Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  I walk around for a while, looking everywhere, hoping to see her name visibly etched on one of the other stones. Several times I stoop down at a grave, pulling aside the overgrown grass and peering at the weathered letters on the headstone, fighting the emotion that threatens to overwhelm me, and struggling to stop the pictures from forming in my head...

  I try to focus on the job in hand, but no matter how hard I look, I have no luck.

  Realizing that it's not possible to look around the whole graveyard, and a little glad of the excuse to leave, I drive over to the little curator's house near the entrance, and catch the workman who is just emerging from the door with a cup of tea and a spade.

  "Can I help you mate?" he asks as I wind down the window.

  "I'm looking for a grave…my mother-in-law's. I think it's in here somewhere. Is there anywhere I can check to see if it is?"

  "Sure, give me a few minutes and I'll check on the computer inside. It's all computerized now. I know the name of everybody…hang on a second, I like that…I know the name of every body that is in the graveyard. Not bad that, eh? I just made it up! What do you reckon…new material…?

  "Keep the day job pal. Don't give it up…. The woman I'm looking for is called Martha Turnstone."

  "Turnstone, rather appropriate. Almost like Headstone….?"

  I raise my eyebrows, and stare at him. He gets the message, and disappears inside.

  Five minutes later he's back.

  "Sorry mate. She ain't here."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Listen, it's like I said. If she ain't in the computer, she's ain't in the ground." He smiles, closes the door to the house behind him and walks over to the car. "Sorry mate. I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but maybe your mother-in-law is still alive!"

  I smile back at him. Not because he's finally cracked a ‘dead’-funny mother-in-law joke, far from it, but because he might have just struck gold.

  If Martha Turnstone 'ain't in the ground' then maybe she is alive. In her house in Spain. Just one phone call away.

  --------------------

  "Richard wants to see you, when you have a moment." Alice informs me as I walk through the door.

  "Any idea what about?" I ask.

  "Yes. I think he just wants to see if you are happy. He mentioned something to me about checking your diary and setting a regular catch-up with you. And also to remind you that the Partner's meeting is this afternoon, just before the all-hands meeting at five."

  "I know. I'm meeting someone for lunch, but will be back in plenty of time. Thanks."

  Which means that I am going to be pretty busy for the rest of the day. I want to spend an hour on the Dome Deal before lunch, and then meet quickly with the project manager for Scotia Telecom who should have a few new ideas to show me.

  The phone on my desk goes for the first time about five minutes after I have managed to settle behind my desk. The Red Phone. I'm still not too sure why I have a red phone as well as a normal one. There must be a reason?

  The voice at the other end is immediately familiar to me. It casts me back to my university days, the college bar, drinking and trying to ask out as many women as possible.

  "James? Where have you been?"

  "Stu? Stu Roberts? Bloody hell, it's you isn't it?" I blurt out in complete surprise.

  "None other. Why do you sound so surprised? You knew I'd be chasing you up. You never turned up for the meeting yesterday."

  Oops. Another angry caller. Except Stu is an old friend. A good friend. Someone I haven't seen for years,…probably about four, not since we last got drunk together at the wedding of one of our mutual university friends. Stu Roberts? Who would have thought it? He is certainly one person that I have no intention of mistreating.

  "Listen Stu, if I'm meant to have met with you yesterday, I am really sorry…but before we go any further I think there's something I have to tell you…apart from the fact that it's fantastic to hear your voice, and that it would be great to see you again."

  "What do you mean? We only spoke a couple of weeks ago, and we met just last month…"

  "Shit, sorry… Stu, listen, I won't bullshit you with any excuses. I was in hospital. Fact is I fell over, banged my head. Got concussion and amnesia. Can't remember much from the past couple of months. Including you, our meeting and anything else I've promised you."

  "Ouch. Are you alright? Are you back at work?"

  "Yep. In fact, I've just been promoted to Partner and I've won another major deal. Listen, honestly, please forgive me, but what were we talking about? And what are you doing nowadays? The last time I can remember us speaking was in the college bar the day we finished our last exams?" I say, playing it safe.

  "Bloody hell. You have got amnesia! Have you forgotten everything?"

  "Yes…I mean, I can remember that when you left college you went into banking, but that’s about it." I say.

  In my world the last time I saw Stu Roberts he was working as a sports reporter for the BBC, but after leaving university he did have a short stint in the bank, working part-time around a busy training schedule preparing for the Commonwealth Games. Since childhood Stu had always been an excellent athlete, his slim but powerful build helping to make him a brilliant runner. Until one day in the run-up to the games an unlucky sports injury had brought a promising career to an untimely end.

  "Banking? You mean you can't remember anything about me winning the Gold Medal for the 400m at the Olympics?"

  "Which Olympics?"

  "1996…Australia."

  "You're kidding!"

