedroom, and read everything I can get my hands on. By tomorrow morning I'm going to know more about this world, about what's going on today and why, than any other person I meet.
For better or for worse, this is my world now, and it's about time I discovered a little about it.
--------------------
When I get home the children are misbehaving, running around, screaming and shouting. Margareta is chasing them from room to room, trying to encourage them to settle down and go through to the dining room where their dinner is getting cold.
Jane is upstairs, lying down on her bed, trying to recover from a migraine, which is no doubt being helped by the ruckus downstairs.
"Daddy, daddy..." Allison runs at me as soon as I open the front door, jumping up into my arms and knocking my magazines and newspapers everywhere.
" 'addy, 'addy." Elspeth follows immediately behind her, charging at my legs and going into a headlock around my knees.
I fall back against the door, pinned there by both my new offspring.
"Let Daddy in the door please? …That’s better, now let go…please Elspeth, no don't drag along the ground like that, you'll hurt your knees. Elspeth please stand up, and let go of my ankle. You'll hurt yourself,.. oh no…Look, I told you you'd hurt yourself. Stop crying. Here, let me look at that…Okay, I'll kiss it better. But only if you'll eat your dinner?"
I kiss her on the knees, then carry her through to the kitchen and deposit her in the big children's chair.
As usual the kitchen is spotless. Nothing is out of place, and the children's dinners are arranged nicely on the centre island. Fish, peas, and chips.
I feed them both a few mouthfuls, and smile back at Margareta who is looking at me rather strangely, as if she still looks like she wants to say something but is holding back. Then I leave the screaming girls alone with her, closing the kitchen door behind me.
The bedroom light is switched off, and Jane is lying on the bed. I fumble in the dark for a few moments before managing to find the light switch on the dresser.
"Thank god you're home James. I need you to rub my neck and shoulders. I'm dying. I can hardly see for the pain..."
"Another migraine?"
"Yes!"
"But you had one last night too? How often do you get them?"
"Too often. Once or twice a week. It depends upon the weather."
"But the weather's fine…"
"Don't argue James. Just be a dear and massage me please."
"I wasn't arguing Jane. Just trying to understand. What sort of weather sets them off?"
"James, please, not now."
"What?"
"James, how was your day, darling?"
"Fine. Good. In fact, it was a great day. I have some really exciting news for you. Something to celebrate."
"What? Another deal? Another big bonus? More work? More late nights away? When do I ever see you? And when I do, you don't even remember me!"
"Jane, that's not fair. Come on, what's wrong? What's going on?"
"What do you mean? Nothing's going on. I'm just tired and have a headache."
"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll keep my news for another time. Show me where to rub your neck."
I walk across to the bed, taking my trousers and shirt off, and putting them on the chair beside the bed.
"What are you doing James? Why don't you put them in t
he wardrobe. Please hang them up."
"I will in a minute, I just want to rescue you first."
"James, you know how I prefer it if you hang everything up first. You know how hard it is for me to keep this house tidy if everyone just treats it as a waste dump."
"Jane, this house is spotless. It’s the most tidy house I've ever seen."
"So don’t mess it up. Please put your clothes away."
I hold my tongue, and hang my trousers, and throw the shirt into the basket in the bathroom. Sitting down beside Jane on the bed, I stroke her face, kissing her gently on the forehead.
"What's wrong baby? Are you all right?"
She's silent.
"I'm okay. It's just a headache. Here, please rub my neck, just here. Like you used to…"
She rolls over onto her stomach, and flicks the hair off her back with her hands. In spite of the welcome home, I still feel in a good mood, and perhaps a little playful. I run my hands down her neck, and along her shoulders. She feels wonderful. Her skin is soft and warm. I lean forward and kiss her neck. Pausing, waiting for a reaction, before kissing her again.
Jane moans slightly, wriggling her shoulders, and readjusting her hands in front of her face.
She is wearing a long black one piece dress. Very businesslike, but also very attractive. It only takes one movement to slide the zip down her back, and gently tug the dress over her shoulders. Her back is tanned, and graceful, her soft curves rolling gently around her body, drawing me towards her.
My kisses seem to hit the mark, and soon Jane turns over towards me, a smile appearing on the edges of her lips, a sparkle shining in her eyes.
"James, you know how that turns me on. You shouldn't…not now, the children aren't in bed yet."
"They're downstairs. Margareta is looking after them. They're fine...it's you that needs the attention. Here, let's see...what happens if I do this?"
She squirms, her body undulating in front of me.
"Don’t be silly James, you know exactly what happens when you do that…And so what happens if I do this?" she reciprocates, her hands reaching downwards.
It's been a good day so far. A very good day, and things only seem to be getting better.
We kiss passionately, fumbling quickly with each other's clothes, our need for each other driving us on, taking us over. As I slip her bra off, her breasts fall free. They are beautiful, soft, tender. I kiss them, stroking them with my hands, licking them slowly, pushing my eyes against them, and feeling the nipples against my closed eyelids, squeezing them around my face.
This is my dream. This is the moment I have fantasized about for years. It's exactly how I imagined it would be, exactly as sweet and wonderful as I had dreamt of.
