Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  She 'bugs' me though. And what she said to me won't go away. I ask myself how well I must know this woman, for me to be telling her stuff about myself and Jane that even 'I' don't know. In spite of the fact that spending a second more with her is probably the last thing I want to do, it occurs to me that perhaps I should grab her the next time I see her and arrange to take her out for a drink after work. A few glasses of wine, and maybe I can get her to tell me exactly what I told her.

  It’s a bit annoying that complete strangers know more about me than I do.

  Walking down the steps from the bridge towards the Embankment, the irony of the whole situation dawns on me. For the past couple of months I have travelled to work every day, looking at everyone else, guessing at their lives, wondering if I was leading the right life, doing the right job, or earning the right salary. And now when I'm travelling to work, I have a different life, a new job, and a new salary, but I know nothing about any of it. It's not other people’s lives that I am wondering about. It's my own.

  Who am I? Who do I know? Am I enjoying my life? And then a big question hits me.

  Am I a nice person?

  When I get to the office, I walk up to Alice, who looks up at me whilst answering an incoming call. I smile at her, and give her a bunch of flowers that I have just bought at the flower seller on the corner. My questions have got me worried. Alice appears to be a friend of mine, and from now on, I'm going to be super-duper nice to everyone, especially those that are close to me. Maybe I am a nice person and maybe everyone does like me, but just in case, I'm not taking any chances.

  "Can I have a word?" I whisper to Claire as I pass her desk upstairs. "And can you bring in two cups of tea? And do you have any paracetamol? I have a headache, and it's killing me."

  She takes a seat in front of my desk, my diary open at today, ready to take notes, or to help guide me through today's appointments. Scotia Telecom at 11am, the partners team meeting…my team meeting…at 4pm, Tisca or was it Tosca?, at 7pm. I take two paracetamol and wash them down with some tea.

  "Put the book away, Claire. I want to ask you something personal. I want to ask you what you think of me? Am I a nice person?"

  Claire turns a little red. Whether from anger, or embarrassment it's hard to tell.

  "What do you mean, James? What sort of question is that?"

  "It's an honest question," I pause, picking up my cup, and tapping the handle with my finger. "You know that I've lost my memory, that I can't remember things, and that there are..., well, shall we say, that I have forgotten things that are important to me…"

  She looks down at her lap, and the color rises still further in her cheeks. She coughs once, raising her hand to her mouth. A movement that I find both polite and attractive.

  "…The thing is Claire, I get the feeling from you that previously, I mean now, that we are good friends. And that perhaps in the past we were quite close."

  She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and looks up at me. There is a question in her eyes, a question that I cannot give her an answer to.

  "Claire, I need to ask you a question. The thing is Claire, the concussion wiped a lot of my memory clean. I've forgotten who some of my friends are…no, literally…I can't remember who they are at all. I can walk past them in the street and not know that last month we were the best buddies in the world. But I've not just forgotten about other people. I've forgotten about myself. I don't know who I am… I was hoping that maybe you could tell me a little about myself. About who I am? And whether or not I am a nice person? Do people like me? And about my wife? Do you like her? Does she like me?"

  Sometimes I am fool. A big, stupid fool. As soon as I ask the question I regret it. It would seem that not only do I have a big foot, but I have an incredible ability to jam it down my own throat.

  Claire stands up, tears running down her cheeks, words starting to flow, her emotions brimming over.

  "James, I'm truly sorry about the problems you are having just now. I would like to help you, I really would…but, all things considered, am I the right person to ask any of this? …And as for asking me about your wife? Do you not think that I am the last person in the world that you should be asking about her?"

  She closes the door behind her, walking across the open plan floor and down the stairs into reception. A few people look up from their desks as she goes past, casting a quick glance over at me.

  From now on, perhaps it's better if I don't ask other people for their opinions of me.

  --------------------

  The impending Scotia Telecom meeting takes over my concentration, and soon I am lost in my thoughts, and my own notes, which Claire brought to me yesterday morning. My notes are thorough, and the file contains references to the various Word and PowerPoint documents that I easily find on the PC in my office. By the time 10.30 am comes along, I'm ready for the meeting.

  Gathering my stuff together, I walk past the photocopier, taking out a card from a new leather wallet that I took from one of my cupboards at home. I copy the card, and hand the details to Alice at reception.

  "Alice, whenever I need a taxi in future, can you try and get hold of this guy? He's the man that looked after me when I got mugged and got the concussion. A good guy. Encourage everyone else to use him too. He deserves the business."

  I found the card this morning, in a pile of things that had come out of my pockets when I went into the hospital. When I picked it up, the face of the friendly taxi driver flashed into my mind, and I put the card carefully aside. John McRae. He helped me, and I owe him one.