  "No, I'm not. Listen, …are you really okay? "

  "Absolutely. Don't worry about me. The amnesia’s only temporary. The Docs say it'll all come back eventually, but that I have to be patient since it might be a while before I remember everything."

  "Good, but for now it's obvious that I've got a lot to refresh you about. What are you doing tonight?"

  "Can't. Wife problems. Going to the Opera. What about Monday?"

  "Monday's good. 8 pm. Usual place?"

  "Where's that?"

  "Waxy's. Upstairs at the entrance."

  "You mean, Waxy O'Connor’s? Okay, sounds good. Listen, can you tell me what it's about? Anything I should prepare for?"

  "A quick summary then? Fine..., I work for the British Olympic Committee now. Actually, when I say that I work for them, maybe I should say that I'm the Chairman. You and I were talking about the advertising and promotional campaign for the British Olympics in London in four years time. It's worth fourteen million euros to whoever gets it. And you're the front runner."

  The Olympics in London 2016? Not again! It hadn't even really occurred to me that the Olympics might not have taken place in this version of the world...I've just been through seven years of build up to the 2012 Olympic Games in London, put up with months of not being able to get a seat on a bus or a train because of the millions of tourists, all of whom had tickets to see the Games, whereas as I never got a single one!...and now I've got to do it all over again!?

  "Wow. ...How on earth can I forget something like that? It sounds mega."

  "It is. But since you've forgotten everything about it, I think I should let you know that this is a hush-hush deal. I'm not putting it out to tender. Political reasons. The business is yours if you can deal with it."

  "Who else know about it? Anyone else here at Cohen’s?"

  "No. Not unless you've told them about it. Maybe your PA. No one else."

  "Good. Let's keep it that way."

  "Funny, I thought you'd say that. Eight o'clock then?"

  "It’s a date. Have a good weekend…and sorry mate."

  "No probs. Listen, take it easy. But if you still want the deal, you've got to deliver. No more funny business, okay?"

  "It’s a promise."

  So this is what the advertising business is like. Big, multi-million euro deals. High-profile accounts…the excitement, the rush, the…

  "James? Busy?" a soft female vo
ice breaks my concentration.

  It's Claire, poking her head around my office door.

  "No," I say, adjusting my tie, and taking a few breaths.

  "Can we talk?"

  "Sure. What's up?" I ask, concerned. She's been acting a bit strange this week. Distant, not focused. Her head almost as if it's in the clouds most of the time, which is not like her.

  She closes the door, and sits down opposite me, crossing her legs, and pulling the skirt down a little bit further to cover her knees.

  "Can you remember the other day when you asked me about trying to help you track down a friend on the internet?"

  "Yes, Monday. I was looking for 'Friends Reunited?'" I reply, immediately interested in where she's going with this.

  "What? Friends Reunited? That's a good name…Anyway, I've been doing a lot of thinking about that idea. It's a great idea. I've done a lot of research, and the fact is that there is nothing like it on the web yet. It’s a great opportunity…"

  "And…?"

  "And, I've been discussing it with a group of my friends, a lot…I mean, we've been doing nothing else but talk about it for the past couple of days. One's a banker…he's got venture capitalist friends, and getting V.C. money isn't a problem for him…and another one is an internet guru. Does websites, hosting and storage…"

  I think I know where this is going.

  "…and…." She hesitates.

  I know what's coming.

  "…and, we've decided to set up our own company to do it. We're calling it 'Find-a-Friend', the idea I had on Monday…so, I'm…well…"

  "Well what?" I'm smiling. She's nervous. But it's best if she says it.

  "…I'm resigning."

  Silence.

  "It's not that I'm running away from us…it's got nothing to do with us…not that there is an 'us' anymore…, it's just that ideas like this don’t come along very often, and when you come across something like this, you've got to act quickly. We've done some research, and it looks like there's nothing else similar in the pipeline, so…" she waffles on, almost a little embarrassed about the decision she is taking.

  "Claire, it’s a great idea. And you don't have to justify yourself or your decisions to me. It's brilliant."

  And it is. Maybe I should ask her for a job.

  "Claire, don’t ask me how I know, but I know for a fact that your idea will work. In fact, I'm so sure that it will succeed, that I want to give you another suggestion. Don't just restrict it to old-school friends. Make sure that you arrange it so that there is a version where old work-colleagues can get in contact with each other too... and while you are it, why not make sure that people can build their own little profiles and put their pictures on there, ...and express their likes and dislikes and let others post their thoughts on their friends ...", I hesitate,...maybe I shouldn't say any more...

  "That's a brilliant idea! Excellent, thanks." A pause. "You never know James, if it gets off the ground, maybe we'll need some advertising…?"

  I push back from my desk, relaxing back into my chair.