Jane says something, but I don't hear her.
I feel her tug at my boxer shorts, I feel them slide down my legs, her hands reaching for me again.
And then all my thoughts stop. Instinct, desire, loneliness, desperation, lust, and all the repressed pent up emotions from the past week surface at the same time. I raise myself up on top of Jane. I enter her. I lose myself in Jane, and she in me, and I am lost in the moment, a glorious, wonderful moment that I will never forget for the rest of my life, in this life or any other life that I will lead, and for this one incredible moment that surpasses all meaning and understanding, …for one moment, Jane and I are one.
And in that moment, there is clarity.
A single moment of awareness where all my questions are answered, where I see and understand, where I can touch the truth, and I have the knowledge and the insight of the why and the where and the how.
And then, in a flash, it is gone.
Instead, in its place, there is exhaustion. An honest tiredness. Relaxed, untroubled, worry-free.
--------------------
I awake sometime later, lying on my back, with Jane resting her head on my chest, fast asleep, my arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.
As I open my eyes, my heart begins to pump faster, a sickening sense of guilt descending upon me from above.
It has happened. I have done it. I have been unfaithful to Sarah. I have slept with another woman.
Suddenly the euphoria of the act I have just committed is swept away by a feeling of such self-disgust and self-loathing, that I lie there in the dark, in shock.
What have I done?
Jane stirs on my chest and I quickly move away from her, turning on my side and distancing myself from her in the bed.
I lie there on my side, staring into the dark and thinking of Sarah, tears welling in my eyes, until sleep mercifully overtakes me once more and anaesthetizes the pain.
--------------------
My eyes open slowly, my mind dimly becoming aware of a new sensation beneath my waist. I open my eyes and look down. It's Elspeth and Allison jumping up and down on top of my legs.
"Daddy, mummy. Greta is crying. Greta is crying."
Jane surfaces from beside me, covering her nakedness with a quick tug of the bedclothes.
"James, you go. She likes you. I can't face her just now. I'll read the girls a story."
Slipping from the bed, I pull on my big dressing gown and wrap the belt tight around my waist. I find Margareta in the front room sitting on the piano stool, her head and shoulders slumped forward, tears running down her cheeks and dripping on to the black and white piano keys.
Closing the door behind me, I walk over and stand behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders.
"What's the matter, Margareta? Why are you crying?"
She sniffles loudly.
"What is the matter?" I ask again.
She lifts one of her hands from her lap and places it over mine on her shoulder.
"James, you do not talk to me no more. You have forgotten me? Do you not remember?"
"Remember what?"
"Everything… Why you not talk me no-more?"
What should I say? What does she mean? I understand that she is a long way from home, probably very lonely. Probably very vulnerable. But how am I treating her badly?
I kneel down beside her, resting on my haunches so that my face is level with hers. I smooth away some hair from her face so that I can see her eyes and I am about to ask her how I can help, when, slowly, she turns to look at me, and then, without a word, she leans forwards and kisses me full on my lips.
It's not unpleasant, but it's also not expected. I'm so surprised, that I rock backwards and fall over onto the carpet. In a flash, Margareta is on top of me, smothering me, her hands everywhere.
"James, James, you say please you still love me. Say it for me please."
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a second I am out from under her, diving for the sofa. The door opens a second later, and Jane walks in. Margareta is alone on the carpet, crying again, and I am sitting on the sofa, pretending as if nothing has happened.
"Margareta, please don't cry," Jane starts. "I know I have not been treating you well lately. I have not helped you enough with the children, and I am sorry. Allison just said that you told them that you wanted to go home. Please don't. I will try to help you more, and Elspeth and Allison have promised to be tidy, and well-behaved. Why don't you go to bed, get a good sleep and then we can talk about this later?"
Margareta gets up, looks at me, then bursts out crying again. She squeezes past Jane and disappears through the doorway and up the stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
Bedtime Stories
.
At 2 am, unable to sleep, or halt the endless stream of thoughts which flood through my mind, I realize that I'm not going to get back to sleep, so I slip out of the bedroom and go to make myself a cup of hot milk in the kitchen. This in itself, proves to be too difficult a task, and I give up after ten minutes. I can hardly even spell ‘Aga’, let alone figure out how to make it work, and finding the fridge, where I guessed the milk would probably be, took several attempts in its own right. First I opened the door to what turned out to be the
very latest in washing machines. Then, I ended up opening two large freezer doors with racks and racks of frozen meat and pre-cooked meals. Only on my third attempt did I find the milk in what I can only describe as the biggest fridge in the world. It looks more like a walk-in cupboard with snow in it.
After putting the milk back in the fridge, and leaving the kitchen, vowing never to return, I pick up my newspapers and magazines from where I left them on the hall table, and make myself a very large whisky in the lounge.
Choosing some relaxing late night Jazz music, I settle down into the big white leather sofa and pick up one of the papers. Apart from the Evening Standard which I scanned on the train, it’s the first time I've read one since my big 'C' day, and I find that my hand is shaking a little. I'm both anxious, nervous and intrigued. What am I going to find out? What will I learn about the world I'm in? Will it be just the same?
Who Stole My Life? Page 13