  --------------------

  The meeting with Scotia Telecom passes without incident. Thankfully Richard doesn't come along, I'm a big boy now, and he leaves it all up to me. This time around there are only two people from the Scotia marketing team. It turns out that the meeting is mostly about them opening up to Cohen Advertising and detailing a lot of their strategy that they hadn't told us about before. Now we're their best friends, they drop their pants and show us everything. Warts and all. It means that we'll have to change some of our strategy, which I was going to have to do anyway, since a lot of what we presented to them last week were ideas that I just made up on the spot. Of course, that is one small detail that I keep to myself, and do not share with them.

  Afterwards, a couple of the team offer to take me around to a pub in a little lane behind the Square, called the "Four Tuns". I join them for a while but my mind is elsewhere. Luckily, I don't have to stay too long, as I have a genuine excuse. Richard's team meeting. Which I actually have no intention of going to. Before I left the office, Alice gave me the low down on what happens at these things.

  Nothing much.

  Just a company bullshit session, where Richard gets up and tells everyone how wonderfully we are all doing, and how much harder everyone has to work to keep us all doing so wonderfully. I don't know what it is about him, but the way people laugh when they talk about him, it really seems as if no one seems to like the guy. The title "Big Dick" probably is not an anatomical description of any sort, more likely just a plain honest description of the type of person he really is.

  The worrying thing is, if I have been there for so many years, and if I have now just been promoted to partner, how much like him am I? Am I a Big Dick too?

  I walk slowly along Oxford Street, feeling a little guilty that I am skiving off the first meeting that I should be attending as a full blown partner. The guilt grows as I get towards Oxford Circus. Unfortunately, my headache is back, so I take another two paracetamol, washed down with some coffee from Starbucks.

  As I walk out of the coffee-shop, I look at my watch. 4.45pm. Perhaps I should go to the meeting after all? Show up, say a few words…take a little credit away from Richard?

  I like the last thought, so I wave my hand in the air, and a big, black cab pulls up beside me. Fortunately, I get back to the office in the last few minutes after all the serious stuff has taken place, and as I walk into the open plan area upstairs, I a
rrive just in time for everyone to cheer at me, and for Richard to pop open a few bottles of champagne and officially announce my promotion. Good timing.

  More alcohol comes my way. It's my second drink of the day, and it's not even 5pm.

  I get up and go stand beside Richard, and make an impromptu speech. "Sorry, I'm late, just over at Scotia Telecom, etc etc."…." The big ten million euro deal, that I and my team won…not Richard." etc etc.

  Richard pours himself another glass of champagne, and says a few more words. While he is speaking I deliberately edge away from him. Frankly, I feel a little uncomfortable about standing beside him whenever he is drinking. Once is enough, and that isn't something I want to repeat.

  By the time I leave the office at 5.30pm and meet Jane on the corner of the street outside the entrance to The Ivy, I have had another drink. Or maybe two.

  I smile as I see her standing waiting for me.

  “Wow! You'rre looching great this evening." I greet her, my words a little slurred for some reason.

  "James, tell me you've not been drinking already?" Jane replies. "You'll ruin this evening."

  Why should she think I'm drunk?

  “Drunk? Me? No, I’m not. I've only had one, or maybe two…But you are looking fantastic, darrling.”

  And she is. Really. Underneath her evening coat, she's wearing some sort of designer label, figure hugging black dress. And what a figure that it is. I move towards her to hug her figure myself, attempting to kiss her at the same time.

  "James, you're drunk!" she says, side stepping me, and letting me walk straight into the wall behind her.

  I manage to avoid the wall, being quick of foot, and agile as I am. However, turning to look back at Jane, I find that the turn is slightly more difficult to master than I had expected and I stumble a little, taking two, quick, rather unsteady and comical steps to the right.

  "James… You're plastered!" Jane shouts at me.

  Unfortunately, I think she might be right.

  I find this rather surprising, and quite unexpected. I have only drunk drinks three, sorry, three drinks. Maybe four. But I can hold my drink well. I hardly ever get drink. Sorry, Drunk.

  So why am I drunk now? What's going on?

  "Jane…I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to get drink. Sorry, drunk. I don’t know what’s happening. I didn’t drunk very much at all." …"Sorry, drink very much at all... Just a few quick glasses of champagne to celebrate my promotion..."

  "What promotion? What are you talking about?" Jane asks, genuinely surprised.

  I move towards Jane, reaching out to her arm for support.

  "Oohhh…I'm sorry. I wanted you to tell me about my promotion last night."

  "What?"

  "I mean, you wanted to tell me about my promotion last night. I tried, but you had a headache."

  "You're not making sense James. I don't know anything about your promotion." She glances over at the entrance to The Ivy where the doorman is standing and looking over at us. "James, this is so embarrassing!"