  "You know, somehow I don't think you will. A thing like this will work by itself, and it'll all spread by word of mouth. Radio shows will talk about it, and journalists will write about it a lot for free, so I honestly don’t think you will need to advertise it much…In fact, "I say, reaching into my jacket pocket and pulling out my checkbook, “...I think your idea is so good, that I want to be the first person to invest in it. Here is a check for ten thousand euros of the first shares you issue just to get you off the ground. I want you to put the shares equally in my wife's and my children's names...And if you come back with a proper business plan, maybe I’ll give you some more…Anyway, that should keep you going for the first couple of days, until some serious money comes in from your VC friends.”

  Before she can say anything I have written it out and handed it over to her. She just looks at me, mouth wide-open, speechless.

  “I don’t know what to say...”

  “Then don’t say anything. Just make sure that the kids get some of the first shares issued, so that they can boast about it later: ‘Hey, our daddy was the first person to invest in ‘Find-a-Friend!’ ”

  She stands up, smiling, still looking at the check in her hands.

  "So when do you want to leave?" I ask her, changing the subject.

  "In two weeks’ time?"

  "No, let’s make it a week. That'll be long enough, and you need to get to work on this as soon as possible. You've got to be paranoid that if we've - you've - had this idea, that somebody else might have it too. First one to launch wins. Get to work on it as soon as possible. I'll get the HR department to find a replacement for you."

  "Are you sure?" she asks.

  "I'm sure. As long as you finish that report you promised me for the Dome team."

  As she leaves the office, she turns in the doorway. "James, although I'm excited about all of this, it does feel a little weird. I mean, we've worked together for years. We've been a good team. I'm going to miss you."

  "I'll miss you too," but as she turns and goes, I can't help but feel happy for her. In a few years time she's going to be rich. Very rich indeed.

  --------------------

  About ten minutes later, Richard pops his head around the door.

  "James, how's it going?" He hovers nervously in the doorway, as if not sure whether now I'm a partner he can just walk in whenever he feels like it.

  "Come in, take a pew." I offer.

  "Thanks," he says, sitting down. "Listen, everything going okay? Coping okay? Need any help?"

  "Any reason why I shouldn't be coping?" I ask. A little suspicious. Is this a friendly chat, concerned about my health, or just that so far I've got fifteen million euros worth of business under my belt. The two biggest deals the company has, and it's my business. Business that I can take with me if I walk.

  And he doesn't even know about the Olympics opportunity.

  Is it possible that he knows about my meeting with PHI at lunchtime?

  "No, no reason. James, I like to run a friendly, informal ship here. We help each other out. We're there for each other. We're not like other firms…"

  Sure we're not. So why did I want to leave then?

  "Thanks, Richard. I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Honestly. There's lots going on, lots to do, and I'm just really busy,…"

  "Oh, sorry, didn't mean to intrude," he says, jumping to his feet.

  "No, I didn't mean that. You're welcome. I meant that perhaps it may seem I've been a bit distant as of late, but we've got a lot to do in a very short time."

  "Exactly. So I'd better let you get on with it then. But if you need help, you just have to ask."

  "Actually, there is something you can do for me. Claire has just resigned. I need another PA."

  A few minutes later, Richard leaves the office, the task of replacing my PA now delegated to someone else. Result.

  --------------------

  .

  Lunch time comes, and I wrap up the meeting I'm in and head out.

  Helen, the woman from PHI, had called me briefly at 11am and arranged to meet downstairs in the Stock Pot, a fantastic cheap'n'cheerful café in Compton Street. Cheap, but excellent home-cooked food. And discreet. No one from Cohen’s would ever set foot in there.

  When I arrive she is already there, sitting downstairs at the back of the café, in one of the many two-seater tables, which are squeezed in beside each other as close as possible.

  She smiles when she sees me, and pushes her chair back a little, almost as if she is going to rise to greet me. I quickly wave to her to stay seated, and squeeze into the seat beside the wall opposite from her. She is very pretty today, her dark sultry looks and expensive clothes presenting the image of a very sophisticated successful businesswoman. A far cry from the other version of her that I know, handing out magazines outside a tube station.

  "So," I start. "I gather you spoke to my wife, Jane, and she explained things to you. D
o you believe me now?"

  "Yes, I do. And maybe I owe you an apology too. It must be very hard for you at the moment. I don't know how I would cope if I lost my memory and was in your situation."

  "You live and learn. You have no choice. Life goes on. Anyway, enough said. Just let's say that, I'm very, very sorry for letting you down. Please forgive me. I'm sorry."

  "Okay, enough said. Apology accepted."

  "So… where do we start?" I start off. “As my father always says, I think it is better if we start right at the beginning. Perhaps you could 'introduce' yourself to me as if we'd never met before…, tell me a little bit about yourself, and then how we got to be sitting here today, talking about PHI and Cohen’s…" I see the look in her eye, and pre-empt the next question. "No, honestly. It's that basic. I can't remember you, or anything we have talked about before. Best start right at the beginning."