  The doorman of The Ivy is coming towards us now.

  "Mrs Quinn, is everything ok? Can I help at all? Is there a problem?"

  Mrs Quinn? How often does she come here then? My wife is a bloody regular at The Ivy, one of the most exclusive restaurants in London.

  I turn towards the doorman, wanting to explain things. Wanting to tell him about my promotion, but somehow as soon as I see him, my feelings change.

  "Problem, no. Thanks. She's not having a problem. I'm just a little drink, sorry drunk. Don’t know why. Now go away."

  The doorman stops in mid-step, and looks at Jane. He's wearing a black top hat, and a long, black coat, split at the back, like the ones concert pianists wear. I take an instant dislike to this pompous little man, and the feeling of warmth and love that I have towards all humanity is suddenly replaced by an upswell of anger and aggression.

  "Go away, I say!" I say.

  In fact I say it again.

  "Go away, you stupid little black penguin. Fuck off. Just fuck off!"

  I'm quite surprised by what I just said. So is the doorman.

  Jane shouts something at me and walks off.

  I stumble after her.

  She turns at the corner of the next street, and stares at me. She looks lovely. Oh no. She is crying. When I catch up with her, she turns her back on me.

  "Jane, please, doanwory, I'm not drunk. I'll be better in a minute. We can still go and see Tisca."

  "It's Tosca. And I've been looking forward to this for months. James, how can you do this to me? Have you any idea why we're going to Tosca tonight? Have you any idea what day today is? Any idea at all?"

  "Friday?" I reply, unsuccessfully fighting the overpowering urge to giggle, and letting a ripple of childish laughter slip out.

  "James. It's my birthday? My birthday! I know you've forgotten a lot, but how could you forget my birthday?"

  Uhoh.

  She has a point.

  I think. But unfortunately, although she has a point, I never actually knew it was her birthday, so technically how could I forget it in the first place…?

  I open my mouth to say something. Then the logic of this hits me and I stop in mid sentence, before realizing that I have forgotten what I was going to say. I make one of those stupid faces that you sometimes see drunk clowns making on television, lifting my finger up in the air as if to emphasize my own point. Whatever point that was.

  “James,…I’m sorry,” Jane says, taking a small step towards me. “I mean, maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on you, because of the amnesia…It probably wasn’t your fault you forgot it was my birthday…but I’m finding this all so difficult and I’m trying so hard to cope with it all. And I’d really hoped that this was going to mean a new beginning for us. That you would try harder. Care more for me. Give up your old ways…” She pauses, starting to cry, and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears. “But you’re just the same aren’t you…you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

  I’m struggling a little to keep up with what this is all about now. Is she angry about me forgetting her birthday, or being drunk…or not changing…?

  “No, I have changed, Jane. Honestly…I’m a very different person now…” I try to protest.

  “Oh, are you James? So, tell me then, who did you get drunk with? Who were you with?”

  I know the answer to this one. Good. “The usual crowd…people from work…” But now it gets hard. I don’t actually know the names of that many people at work. At least, not yet. “Well, there was Alice…and of course, Claire…” I start, going for the easy ones.

  Jane looks at me in disbelief.

  “Claire? You were drinking with Claire? On my birthday? James, how could you…?” She immediately bursts into tears, turns and walks away, hailing the first taxi she sees.

  I try to follow after her, but the sudden movement makes me dizzy and I have to rest against the wall, which slides away from me, leaving me lying on the pavement.

  I'm tired. Very tired.

  I close my eyes and sleep.

  --------------------

  Something wet and cold lands on my nose and runs down my face.

  I open my eyes slowly, still drunk, but sobering up quickly. It's raining. The raindrops are coming down fast and heavy, large, fat and very, very wet.

  I groan. My head hurts.

  It's dark, the streets are not so busy now, and it's late. Very late. I look at my watch. 12.15pm.

  What happened?

  This time when I reach for the wall, I find it gives me the support I need, and I stagger to my feet.

  Coffee. I need a coffee.

  Opposite the Hippodrome on the corner of Leicester Square, I find a café still open and serving food and drinks. Thankfully already the fog is beginning to clear, and I am sobering up fast.

  Bizarre. Very bizarre. One minute I'm pretty sober, then I'm really drunk, and then a few hours later, I'm okay again. I've never experienced anything lik
e that before. How come I got so drunk so quickly?

  My head throbs again, and I raise my hand to my skull, stroking the hangover that surely is soon to come. Shit... That’s it! I took four paracetamol today to kill my headache, two just before I started to drink champagne. The alcohol must have reacted with the painkillers, making me very drunk very quickly. Far more drunk than I would normally ever get. What a screw up. What was I thinking? I ruined Jane's birthday, all for no reason whatsoever. Will she believe me that it wasn't intentional?